Chapter 12
The euphoria Marcus felt at becoming a father again lasted well into the next day, when he and Tamsyn used the portal at Castle Dour to return to Whiterun. Julia was left behind with Jordis, who promised to look after the child.
"Mommy doesn't need me so much now," the five-year-old said. "And Jordis prommist to take me to the Bard's Coll'ge."
Marcus gave his daughter an extra tender squeeze, with a whispered, "Thank you, baby," in her ear, before leaving Proudspire.
In Whiterun, the restoration effort was already underway under the guidance of Proventus Avenicci, who had survived the recent battle by grabbing every sensitive document he could lay his hands on and hiding in the secret tunnel under the dungeon until peace was restored again. The Jarl's older son, Frothar, was also knee-deep in rubble, helping to clear the destruction of Dragonsreach while his father was away at war. Debris was being removed from all quarters of the city, including the ruins of Breezehome. The Dragonborn and the Arch-Mage spent a little time sifting through the ashes of their home, but it was clear very little survived.
"Are you going to rebuild it, Pa?" Alesan asked, having come down from Jorrvaskr to help. He ignored the wary looks from the townsfolk, who had seen him fight the Dominion outside the gates. His secret was out now, but given that he had fought for the Alliance against the Thalmor, some were willing to give the young werewolf a tentative pass.
Marcus nodded. "Eventually," he replied. "It was kind of in my mind to give it to you, when your mother and I no longer need it."
"Well," Alesan demurred, "that's alright, I guess. But I don't really need a big home. I've got Jorrvaskr, and my bed there. Besides," he murmured, dropping his voice and looking sidelong at some of the workers, "I don't think I'd be welcome here much longer, now that they know. We helped out in the skirmish, but people are still going to use us as scapegoats if anything goes wrong."
"It might not have been the wisest thing," Tamsyn commented, "to change right in the middle of battle like that."
"I didn't have much choice, Ma," Alesan admitted ruefully. "This," he held up the hand with Hircine's Ring on it, "only helps most of the time. But with all the fighting and blood and all, well…it got to be too much for both Aela and I. We knew the risks."
"What will you do if the people turn against you?" Marcus asked, still heartsick inside at his son's choice.
"They won't come for us at Jorrvaskr," the young Redguard said with quiet confidence. "Ria and Farkas and some of the others are willing to come into town for me if I need anything. If I need to leave the city, there's always the tunnel."
"I still would like to rebuild Breezehome," Tamsyn insisted, dusting her hands off and smoothing her mage's tunic down. "Whiterun wouldn't be the same without it sitting here, next to Adrianne's forge."
The forge had also taken damage, as had the Drunken Huntsman across the road, but neither had been reduced to rubble, and both Adrienne and Elrindir assured Marcus and Tamsyn they would also rebuild.
"I think we're done here," Marcus announced, after a fruitless search of the ashpit turned up very little that could be reclaimed. "We should head down to Fort Neugrad."
"Where's that?" Alesan asked. "And what's there?"
"Near the Pale Pass, in Falkreath Hold," his father told him. "It's where we're gathering to take the next step. Why? Were you thinking of joining us?"
Alesan considered it, but at length shook his head.
"No," he said finally. "I think it might make the people in this city more comfortable around me if I stay and help the rebuilding effort. Don't worry. I'll make sure to find some workmen to build Breezehome back up for you, as good as new."
"Thank you, sweetheart," Tamsyn smiled, hugging him. "That means a lot to me. Breezehome is the first real home I ever had in Skyrim." She said nothing about her previous life. None of the children – except Julia – knew anything about it, and the baby sister was silent on that point.
Marcus and Tamsyn left Whiterun to head to a field across from the stables, where Marcus called Odahviing. Bjorlam waved at them, and Gerduin flicked an ear. By now, the horse was used to all the Shouting. Jervar called out a greeting from the paddock where he was grooming a dark bay mare. Several minutes later, however, when Odahviing showed up, both the groom and the carriage driver wrestled with their animals to keep them under control. A predator was, after all, still a predator.
"That never ceases to amuse me," the great red dragon rumbled, showing his teeth in a dragon's version of a smile.
"I'm sure they have another word for it besides amusement," Tamsyn said pertly as she climbed up behind Marcus with an assist from him. She was moving more easily now. The last round of healing permitted the removal of the last of the body wraps, and though she bore scars that would fade in time, she seemed to have returned once more to the sassy woman Marcus loved.
"Indeed," the dragon agreed, launching himself into the air. "I wonder how it would translate to dovahzul?" He chuckled as he gained altitude and wheeled above Whiterun to catch the thermals that would bear him ever higher. "Where to, thuri?" he asked.
"Fort Neugrad," Marcus answered. "It's where you picked me up before, near the pass through the Jeralls."
"I remember the place, thuri," Odahviing replied, ducking his head in acknowledgement. "Hold fast. I will take you there."
He dipped a wing, and headed almost directly south. Even as fast as a dragon could fly, it still took almost two hours for them to reach Fort Neugrad, where Commander Vilena Tullius awaited them. Odahviing set them down on the road just outside the fort before taking off again, promising to stay in the area.
The old fort was overflowing with men and women running here and there, some repairing weapons and armor, some forging new equipment, with many either training on makeshift practice dummies or on each other with wooden swords. As far as the eye could see along the road to the southwest, that led around a pinnacle of rock, tents and campsites were set up. Smoke rose into the air from hundreds of cookfires, and the grating sound of scores of grinding wheels echoed against the hillsides.
"I'm glad you're here, Dragonborn," the Commander said, leading them inside to her headquarters. "I've received word from General Tullius in the Imperial City that he's moving an army northward to Bruma. He's hoping we'll be able to move soon and come up behind the Aldmeri forces from the north."
"How many troops do we have here now?" Marcus asked.
"Almost eight thousand," the Commander replied. "It doesn't look like many now, but most are waiting in Helgen, with the rest here at Neugrad, and strung out along the road. These canyons in which the road passes through don't allow for large concentrations of troops."
"How far down the road do they go?" Tamsyn wondered.
"Look here on the map," Vilena invited, pointing. "You can see the road heads to the southwest from here. It bends around the natural rock formations, and the old dragon mound here. It then doubles back and heads almost directly east before turning south to head up to the Pale Pass. We have troops encamped all along the road, as far as the dragon mound, and as far north as Helgen. Everyone is on high alert, and we can be underway in an hour or less."
"Who holds the Pass at the moment?" Marcus asked.
"We do," Commander Tullius said. "I've sent a battalion down there under General Galmar's command to ensure the Dominion doesn't attempt to come back into Skyrim through the Pass. The Imperial troops stationed there on the Cyrodiil side, at Fort Pale Pass, were ambushed last week and killed to a man."
Marcus' stomach dropped. "Your father and Councilor DeFer were headed that way—" he began, but the Commander smiled.
"They're both safe," she assured him, relating what she knew of her father's miraculous escape. "I don't know how the Councilor did it," she finished, "but he saved my father's life and got them both back to the Imperial City."
I bet I can guess, Marcus thought, shooting a glance at his wife and seeing the same speculative look on her face.
"What happened to the Thalmor troops in the Jeralls?" Tamsyn asked.
"They didn't stay and garrison the fort," Commander Tullius answered, shrugging. "I'm not sure why. It's not a very strategic thing to do, given the fact that Skyrim sits on their northern border. Any military officer worth their commission would have manned the fort and the Pass, to keep enemies from sending reinforcements to the Imperial City."
"Perhaps they're trying to draw us in?" Tamsyn suggested.
"Or they counted on their troops hiding in Falkreath to keep Skyrim busy," Marcus offered.
"I wouldn't discount either of those possibilities," Vilena said, "but reports of the devastation your dragons have caused are heartening, Dragonborn. It's clearly something the Dominion wasn't prepared for, and they're scrambling. That's to our advantage."
"When do we move out, then?" Marcus asked.
"At dawn," Commander Tullius replied. "We'll meet up with General Galmar, then push on down to Bruma. You two should get some sleep while you can. I have a place you can stay."
She led them to a semi-private chamber set up with a half-dozen bunks, clearly meant for officers. Marcus could see two of the bunks were already occupied by a couple of Legionnaires.
"At least they're not snoring," Tamsyn chuckled quietly as she settled, fully clothed, on one of the bunks. Marcus tested his gingerly before putting his entire weight on it.
"And the beds seem solid enough," he commented. "Tamsyn," he ventured, "I've never been to Cyrodiil before. You have. Can you give me an idea what to expect on the other side of the Pass?"
"Of course!" she smiled, and dragged her backpack closer, rummaging in it for a bit before pulling out a neatly folded map. She motioned him over to a small table flanked by two wooden chairs with a single horn sconce sitting on it. Moving the sconce closer to the wall, she spread the map out. He could see at a glance that it was a map of Cyrodiil.
"When did you get this?" he asked quietly, so as not to disturb the sleeping soldiers. "On your last trip down there?"
She nodded. "I had some time before my meeting with the Synod, so exploring the Imperial City and picking up a few things was at the top of my list of things to do. A lot of things have changed in the two hundred years since I was there last." This last was murmured quietly enough that even if the Legionnaires had been awake, they would not have heard. "Look here." She pointed with one finger at the top of the map.
"Here's the Pale Pass on the Cyrodiil side," she murmured. "This is Fort Pale Pass, and this down here is Bruma. Argis, Cicero and I stopped there for the night after we crossed the border."
"What's that, just north of the city?" he asked.
Tamsyn sobered. "The ruins of Cloud Ruler Temple," she replied. "The former Blades sanctuary. We stopped there on our way back. That's where Sylfaen managed to escape and turned the tables on us."
Marcus nodded, knowing the Snow Elf had been a former Thalmor Justiciar at the time.
"How did Argis and Cicero get back into Skyrim with that portal without being challenged at the Pass, then?" Marcus wondered.
"Cicero told me he remembered the Serpent's Trail, and they crept back into Skyrim that way." Tamsyn chuckled quietly. "Argis told me he had to lug the portal on his back part of the way. He wasn't happy about that!"
Marcus grinned. He could almost hear his Housecarl grumbling under his breath.
"The road that leads down to Bruma and the interior of Cyrodiil is a steep switchback," Tamsyn continued, "climbing down the slopes of the Jeralls on the southern side. It's going to be slow going, getting everyone down that road. And while we do that, we're sitting ducks if the Dominion decides to send their airships after us."
"So, the dragons are going to be critical air support," Marcus nodded. "Got it."
"It's very rocky terrain higher up in the mountains," Tamsyn said. "But the lower down we go, the thicker the forests will become, and the easier it will be to hide troop movements. Anyone who can cast Detect Life will have to be at the vanguard of the army."
"There's no other way down to Bruma or the Imperial City?" Marcus asked.
"Not really, no," Tamsyn answered. "Bruma itself sits on top of a rocky outcropping, and the land falls away to the south. The mountains pretty much encircle it on the remaining three sides, though there are smaller roads, like the one that leads to Applewatch to the west, and trails that go to bandit hideouts and ogre caves. But the terrain is fairly rugged, and not easy to travel."
Marcus didn't ask how she knew all this. She'd been to Cyrodiil six years' previous. Even if she hadn't, he knew she'd played an earlier game based on the same world in her former life. Whatever else had happened to her after being blown out of Dragonsreach, her mind and her memory were still formidable.
"This road here," he pointed out. "It leads practically straight south to the Imperial City. Can we use that?"
"That's the Silver Road," Tamsyn nodded. "At least, that's what it used to be called. It joins up with the Red Ring Road that follows the shoreline around Lake Rumare. The City sits on the island in the middle of the Lake."
"The Battle of the Red Ring," Marcus realized. "So that's why it was named that."
Tamsyn nodded again. "After it comes out of the Jeralls, it's a fairly easy road to travel," she said. "But the Dominion will likely be between us and the Imperial City."
"And they're also pushing up from the south," Marcus sighed in frustration. "Can't we just use the dragons to wipe them all out? It would be so much easier."
Tamsyn shook her head. "We have to trust in the strength of our Alliance," she insisted. "Our job, once we get through the mountains, and join up with General Tullius' troops, is to pick up Master Greyshadow and get over to the Summerset Isles. I meant what I said before. The only way to put a stop to the Dominion for all time is for the three of us to go there and eliminate the power behind the Thalmor."
"We'd best get some sleep then, wife of mine," Marcus agreed with a wry smile. "Looks like we've got a busy day ahead of us tomorrow."
It didn't seem like it had been long enough before one of the Legionnaires was shaking them.
"The Commander told me to wake you," she apologized. "We'll be moving out soon. There's grub in the mess."
"You don't happen to have any coffee, do you?" Tamsyn grumbled.
"That Khajiit stuff?" the Legionnaire shuddered. "Divines, no!" She hurried off to her other duties.
"Hmph," Tamsyn snorted, grumpily. "No appreciation for the finer things in life."
"Can't be helped, dear," Marcus shrugged, gathering his things, and strapping his swords to his waist. "You could always go skinny-dipping in the lake, east of here. That would wake you up."
"No, thank you," his wife declined primly. "I'd like to start the next phase of this war without hypothermia, if you don't mind."
Marcus chuckled, and gestured for her to precede him as they made their way down to the mess to break their fast. The food was bland, but edible, and the only drink seemed to be mead or ale, of which the Dragonborn and his wife partook sparingly.
Outside, Marcus could hear dragons trumpeting, and raising his gaze he saw several scores of them perched on the towers and peaks around the fortification. Most of the Alliance army were, by now, used to them, but the Imperial soldiers that had come up from Cyrodiil eyed them with caution.
Benor came up to them as they emerged from the main keep.
"Reporting in," he saluted, and Marcus returned the gesture before embracing one of his oldest friends and pounding him on the back.
"Where's Amalie?" he asked.
"Back at our camp, getting the others ready," Benor replied. "What's our strategy? I've never been to Cyrodiil before."
"Neither have I," Marcus acknowledged. "But our main tactic will be air support, both at the Pass and beyond. That means keeping a watchful eye out for those airships of theirs, as well as troop movements on the ground."
Benor nodded. "I'd better get back, then, and let the rest of them know." He saluted again, and turn on his heel to head back to the Blades' encampment.
Tamsyn had wandered away while they spoke, and as Marcus caught up with her, she was completing the gestures, and releasing energy of a Master-level spell. He didn't feel any different, nor did he see any obvious effects of her spell, but he knew enough magic by now to sense it was a form of Conjuration.
"What was that for?" he asked her.
"I'm calling for a ride," she dimpled at him. "I don't expect Odahviing to carry both of us into battle, and while I can use my Ring of Flying, even I get tired sometimes."
He chuckled. "Now I know why you called for rest stops, coming back from the Forgotten Vale, that first time."
"I've gotten stronger," she defended herself, drawing herself up to her full five-feet-four-inches, before relaxing. "But recent events have sapped a lot of my strength, and I promised Azura and Julia I wouldn't overdo it."
"So, what were you summoning?" Marcus asked, just as the sound of an approaching dragon rang through the skies.
A glimmer of green appeared to the west, growing larger until he could see Golmonah, gliding in and settling down in a wide spot in the road. The other dragons roared their challenges, and the female dovah dipped her head in submission to her brothers. A thunderous impact behind her heralded Odahviing's arrival, and he glowered at the smaller dragon before him.
"Druv los hi het, vuldak gein?" he growled, menacingly. Why are you here, Changed One?
Tamsyn moved forward to intervene, but Marcus caught her arm and held her back, shaking his head.
"This is between them," he muttered. "They need to sort it out."
Helpless and frustrated, Tamsyn could only nod.
"Zu'u lost komeyk naal faal Prok Lahzey," Golmonah replied. "I was invited by the Arch-Mage. She needs my help."
Odahviing studied the lesser dovah for a long moment. "You are ahvakaar," he snorted. "An abomination. You are an affront to our Father, Bormahu."
"I am as my Mother, Kyne, made me," Golmonah maintained. "She could not have done so without the approval of our Father."
"You are weak," Odahviing dismissed. "I could break you in two."
"You already tried," Golmonah replied calmly. "Yet, here I am."
There was silence for a long moment as the truth of her words sunk in, and Odahviing studied the other dov surrounding them. They would not get involved, he knew. This was between Golmonah and himself. He knew he could easily defeat the smaller dragon, but that would not please the Arch-Mage. And as much as Odahviing hated to admit it, he greatly admired a joor talented enough to fly like the dov. He had no wish to offend her. Offending her, in turn, would upset his thuri, and he had already been on the losing end of a battle between Marcus and himself.
"You are the least of us," he said dismissively, asserting his dominance once more, in case the other dragons had forgotten. "You will do as we say."
"I will do as my conscience directs," Golmonah replied, with a hint of asperity. "But for the sake of peace between us, I will submit to your authority." With those few words, the gentle green dragon accepted her place among her brethren, and acknowledged Odahviing as ersatz leader among them, but also reminded them of her own independence. It was subtle, but all the dragons present recognized her autonomy.
Marcus let out a breath of relief, and beside him, Tamsyn did the same. She approached the ancient emerald dov and hugged her snout. "Thank you for coming," she whispered. "I wasn't sure you would."
"I owe you my life," Golmonah murmured, nudging the Breton woman. "How could I not come, Tah-meyz-zin?"
Horns began blaring, and all knew it was time to move.
"Riders!" Marcus boomed up and down the canyon, using his thu'um to enhance his voice. "Dovah! Voth zey!"
The surrounding area erupted into a frenzy of activity as troop units gathered in formation and headed down the road. Clouds of dust and snow were kicked into the air as the dragons took to the skies and sought the thermals. Since not all members of the Blades had the ear buds for communication, Marcus relied on the pre-determined hand signals to make his intent clear to the others.
"Stay in formation," he signed. "Keep watch on the ground and in the mountain valleys for any trace of Dominion troops. Signal if you see anything so we can stamp it out before the army gets there."
"I had not realized that traveling with the Dovahkiin would be so…entertaining," Lazarus commented as he kept pace with Odahviing's right wingtip. He was riderless, at his own insistence, and Marcus had not pressed the issue, just grateful for the dragon's agreement to help.
"It has its moments," Odahviing chuckled. "There are times when he is like a hatchling that must be taught."
"You know I'm right here, listening to the both of you, don't you?" Marcus protested.
Both dragons laughed.
"But he is a true dov," Odahviing added, loyally, "and his thu'um has the mastery."
"I know this to be truth," Lazarus agreed. "I would not be here now, but for him."
The sun had climbed high into the sky by the time the bulk of the army reached the Pass. It would take them the rest of the day to move everyone through, even at the forced march they set themselves. Leaving Benor in charge of the dragon riders, he and Tamsyn scouted ahead. The vanguard of the Alliance army held up at Fort Pale Pass, waiting for the rear to catch up, but Marcus wanted to see what was further ahead.
"Use your Detect Life spell," he told Tamsyn. "I'll use Aura Whisper, and we'll see if anything is stirring between the Fort and Bruma."
She nodded, and added, "We should probably go invisible. The dragons will still be seen, but it will appear as if they're just hunting for food or something."
"Food does sound good," Odahviing rumbled.
"Wait until dark for that," Marcus advised his scaly companion. "Once we've done the reconnaissance, you can head out on your own and eat whatever you find."
"Does that include the joore?" the dragon asked, impudently.
"As long as they come in a green and gold can, I don't care," Marcus shot back, and Odahviing chuckled.
Casting Invisibility, they guided the dragons towards the city of Bruma to the southwest. Along the way, Marcus used his Aura Whisper, and Tamsyn employed her Detect Life spells. What they found was disturbing.
At least a half-dozen airships floated above the city, tethered to the upper terrace. It was far less than Marcus expected, and he had a sinking feeling the rest were already headed to the Imperial City. Signs of battle were everywhere below them: charred remains of buildings, the smashed windows of the Temple to St. Martin – which had been, Tamsyn told Marcus through the ear bud – a Temple to Talos two hundred years ago. Castle Bruma itself flew the eagle sigil of the Dominion, and it was impossible to tell at this point what might have happened to its Count.
"The Thalmor are known for their cruelty," Tamsyn pointed out needlessly. "He may be imprisoned and under torture in his own dungeon."
"I can't tell if all those life forms down there are Aldmeri soldiers or not," Marcus complained. "It's too dark now. Some of the citizens must have escaped, though."
"If General Tullius and the Grey Fox made it out, I'm sure others did, too," Tamsyn assured him. "Did you want to take a closer look?"
"Not on dragonback," Marcus answered. "We're too obvious. We should head back. We're going to draw unwanted attention if we stay too much longer."
"How many troops do you think they have?" Tamsyn asked. "I never could figure out crowd size just by looking at it."
"I'm guessing perhaps five thousand or so," Marcus replied.
He heard her worried sigh. "That's a lot of enemies to get through," she fretted.
"Not as many as I would have thought," he frowned. "Even if all the auras within Bruma's walls are Dominion troops now, that still wouldn't account for the size of the army we've been warned about."
"They have Portals," Tamsyn pointed out. "They're probably using them to move their troops around where they're needed. And don't forget, they were moving south to take the Imperial City. General Tullius' army is moving north to intercept them."
"Good point." Marcus blew out a breath and looked south. It was getting late, and the sun had already touched the Colovian Mountains in the west. The land below was taking on the gloom of early evening, but they were still too far north to see anything but the White Gold Tower, rising like a shining spire into the sky above Cyrodiil's heartland. Casting his invisibility spell once more, he told his wife, "Let's go. We can't do anymore here."
"Just one more place I want to look," Tamsyn insisted. "I want to go back up to Cloud Ruler Temple."
"You think they may be hiding troops there?" he asked.
He heard a resigned sigh come from her. "I don't know. Maybe. But I'd feel better if we checked it out."
"Alright," he said. "It's probably a smart idea. The Temple is between us and them. Lead the way."
Within a quarter hour they were approaching the ruins of the ancient Blades stronghold. It looked very much as Tamsyn had seen it, six years before; dark, crumbling and forlorn. Standing sentinel on the side of a hill overlooking the heartland of Cyrodiil, with the lights of Bruma away to the south, the Temple was as unwelcome a place as any Marcus had seen, yet somewhere inside him, a sense of pity washed over him for the lives that had been needlessly lost here.
The dragons set them down on the outer courtyard. The main doors had been shoved aside, to allow entrance, but Tamsyn reminded her husband that had probably been when she, Argis and Cicero had come here with Sylfaen.
The debris in the courtyard remained unchanged, unless there were more dead leaves than before. The roof had caved in a couple of areas, but other than that, there was no sign of occupation.
Tamsyn walked over to the door and peered in. Water dripped from somewhere, and the wind through the chinks and cracks in the walls blew dust devils across the floor. She stepped inside, shivering slightly, and Marcus quietly followed her, hand on the hilt of his sword, just in case.
Wordlessly, Tamsyn cast a Detect Life. There was nothing. They were alone.
"Are you okay?" Marcus asked, gently touching her shoulder.
"I just…" She sniffled a little and gave a self-deprecating laugh. "If you only knew how many hours I spent here, in the game," she said. She pointed to one corner. "Over there was a desk that Martin Septim used to study everything he could about the Daedra, Oblivion itself, and the Amulet of Kings. He confessed to me – well, to the player character – his uncertainty about his destiny, his fears that he might not be a good Emperor, and whether we would all be strong enough to come through the crisis."
She turned and inclined her head towards a door to the right, nearly hidden in the growing gloom. "That door led to a small library, an alchemy lab and the armory." She pointed to a similar door on the left. "The barracks and the Emperor's quarters – Martin Septim's room – were through there."
She stepped over some fallen debris and approached the fireplace at the back wall. She frowned. "That's not right," she commented.
"What isn't?" Marcus asked.
Tamsyn sighed. "Above the fireplace there used to be a display of swords from a few of the Blades in the game who died helping me. I suppose they must have been stolen years ago."
"You, there!" A man called out. "This is a warzone! What are you doing here? Fine. If you won't leave... go. Find Alina. Tell her we need her at the front - immediately!"
Marcus drew Dragonbane and whipped around, but there was nothing to be seen. "Who's there?" he called out. There was no answer. "Tamsyn, you heard that, didn't you?"
He turned back to his wife, but she looked shell-shocked.
"Tamsyn?" he hissed urgently. "Are you alright?"
"He said Alina," she whispered. "I…I know that name."
Marcus frowned, perturbed. "You mean from the game you played?"
"No," she replied, shaking her head as much to clear it as to disagree with him. "When Argis and Cicero and I were here before, we spent the night. I believe I told you that."
"Yeah, so?"
"I had a very vivid dream," she recalled slowly. "I dreamed I was here when the Dominion attacked. I was one of the officers. I…I think I was Alina in that dream, even though they never called me by name. It just suddenly felt so familiar."
"Well, what do we do now?" Marcus brooded. "It's getting late, and we should head back."
"Could we look for her?" Tamsyn asked. "I mean, I know we aren't going to find a body after all this time, but maybe…her skeleton is still here? That might be enough to appease the spirit who called out to us."
An ordinary man might have refused. An ordinary man might have been impatient at a needless, ridiculous search for a thirty-year-old skeleton. Marcus was no ordinary man.
"Where do we start?" he smiled, and Tamsyn beamed at him.
"Let's go through the library," she suggested. "I remember being in that area in my dream."
He nodded, and she led the way as they negotiated a path around fallen timbers and rotten furnishings. Through the doors a stairway led down, and though there was little left of the room, they found several skeletons buried under the debris and rubble. One was lying on top of an ancient Akaviri blade, similar to Dragonbane. The sword did not seem to have been affected by the decades of neglect.
Tamsyn swallowed hard. "I think this is me – I mean, her," she said solemnly. Marcus lifted the remains carefully as Tamsyn slid the sword out from under the bones and murmured a prayer to Arkay that the soul would find rest.
"Alina?" the spectral voice echoed. There was still no physical sign of a manifested spirit. "Alina! Oh, gods, she's dead!" he moaned. "Then you two will have to help me. I'm Raaslan, and I'm the Commander here. I need every soldier I can get. Head down to the armory and get Glenroy's sword. We'll need its power. That puny little pig-sticker of yours is no help! Then meet me in the West Wing. Hurry! The cursed Thalmor are already here!"
Marcus and Tamsyn glanced nervously around, and Marcus privately rankled at the insult to Dragonbane.
"You don't think he means really here, do you?" Tamsyn ventured.
"Let's find out," Marcus growled, and breathed out his Aura Whisper. But aside from Tamsyn and himself, there was no one else in the Temple.
"He must be caught between worlds, then," Tamsyn surmised. "Unable to move on until a task is done. Let's go find that other sword for him."
Marcus nodded and found a way over to a staircase leading down into the armory. It took several minutes of searching and discarding rusted, pitted and broken weapons and armor, but they finally found a katana that matched Alina's sword in its condition.
"This has to be it," Marcus stated. "Everything else in here has seen better days. I think we can head to the West Wing now."
"That door over there leads outside," Tamsyn pointed out. "We can cross the front porch area and go in the corresponding door, so we don't have to billy-goat our way around the inside."
Marcus chuckled and led the way outside. They quickly traversed the distance and in short order found themselves in the barracks. There was no one there, but while this room seemed in better shape than the east wing, the signs of a fierce battle were everywhere. Skeletons clad in tarnished, decayed armor of both sides lay all around the chamber.
"We could try upstairs," Tamsyn suggested. At her husband's nod, they climbed to the next floor overhead, which would have been the Emperor's quarters, but the way was blocked by fallen debris. Under the charred timbers and scorched stones, they saw another skeleton. A ghostly form materialized before them. This had to be Raaslan.
"Corvon!" he cried in anguish, gazing at the skeleton. "This can't be happening! Not you, too! Then…then there's no hope."
"Raaslan," Tamsyn began softly. "I'm sorry. They died over thirty years ago."
"What?" the spirit exclaimed in disbelief. "Then I'm…"
"Dead, too, I'm afraid," Marcus finished in quiet sympathy. "The Dominion destroyed Cloud Ruler Temple, and killed every Blade here."
Raaslan's shoulders slumped. "Then our Order has been wiped out," he mourned.
"Not quite," Marcus encouraged him. "I'm Dragonborn, and I'm bringing them back. I found Esbern, one of your archivists. He's helping me to rebuild the Order."
At this, Raaslan's figure straightened. "Is this true?" he breathed, looking at Tamsyn.
"Every word," she confirmed. "My husband wouldn't lie about a thing like that."
Raaslan smiled. "That brings some joy to my heart," he replied. "And I would ask of you one final favor."
"Name it," Marcus invited.
"Find my sword, if you can," he begged. "Bring Corvon's with you. Then meet me in the Great Hall. There is one last thing to be done to free our souls and grant us peace."
"We'll do it," Tamsyn promised, as Raaslan's spirit faded.
"Where are we going to find his sword?" Marcus asked.
"With his body, obviously," Tamsyn shrugged. "And the only place we haven't combed through is the Great Hall itself. It has to be there."
They returned to the main hall where a roaring fire now burned in the fireplace. Marcus and Tamsyn looked at each other and shrugged. Neither wanted to question how that had been made possible. They found Raaslan's sword near his skeleton, under a pile of stones that had fallen from the ceiling. As Marcus laid his hand on the hilt, he felt the former Blade's presence in the room once more. Two other figures appeared, flanking the fireplace, bowed to their knees. One was female, and Tamsyn's breath caught in her throat. Alina!
Raaslan stepped forward and greeted them. "Thank you, my friends," he sighed. "Now I must ask you to place our swords in the fire."
Marcus balked. They were really very fine swords, and it seemed a shame to destroy them in this manner. Raaslan seemed to understand his reluctance.
"This is the only way our souls can be freed, to go on to Arkay's embrace, Dragonborn," he insisted. "Please."
"It's alright, dearest," Tamsyn soothed. "Do what he asks."
Nodding, and not trusting himself to speak, Marcus knelt down between Corvon and Alina. One by one, he placed the Akaviri katanas into the fire. There was a bright flash with each sword, as first Alina, then Corvon, and finally Raaslan whispered, "thank you," and faded from view. After only a moment's hesitation, and a nudge from Tamsyn, he placed the final sword, Glenroy's, into the flames.
A flash brighter than the others blinded him for a moment, and he stood and turned to rub his eyes. When he could see again, Raaslan stood before him, still in spirit form.
"I thank you once again, Dragonborn," he smiled. "It would give me great pleasure to know that Glenroy's sword is in your capable hands. It is empowered with my own soul. When you strike with it, I will strike with you. And if your opponent is an Altmer—" Here his visage took on a grim look. "They will rue the day they crossed swords with you. Good luck, Dragonborn, and thank you again!"
Once more Raaslan faded from view, and Marcus realized he was holding the empowered Akaviri katana. It glowed with a surreal life of its own, and he smiled as he smoothed the scabbard with one hand.
"We should go, my love," Tamsyn said quietly. "I think their spirits kept the Thalmor out of here. We needn't have worried."
"You're probably right," Marcus agreed. "Let's get back and finish this, so their sacrifice won't have been in vain."
The flight back to the Alliance camp was uneventful, and they found Commander Vilena Tullius in the courtyard of Fort Pale Pass, issuing orders to secure the Fort and use it as a staging area for the supply line. She led them to quarters within the main keep.
"What did you learn?" she asked eagerly, and Marcus related what they'd seen at Bruma.
"We also scouted out Cloud Ruler Temple," Tamsyn added, "but there was nothing there." She said nothing about their encounter with Raaslan, and Marcus saw no need to bring it up.
"At least we know we won't get ambushed on the way down," the Commander said drily. "But I don't like the odds."
"Don't we outnumber them?" Tamsyn asked.
"We do," Vilena replied, frowning. "But Bruma sits on a hill, and it's a fortified town. They will hold the high ground. There's also a watchtower just to the east off the road that winds up the cliffside. We'll be sitting ducks, especially if they have airships."
"What if we took out the airships first?" Marcus suggested.
"That will help," Vilena nodded. "But I'd feel more confident if we could reduce their numbers inside the fort. They can hold up in there for a prolonged siege, making us waste time and resources before we even get to the Imperial City."
"What if we could get inside Bruma's walls?" Tamsyn asked, a sly look on her face. Marcus lifted an eyebrow.
"How?" the Commander scoffed. "Those walls are twenty feet thick, and there are only two gates, easily defendable."
"I know a way we can get in," Tamsyn said confidently. "It might be a bit dangerous, because it's been…a while, and I don't know what's there now—"
"Sweetheart," Marcus cut in, "does this have anything to do with your 'gift'?"
She knew he meant her previous life, and the knowledge she had gained there, and she nodded.
For her part, Vilena Tullius had already been advised by her father to trust the Arch-Mage when the Sight came over her. "Tell me what you know," she urged, just short of a command.
Tamsyn grabbed a roll of paper and a bit of charcoal. Marcus helped her smooth open the roll and weighted down the corners as Tamsyn began to sketch. "There's a cave just to the northwest of the city," she began. "It's leads to a tunnel…"
Of all the places he'd been to in Tamriel, Reydin Glane decided he liked Black Marsh least of all. There wasn't one place in the Province that wasn't filled with humidity, mud, poisonous plants and creatures that wanted to kill him. Even keeping to the roads was problematic, since the Argonians didn't maintain them, and the Empire had long since given up on establishing any kind of highway through a region where the local inhabitants were more likely to swim than walk.
It was fortunate that he had been in Leyawiin, behind the enemy lines, when he had contacted the Guildmaster. His presence there as a Bosmer was not particularly noted, as Valenwood was still loosely aligned with the Dominion. Some stolen armor, a quick disguise, and few Altmer would have paid any attention to him.
From Leyawiin it was easy to slip across the Niben River, cut across the southern tip of Cyrodiil and sneak across the border into Black Marsh. His skills as a master thief and Nightingale notwithstanding, the Thalmor seemed to have little concern for traffic moving in and out of that swampy Province. A large number of their front-line troops were, after all, Argonians.
Gideon was the closest actual town in Black Marsh to Leyawiin, and it was here that Reydin headed, seeking out his former associate, Weija-leen. After making several inquiries of the dockworkers, he finally got a lead.
"Plying the waters between Soulrest and Lilmoth, last I heard," a green-scaled longshoreman replied. "Got herself a pardon from the Hist and set herself up as a legitimate trader. That's all I know."
Reydin thanked him and headed to the harbormaster's office to inquire about passage to Soulrest. A ship was leaving that afternoon, he learned, but it was a cargo ship. Reydin volunteered to work his passage across, and after studying the Bosmer for a long moment, the harbormaster grunted and pulled a piece of parchment closer to himself, signing it and handing it to Reydin after sanding it to make sure the ink wouldn't run.
"Here's your orders, then," the Argonian replied. "Give this to the captain. Your ship is the Lazy Bastard."
"Quaint name," Reydin chuckled.
"Yeah," the harbormaster nodded drily. "I heard the captain named it after a Bosmer he knew."
The smile dissolved, and Reydin gave a short jerk of his head in acknowledgment of the jibe taken.
The captain of the Lazy Bastard was a no-nonsense Argonian with bronze scales and a clump of what looked to be blue feathers on top of his head. They weren't feathers, Reydin knew, but rather some kind of cartilaginous frill that indicated the Argonian's mood. Right now, the frill lay slack against his head. The captain wasn't happy.
"Get that cargo into the hold, ya useless fishbait!" he railed at the crew. "And whadda you want?" he hissed at Reydin, showing all his teeth.
Refusing to be intimidated, Reydin presented his orders. Snatching it from him, Captain Wu-ton opened it and scanned it before turning back to the waiting Bosmer.
"Hmph," he snorted. "Temporary worker, eh? Fine. Know anything about sailing?"
"A bit," Reydin shrugged. "I spent thirty years on ships plying the Topal and Abacean Seas."
Giving him another once-over, the Captain let out an exasperated sigh. "Fine," he said finally. "I'm short-handed, so I can't turn you away. But you'd better not disappoint. You're useless at water-level. Your job will be in the rigging. Think you can handle it?"
"Second-nature," Reydin agreed easily.
For the next week his life consisted of spending all his waking hours aloft, setting sails, tightening and loosening lines as needed, and perching in the raven's nest as a lookout watching for any signs of "unfriendlies", as the Captain called any ship that had no business coming within ballista-shot of him. It was a singularly uneventful trip, for which Reydin was grateful, and at the end, taking leave of the irascible Captain, the Argonian begrudgingly thanked him for his help.
"You're a fair sailor, Glane," he said. "I'll give you that. If you ever decide to come back to the sea, let me know. I may have a permanent spot for you."
"I'll keep it in mind," Reydin replied, keeping his face impassive, before heading to the nearest pub to inquire about Weija-leen.
Three taverns later, and he was pointed to a grubby dive on the other side of the harbor. It was not the sort of place he wanted to spend much time in, but he'd been in worse places. A discreet inquiry of the tavern owner and a few coins led him to a table in a far corner, where a gaily-bedecked female Argonian sat drawing on a hookah and sipping a purple concoction made from local invertebrates.
She looked up at his arrival and smiled.
"Heard you were looking for me, Glane," she rasped. "Word gets around."
"Good to see you too, Weija," he nodded and sat in the chair next to her, against the wall. "It's been a while."
"I suppose," she replied. "I haven't really paid attention. I've been busy."
"So I've heard," Reydin said. "Got your own ship now?"
"Ah, it's not much," Weija dismissed. "Just a little cargo scow I run up and down the coast for tips and drinks." She grinned, then sobered. "Why are you here? It can't be because you miss my pretty face."
"I do miss it," Reydin said truthfully. Some of the best times of his youth had been spent working alongside Weija-leen on the Elusive Eel. "Whatever happened to the Eel? I know you stayed a bit longer after I left."
"Bad business there," Weija sighed. "Captured by an Imperial warship and sunk to the bottom of the Abacean."
"But you got away," he pointed out.
She winked at him. "Argonian," was all she said. "Anyway, you still haven't told me what you want." She took a long pull from the hookah, and at this close distance he could tell it wasn't skooma. Lifting an eyebrow at her, and glancing at the apparatus, she blew out the smoke. "Eucalyptus," she explained. "For my sinuses. I need to keep a clear head."
Reydin nodded. Weija had never been one to indulge in dissipating habits. He leaned in and lowered his voice. "I need to know where Black Marsh stands in the war between the Empire and the Dominion."
"There's a war going on?" Weija whispered in hushed tones. At his scowl, she relented. "I'm just pulling your tail," she grinned. "Honestly, nothing is going on."
"Nothing?" Reydin echoed. "I find that hard to believe."
"Believe it," Weija insisted. "We've been told by the Hist to leave this thing alone. The Dominion has already tried to pull us in, but we all know what they really want is fodder. If they want to wipe out the Empire, let them do it with their own people. The Argonians have other concerns to worry about."
"So, you're not throwing your lot in with the Empire, either," Reydin clarified. Weija shook her head, the silver headdress she wore tinkling with scores of coins that had been attached to it.
"Why should we?" she countered. "It's not our fight."
"Even if the Dominion intends to wipe out all non-Altmer races?" Reydin offered. "Even the Bosmer? Even the Argonians?"
Weija narrowed her eyes. "Let them try," she scowled. "Mehrunes Dagon tried it two hundred years ago. Look where that got him." She took another pull from the hookah. "We'll just melt back into our swamps and wait until it's over. If the Aldmeri come for us, we'll fight them on our own territory. We know it better than they do."
Reydin let out an exasperated sigh. The reality, he knew, was that Weija-leen had very little authority in this matter, and all he was really after was information. The fact that Weija herself had invoked the Hist told him she wasn't lying. No Argonian would speak on behalf of their sacred entity if what they were saying wasn't the absolute truth.
"Thanks, Weija," he said now. "I'll have to be satisfied with that. It's not the answer I'd hoped for, but it's not the worst news I could have received."
"Just know this, Glane," she said now. "The Hist's authority extends only to Argonians within Black Marsh. It has influence over our people outside of our country, but they make their own decisions out there. So, if you see Argonians on either side of this fight, just know that was their choice, and it wasn't sanctioned by the Hist."
He rose and nodded, patting her arm. "Thanks, Weija. I knew I could get a straight answer from you."
"Any time, Glane," she smiled. "If you're still around when it's over – if we're both still around – look me up again. It's been a pleasure."
"Take care of yourself, Weija," he said fondly.
Stepping outside, Reydin blew out a breath of disappointment. He'd hoped for better news, but the fact remained that the Argonians would not involve themselves in this war, for either side. He took some small consolation in the fact that it wouldn't make the Dominion very happy, and it potentially weakened them in the upcoming battles. Now it was time to return to the Imperial City, the fastest way possible, and that meant taking a ship back to Gideon, or possibly Leyawiin. He hoped he wouldn't have to resort to Captain Wo-ton again. His muscles still ached.
The airship which carried the Blackheart to Rimmen finally came to a rest above the main gate. The Dominion presence was clearly apparent here, and Rezhyk exchanged a glance with Cinnamon. It wouldn't be easy getting to King Daharr-Jo.
The streets were crowded with the familiar, hated, green and gold armor of the Aldmeri soldiers, and the black and gold robes of the Justiciars. In addition, hundreds of Khajiiti and Bosmeri troops were moving out of the city in a general northeasterly direction.
"They are headed to Bravil, over the border," Rezhyk mused. "Once again, the Thalmor use our people as meat shields in their battles."
"And we do it willingly," Cinnamon nodded, "because we think we owe them for the moons returning."
"This one does not believe they had anything to do with that," Rezhyk growled.
"I don't either," Cinnamon shrugged. "But how are you going to prove that?"
"This one does not know yet," the Blackheart sighed. "I must get to the King, and see where we stand."
"Kind of risky, don't you think?" Cinnamon frowned. "I mean, with all those elves around, to say nothing of our own people who don't know you from Baan Dar's bag of tricks."
"The Mane Guard will protect me," Rezhyk said confidently. "And this one did not suggest he would go in there with claws extended. This is the time for subtlety. I do not believe you can help me with this, my friend."
"I'm thinking this is a parting of the ways, too, Blackheart," Cinnamon replied, eyeing a squadron of Altmer headed their way. "I don't like the way they're looking at this ship, like they're wondering how we got a hold of it. Looks like it's time to hit the skies again."
"Go with the gods, my friend," Rezhyk nodded, stepping over the side to descend. The Cathay-raht followed, while the two Senche merely bounded overboard, their powerful muscles and quadrupedal frame absorbing the shock of landing. As soon as they had all reached solid ground, the airship took off, with one of the crew hauling up the ladder as they left. The Thalmor called out in dismay.
"You there!" the Justiciar said. "Who are you, and where are they taking that ship?"
"He is the Mane," Motabe intoned with a warning look in his eyes, before Rezhyk could reply.
To his credit, the Justiciar halted, seeing the black Khajiit surrounded by large, intimidating cats in very recognizable armor. His gaze flitted from one to the next, and settled at last on Rezhyk. A cold smile crossed his lips as he gave a bow that was just short of mocking.
"Forgive me, your Grace," he said smoothly. "I was not aware there had been a change. I am Vintorolin, advisor to his Majesty, King Daharr-Jo, and ambassador from Alinor. We were not expecting you."
"This one understands," the Blackheart replied, just as smoothly. "He felt the need to introduce himself to his Majesty as soon as possible. Will you take me to him?"
A slight narrowing of the eyes was the only sign Vintorolin gave that the proceedings were out of the ordinary.
"Of course," he smiled now. "Allow me to provide you with an escort. I'm sure your guards must be weary after the long journey from Torval."
"We stay with the Mane," Motabe rumbled warningly, and Vintorolin gave an involuntary step backwards.
"Of course," the Justiciar agreed. "I meant no offense. This way, please, your Grace."
The Thalmor led Rezhyk and his entourage of Motabe and the two Senche down the short avenue to the central plaza of the city. Rezhyk knew the way, of course. He didn't need an escort. He'd grown up in Rimmen, and the swooped roofs of the buildings were achingly familiar to him. How many times as a kitten had he attempted to leap from one to the other, all around the plaza? It had been good practice for his later life, as it turned out.
The booths of the textile merchants were still draped in the bright colors of the silks and woolens sold here from time immemorial. The stink of the dyes used in their making wafted on the air, mixed with the smell of spiced, roasted meats and exotic perfumes. Land-locked though Rimmen might be, it was still a crossroad of trade.
The gilded spires of the palace loomed ahead, surrounded by a high arched wall studded along its top with sharp finials. Beyond this, a broad courtyard opened up, surrounded by the airy, open rooms of the palace. They were on the fringes of the great desert here, and the heat of the day could be uncomfortably intense. Open floorplans that allowed for any slight breeze to move through were to be desired.
Rezhyk noticed immediately that guards were present everywhere, both Khajiit and Altmer. Pahmar and Senche prowled the grounds, and brutish Cathay-raht glared at the approaching party from under their rimmed leather helmets. The two closest to the doors leading to the great hall crossed their spears to prevent entry.
"State your business," one of them growled.
"You know who I am, L'aksha," Vintorolin replied, with just a hint of the customary Altmer haughtiness. "I bring the new Mane to the King."
He makes it sound as though he is responsible for my ascension, Rezhyk thought sourly.
L'aksha nodded to the other guard, and the two withdrew their weapons. Vintorolin gave a self-satisfied smirk and preceded the Blackheart into the palace. They crossed the great hall to a raised area at the back, and Rezhyk took a moment to cast his eyes back and forth, taking in the details. Wide, arched windows were open to the outside, but were filled with colored glass in designs of heroic tales of legend, the splashes of reds, green and blues filtering down to the polished granite floor. Colonnades were set every ten feet apart in four rows from one end of the chamber to the other, supporting the ceiling overhead, as well as a balcony which ran around the perimeter of the chamber.
At the far end, on the raised platform, was an ornate, gilded throne, cushioned in purple, and seated upon it was Dahar-jo the Second, King of Elsweyr. Advanced in years, he was an imposing Cathay-raht still in good health, as he was known to avoid the dissipation and addictive habits of many of his subjects. Clear-eyed and alert, the only sign of his interest in the approaching Altmer with his Khajiit escort was a slight forward movement of his ears and whiskers.
"…and that is why this one begs your Magnificence to intervene on his behalf, and forgive the debt accumulated by his wastrel daughter and her worthless progeny."
The speaker was an aged, bent-back Tojay, his fur greying around his muzzle. He leaned heavily upon the guard to his right, who held a short staff in one hand. Rezhyk surmised the staff belonged to the old one, but was forbidden to carry it into the presence of the King.
"I am moved by your plight," the King said slowly, in a kind voice, "but you must understand that the debt must be paid. Your daughter and her kits are responsible for the destruction caused by their constant aggression with their neighbors."
The old cat slumped, bowing his head in resignation.
"However," the King continued, "I do not hold you liable to pay that debt. Your daughter and her children will be sent to the clay pits to work off their debt. It is to be hoped they will learn from this, and implement a more restrained response to conflict in the future."
"But sire," the old Tojay protested, "how am I to live? I have nowhere else to go. My daughter, fool that she is, was my only means of support."
The King brooded for a moment. "I have a position in the kitchens you may be able to fill. Can you polish silver?"
The Tojay perked up his ears. "Yes, sire!" he nodded eagerly.
"Very well," King Dahar-jo replied. "Speak to the Chamberlain. He will turn you over to the Under-butler, who will take you below stairs and instruct you in your new position."
"Oh, thank you, your Magnificence!" the old cat quavered. "A thousand blessings on your head!"
He was still professing his gratitude as he was led away. Dahar-jo's eyes narrowed, however, as he focused on the Altmer standing next to the Blackheart.
"Well, Vintorolin?" he sighed in a bored voice. "What is it now? I'm busy."
The Justiciar gave a bow so slight it was almost an insult, but the King chose to ignore this breach of etiquette. His eyes took in every detail, however, of the black cat standing next to the Altmer, and did not fail to realize the significance of the two Senche and the large Cathay-raht who accompanied them.
"Your Majesty," Vintorolin smiled, though it was a cold smile nevertheless. "I present to you the new Mane—" Here he stopped cold, awkwardly realizing he had never actually asked for the Blackheart's name. Rezhyk suppressed a smile, but saw no need to help the Altmer out.
"The new Mane, is it?" the King echoed, and his eyes twinkled with amusement. He, too, realized the Thalmor was stuck. "Welcome to Rimmen, Your Grace," he smiled. "I trust your journey was pleasant?"
"It was as agreeable as it was swift, Your Eminence," Rezhyk bowed.
"I am sorry about your predecessor," the King said solemnly, knowing the only way a new Mane would be confirmed would be at the death of the old one, no matter the circumstances. "You must tell me how you learned you were to be the new spiritual leader of our people, Your Grace. Such an occasion as this must be celebrated by our people. It will give them hope, and bring us together. Vintorolin," the King said, sparing a glance at the Thalmor. "Please see that a banquet is prepared for our guest. And tell the Chamberlain when he returns that I wish to go over the menu with him. I assume you brought the srato with you?" he asked, turning to Rezhyk.
"I did, Your Majesty," Rezhyk replied, knowing that the heavy headdress was the hallmark of his position, and one that would ensure the other courtiers acknowledged who he now was. "But other things were left behind in my desire to acquaint you with this news. I hope I have not offended—"
"Not at all, not at all," the King assured him. "Well, Vintorolin? What are you still standing there for? Go and make the arrangements!"
There was nothing more the Justiciar could do, but it was clear he was not happy about the turn of events. He gave a stiff bow and departed the chamber. The only ones present now were the King, the new Mane, and a dozen or so palace guards, in addition to the escort Rezhyk had brought with him.
"I would very much like to hear more of your story, Your Grace," the King invited, motioning Rezhyk to accompany him to a private salon behind the audience chamber. Two of the King's guards followed, and Motabe remained with Rezhyk, though the two Senche remained in the outer court. The King closed the door, turned to the Blackheart and began to laugh. He laughed and laughed, and Rezhyk joined him.
"Cousin!" the King chortled. "How in the name of Jone and Jode did you become the Mane? I can scarcely believe it!"
"You know the circumstances of my birth," Rezhyk drawled. "This one just never imagined it would happen quite so soon, if at all. We already had a Mane, and he wasn't much older than you."
King Dahar-jo sobered. "Yes, you must tell me all about it, cousin," he insisted. "And you can drop the traditional form of address. All those third-person pronouns give me a headache. It's confusing! This room is safe, trust me. My guards know all the secret bolt-holes and listening spots in the palace. I can't keep the Thalmor out of the audience chamber, but they aren't allowed in the private quarters. Tell me what's going on. News has been very sporadic here."
Swiftly, the Blackheart filled his cousin in on the events which had transpired in Torval. "Now, let me ask you," he countered. "Why are you sending our people north with the Dominion army?"
"Pah!" Dahar-jo scowled, pacing the small parlor. "I had no choice. It was either that, or risk having the entire Dominion fleet of airships raze Elsweyr to the ground. We are not strong enough to defy their call for assistance when half the country still believes them to be our national saviors. They play that card frequently and well. Some of the oldest among us still remember the Void Nights."
"The Dominion is losing their airships faster than they can replace them," Rezhyk informed him with confidence. "My…associates in Cyrodiil have told me that a dozen or more have already been destroyed in Skyrim."
"Truly?" Dahar-jo queried, his whiskers whipping forward. "How is that possible? Have the Nords found some sort of weakness we can exploit to our advantage?"
"They're using the dragons," Rezhyk replied, hating to see the King slump in disappointment at his words. "The one called Dragonborn has been gathering them together and fighting the Dominion ships in the air. It is said they are moving south, across the Jerall Mountains, to aid the Empire in fighting the Aldmeri army which is attempting to capture the Imperial City."
"We don't have dragons," the King pointed out, "so that doesn't really help us. Whether the Dominion has five airships or fifty, we cannot fight an enemy that has the power of flight to their advantage. In addition, there are many Khajiit who still feel beholden to the Altmer for bringing back the moons. It would be difficult to turn their minds to what they would feel to be treason."
Rezhyk nodded at the truth of this. "As spiritual leader of our people," he began slowly, "I have a responsibility for their souls. Would it be considered treason if the Mane himself denounces the Thalmor for heresy?"
Dahar-jo sighed. "You'd have to have proof of that," he replied, shaking his head. "My hold on the crown is guaranteed only as long as I am useful to the Dominion. The moment they suspect disloyalty on my part, I will disappear. We have not been an independent kingdom in living memory. They still consider us a vassal state."
"We live in interesting times," Rezhyk demurred. "Changes are happening. I know most of our people have no love for the Empire, but we do not have to trade one overlordship for another, if we stand up for our own independence."
The King frowned. "It's still not enough, cousin," he replied. "I need to know where the people all over Elsweyr stand on the issue of our allegiance to the Aldmeri Dominion. Would they support a move for independence? I know I'm in a minority here in Rimmen. The Thalmor have the support of the military and the merchants. The temples pay lip-service to our gods, but will not commit one way or the other to this war. The poor are the ones who suffer, because they're the ones doing the fighting on behalf of a faction that uses them only as numbers to throw against an enemy with whom I have no personal quarrel. But if I resist, or stand up against the Dominion, I risk being removed from my throne, either by assassination or a coup. In either case, our people would suffer the most for my rebellion against the Thalmor, so I'm effectively neutralized."
Rezhyk nodded, understanding the dilemma. "Then we need to eliminate the threat of the Dominion by whatever means we have at our disposal. I must return to Torval as soon as your celebratory banquet is completed, and take up the responsibilities of my new position. Perhaps I can find some way to turn the people's minds against the Dominion. There is also the matter of my official recognition as Mane. We…uh…left in a bit of a hurry, before the actual confirmation."
"I'm glad you did, too," Dahar-jo smiled. "It puts my mind at ease that there's at least one more Khajiit I can trust to have my back."
"Always, cousin," the Blackheart grinned. "Always."
The banquet was a long, tedious affair, full of pomp and majesty, as befit the status of the Mane, but Rezhyk felt uncomfortable. Time was wasting while he sat here, being wined and dined by the notables of King Dahar-jo's court. There were more Dominion representatives here than he had at first assumed, and he appreciated more keenly the delicate balance his cousin was forced to maintain. Dahar-jo's queen was much younger than he, but had already born him two litters, and the eldest of these, the Princess Mina, sat to the right of her mother, who was next to the King. Queen Sacha looked as uncomfortable as Rezhyk felt, and he gave her a nod of encouragement. A faint smile lifted the corners of her mouth, and she gave him a slow blink, putting him more at ease.
"The Princess is already sitting at the table?" Rezhyk inquired of his cousin. Most younglings would have been served their dinner in private.
"Mina is an intelligent girl," Dahar-jo said proudly. "She doesn't really care much for the things her sisters giggle over, and insisted on spending time studying martial skills with her brothers, to the despair of the Queen. Sacha hoped to make her a suitable match, for when she is older, but Mina is a Khajiit of her own mind. She will be Queen, someday."
"I understand that you must now remain celibate, per the restrictions of your position, Your Grace," Vintorolin interjected, from Rezhyk's other side. "I trust you will not find that too great a hardship to bear." There was a quiet gasp of shock from the Queen, but the Altmer didn't hear it. Whether he knew it or not, the Justiciar's statement was a gross breach of etiquette.
"You must tell me more of our customs," Rezhyk smiled, though there was no warmth in it. "This one has been away so long, he may have forgotten." His tone was pleasant, but every Khajiit within earshot knew the insult that had just been delivered. The Thalmor Justiciar, however, completely missed the warning signs.
"I would be only too happy to bring you up to speed, as it were," Vintorolin smiled coldly. "A great many things have changed while you have been…away. You will find that many transgressions once ignored are now taken quite seriously. I would not want the new Mane to stumble upon them, unaware. It would not be good for the people of Elsweyr to lose faith in their spiritual leader."
Oh, no, Rezhyk thought to himself. That was no social gaffe. He knew exactly what he was doing. This is a warning not to overstep my authority here.
"This one thinks you will find him to be a most eager pupil to your tutelage," Rezhyk almost purred. "The welfare of all Khajiit is uppermost in his mind."
Vintorolin seemed to relax, and allowed a little warmth to creep into his smile. "Excellent!" he enthused. "Perhaps you would be so good as to come to my Embassy tomorrow, where we can discuss the future of Elsweyr further?"
The Blackheart feigned disappointment. "This one regrets," he began sadly, "but he must leave tomorrow morning to return to Torval for the confirmation ceremony." He brightened, as if a thought had occurred to him. "Perhaps the Ambassador would like to accompany this one? It would give us great pleasure to have you at such an august event."
Vintorolin shifted uncomfortably. Put on the spot, he could hardly refuse the invitation. It meant, however, that he would be unable to keep an eye on the King.
"Will your Majesty be coming, as well?" the Justiciar inquired, leaning forward to speak directly to the King on Rezhyk's other side.
"Alas, no," the King replied, his face an inscrutable mask. "I have duties here that require my personal attention. But you go, by all means, Vintorolin," he encouraged. "Be my representative there. I would take it as a personal favor."
Weakly, Vintorolin nodded. He had been out-maneuvered. "It would be my pleasure, Your Majesty," he replied unhappily. He was silent for the rest of the evening, and Rezhyk smirked to himself. Vintorolin was a weak fool. He could see that for himself. The Thalmor saw himself as an indispensable part of the Dominion's presence in Elsweyr. The truth was closer to the probability that he had been assigned to a position where he could do the least harm to their main operations.
The Blackheart purred to himself with amusement. It would be a shame if something were to happen to him.
The following day Rezhyk bid farewell to his King and cousin, and Dahar-jo cautioned both the Blackheart and the Justiciar, "Be careful. The wilds of Elsweyr are not to be traveled lightly, and there are many dangers. Keep to the roads, and you should be safe enough."
Vintorolin retained at least a dozen gold and glass-clad soldiers in his entourage, while the Mane had only Motabe and the two Senche as his escort. Dahar-jo sent along two Pahmar-raht to protect Elsweyr's new spiritual leader on his way south, but they would only accompany them as far as Alabaster on the Topal coast before returning to their duties in Rimmen. From Alabaster, Rezhyk and his group would have to travel the Tenmar Forest Road to get to Torval. Rezhyk gave a private smile. He knew Tenmar like the back of his black paws. He was willing to bet the Thalmor and his party did not.
The trip to Alabaster alone took six days on foot, and Rezhyk chafed at the delay. He and Cinnamon had flown from Torval to Rimmen in half a day. After two days on the road, during a break to take a meal, he asked his companion, "This one wonders why the Justiciar did not arrange for one of his airships to take us to Torval, instead of walking the entire way?"
Vintorolin stiffened. "They are needed in other places," the Justiciar told him, with a touch of that haughtiness back in his voice. Now they were essentially alone, he saw no need to pretend to be nice. "It would be a great inconvenience to recall one back to Elsweyr simply because our feet hurt."
'Recall one back' to Elsweyr? Rezhyk mused. Interesting. This clearly meant there were few, if any, airships remaining in a Province which the Dominion felt was secured by their alliance, despite the trouble on the coasts. And perhaps it also means the Thalmor do not wish for Khajiit to learn very much about their airships. It is possibly too late to close that particular barn door.
The Justiciar was not the most engaging of traveling companions. He and his soldiers kept to themselves, and conversations between the Mane and the representative of the Aldmeri Dominion usually centered around the weather and the responsibilities of the Mane.
"Tell me about this confirmation ceremony, Your Grace," Vintorolin requested. "What is involved?"
"The public part of the ritual is held under the two moons," Rezhyk told him. "One of the priests of Alkosh, whom you know as Auriel, will invoke the gods' blessing upon the new Mane and the people who look to them for guidance. The private part of the ritual is for Khajiit only, held indoors, and with the utmost secrecy. You must understand this one is not at liberty to discuss such a holy event with those not born Khajiit."
"Of course," Vintorolin stated, his comment just short of a sneer. "How did you become a candidate?"
"It was ordained from the moment of my birth," Rezhyk replied. "Once or twice every generation – sometimes more than that, but not often – a Khajiit is born under the darkness of both Jone and Jode, or Masser and Secunda, as you call them."
"A double eclipse, then," Vintorolin mused, interested in spite of himself. "But I thought there was only ever one Mane at a time?"
"Most of the time, yes," the Blackheart agreed. "There are some uninformed outsiders who believe that the new Mane must fight the old one to the death. This is not always the case. In some matters, the old one merely steps aside for the new one, when it becomes apparent they are unable to continue to care for the souls of our people."
"What happens to the Khajiit who are born under the right conditions, but who aren't chosen to be the Mane?" Vintorolin asked, curious.
"We call them 'Forgotten Manes'," Rezhyk said. "This one was one such. We are taken to Pridehome, to the Temple there, to be trained as warriors, to aid Elsweyr in her time of need."
"So, you received extensive military training, then?"
"Quite so," the Blackheart agreed. "This one accepted his fate, and assumed he would never be called upon to guide the people of his Province."
"It must have come as quite a shock to you, then," Vintorolin sniffed. "I wonder if you're up to the challenge. There's a great deal of difference between a warrior and a priest."
"Not so much as one might think," Rezhyk said smoothly. "Both fight for what they believe in."
Vintorolin said nothing, but regarded the black cat warily as they walked along, certain there was some underlying meaning there which he could not define.
The port city of Alabaster was, as its namesake implied, gleaming with gold-embellished white marble walls and towers. Ships bobbed in the bay and gulls screeched overhead. The sounds and smells of a busy harbor town filled the air, and Rezhyk felt a profound wistfulness wash over him for the life he must leave behind. They stayed only one night in town before setting out early again the next morning, and it was four days before they reached the town of Tenmar, at the northern edge of the great forest. The last leg of their trip would take them deep into the jungles, where the road was less well maintained.
Dark and gloomy, stifling with heat and humidity, the forest was alive with creatures out of a nightmare. Most of the time, large groups of travelers passed through unmolested. Most of the time.
Rezhyk allowed the Justiciar to pull ahead, pretending to stop and secure his bootlaces. Motabe and the other Khajiit remained with him. "Go on ahead, Ambassador," he smiled, waving, as he knelt to the ground. "I'll just be a minute."
Vintorolin shrugged and continued down the road.
"Motabe," he murmured, for the Khajiit's ears alone. "I have a plan to be rid of the unwelcome presence of the Ambassador. Will you go along with this one?"
"I follow you until life leaves one of us, lord," the big Cathay-raht replied, just as quietly. "This one has no political alliance. Our allegiance is to the Mane alone."
"Good to know," the Blackheart smiled. "The road will take us through Tenmar Forest. You are familiar with the place?"
"I am, lord," Motabe nodded. "One could easily become lost there. There are many dangers facing the unaware."
Rezhyk smirked. "Then you will be saddened to learn of the loss of the Thalmor Justiciar and his escort in the great forest, no?"
"It will break my heart, lord," the Cathay-raht replied, with a hint of a smile, "but we must weather these tragedies as we must."
"You are a credit to your race, Motabe," Rezhyk praised, solemnly and sincerely, standing up. "Be ready when I give the signal."
They caught up to Vintorolin and his escort, and the Blackheart smiled. Already he could see that the Justiciar had taken a wrong turn, and they were off the main road, which bent to the south. Vintorolin was leading them straight west, into an area Rezhyk knew to be one of the more treacherous areas of the Tenmar Forest. There were raptors here, and huge spiders larger than those in Skyrim which spit a caustic venom. Several carnivorous fish swam in the streams and giant leeches lurked in the bogs and swamps. Insects were also a threat, as they carried diseases in their bite, and some of the flowers gave off a beautiful but toxic scent.
"Is this the right way?" Vintorolin asked after they had traveled a handful of miles. "The road here is in horrible shape! I don't think we're making much headway."
"This one assumed the Ambassador knew the way," the Blackheart shrugged. "Is he now suggesting we are lost?"
"We're not lost!" the Justiciar snapped. "I just need to see the sun. I can't tell which direction we're heading. You and you," he ordered two of his guards. "Climb those trees and see if you can determine which way we need to go."
"This one thinks that is not a good idea," Rezhyk offered politely.
"Have you a better one?" Vintorolin demanded haughtily. "Once they come back down, we'll know where we are."
Rezhyk shrugged. He knew better, but since the Justiciar didn't ask for further information, the Blackheart wasn't going to volunteer it. He knew constrictors often waited in the tops of the gurosh tree for their next meal. Some were as great around as his thigh. They dropped loops of their bodies around their victims and squeezed so tightly one could not draw breath to cry out. The more the victim struggled, the tighter the snake coiled. When the struggles ceased, the snake fed. What made this even more horrific was the fact that the bark of the tree was covered with a sticky sap that was in fact a mild poison. It caused lethargy and drowsiness upon contact with skin. The constrictors were immune to the toxin, which was one reason they preferred this tree in which to hunt and lair.
Still, they might get lucky, and there might not be any snakes in these particular trees.
And the sun will rise in the north tomorrow, he grimaced to himself.
After what seemed an inordinately long time, Vintorolin finally called up into the branches.
"Well? What have you discovered?"
There was no answer, and Rezhyk had a feeling he knew why.
"Answer me!" the Justiciar shouted. There was silence except for the soughing of the wind in the upper branches. Down at ground level, the air was stiflingly still.
"This is ridiculous!" Vintorolin grumbled. He glared at two more of his entourage. "Go up there and find out what's keeping them," he ordered.
Nervously, the two guards hurried to comply, and Rezhyk schooled himself not to roll his eyes.
After several minutes, however, there was a cry of alarm, the snapping of branches, and the thud of metal hitting wood several times in rapid succession. Something slammed into the ground, and Vintorolin's eyes widened in horror at the sight of one of his soldiers in armor that had been compressed as if by a giant vice. The elf inside was dead.
Now came a crashing noise, and everyone pulled back away from the gurosh tree to avoid anything falling on top of them. Another soldier hit the ground, and everyone heard the distinct snap of his neck breaking on impact. A second shout of alarm from above, and a panicked, "LOOK OUT BELOW!" warned them to stand clear. A gigantic constrictor, larger than any Rezhyk had ever seen, plummeted to the ground and thrashed wildly. Sticking out of its maw were two green and gold-clad legs. The snake was convulsing in its death throes from the fall, and from the fact it was missing a good portion of its tail end. Vintorolin stared transfixed, unable to react.
"Help me!" came a weaker call from above, and the fourth Aldmeri soldier lost their balance, falling woozily from the tree. Two of her companions grabbed her and hauled her clear of the snake, still gyrating its macabre dance of death, the legs of the dead soldier inside it still flipping around the mouth.
"Can't…see…" the guard murmured. "C-can't…move…so…tired…"
"What's happened?" Vintorolin demanded. He turned his eyes to Rezhyk. "You! You knew this would happen!"
"This one did try to warn the Ambassador that climbing the tree was not a good idea," Rezhyk shrugged.
"Why didn't you say something?"
"This one tried," Rezhyk reminded him, "but the Ambassador was not in the mood to listen."
"What's happened to her?" Vintorolin repeated.
Rezhyk explained about the properties of the gurosh tree, and the potential dangers that lurked above. The Justiciar couldn't prevent his eyes from glancing at the horrific deaths of three of his soldiers.
"This one will assume that the guard who was not crushed or consumed became sleepy, and slipped off the branches of the tree," the Blackheart explained. "This one is very sorry for your loss."
"That still doesn't tell us where we are," Vintorolin snapped. "And now one of my guards is incapacitated. How long will she remain like that?"
"Difficult to say," Rezhyk mused, putting a hand to his chin in thought. "Perhaps a few hours, perhaps longer than that. We should move away from here and try to make camp for the night. We will travel no further today."
"What about them?" one of the guards asked, gesturing towards their fallen companions.
"Unfortunately, there are many carrion eaters in Tenmar," the Blackheart told him. "If you do not bury or burn them, the scavengers will be attracted to this area. That is why we must go now."
"And leave them behind?" the soldier gaped. "They were our friends!"
Rezhyk shrugged. "Unless you would like to attract the attention of the raptors, which this one would not advise, it is better to leave them behind."
"Leave them," Vintorolin said tersely. "Let's get out of here and find a secure place to stay for tonight. We'll move on in the morning."
There were a few mutterings among the guards, but none dared to speak out against the Justiciar, and Rezhyk widened his eyes and flexed his whiskers forward to Motabe, who knew it meant, See? I told you.
They found a clearing near a tumbled-down ruin, which was really nothing more than a cairn of moss-covered stones. What its purpose had been in ages past, none were alive now to tell. Rezhyk's senses were on high alert here. It wasn't ghouls or ghosts or other supernatural undead he was concerned about. The Dominion soldiers were now extremely nervous, and likely to shoot anything moving in the dense undergrowth before they found out what they were shooting at. It was not the best tactic, Rezhyk knew. Shooting at some of the larger raptors and arachnids only made them angry. Vintorolin was not pleased at his suggestion to not light a fire.
"A fire will keep some of the predators at bay," the Justiciar insisted.
"You will forgive this one, of course," Rezhyk demurred effacingly. "A fire would definitely achieve that goal, but this one detects a scent of swamp gas in this area. Can you not smell it?"
Vintorolin sniffed the air suspiciously. There was a certain odor of something noxious, he could tell, but he distrusted the Khajiit. "It always stinks in the swamps of Elsweyr," the Altmer said in a dismissive tone. "We need the protection a fire will give us."
"But the swamp gas is sometimes flammable," Rezhyk pointed out. "In high enough concentrations, it will ignite."
"We're in an open clearing," Vintorolin insisted, with a stubbornness that was born of a race who considered themselves superior to any other. "I can even feel a slight breeze. We are in no danger."
"If you say so," Rezhyk shrugged. "But this one should inform you that sometimes the pockets of swamp gas bubble to the surface unexpectedly. There is no telling when or if it may happen."
Vintorolin noticed the looks passing between his guards. "We're in no danger," he defiantly. "If you're so concerned, you and your compatriots may take the first watch. We'll relieve you when Masser is high overhead."
The Blackheart bowed, with a submissive manner. "It will be as you say," he acquiesced. "Khajiit will take the first watch."
The soldiers lit their campfire and passed around their rations, ignoring the Mane and his party of High Guard, who kept to themselves. A handful of Dominion soldiers remained alert as Rezhyk and his fellow Khajiit took up their positions around their encampment. As Masser climbed into the sky, the group of elves not on watch settled down to make an attempt at sleep. Across the clearing, Rezhyk caught Motabe's eye and twitched his ears forward twice. Motabe turned a nod into a stretch and settled down again just beyond the rim of firelight. For his part, Rezhyk did the same. One by one, the Khajiit slipped into the darkness, more familiar with their own lands than the Thalmor.
Rezhyk circled silently around the camp and rejoined Motabe.
"Now we slip away," he murmured.
"What of them?" the big cat purred, with a nod towards the Aldmeri.
"They will not find their way out again," Rezhyk said quietly, as they made their way further from the encampment. "Do you not know where we are?"
"I do," Motabe replied. "The Shivering Sands are not far from here."
"Exactly," the Blackheart nodded. "There is only one path through that area, but it is further to the north than the Thalmor are now. They will attempt the most direct route westward to Torval. They will not succeed. And their deaths will not be on my head or yours, because we did try to warn them."
A rustling in the bushes, followed by a low, rumbling purr, announced the arrival of the Senche, and both Motabe and the Blackheart relaxed.
"Are we to return to Torval, then?" Motabe asked.
"We must," Rezhyk nodded. "This is not the end of Dominion occupation of our land, and we must prepare for the retaliation that is sure to come."
They set off in a northerly direction to locate the pathway through the Shivering Sands, no longer concerned about the fate of the Aldmeri they left behind.
Tamsyn led a patrol of Imperial and Alliance forces through the woods to the north of Bruma. She had chosen her crew herself, and had requested Nelkir, Jarl Balgruuf's younger son, personally to assist in any situations where roguish talents were needed.
"I can pick a lock fairly well," she dimpled, "and I can hide and move silently, but I'm no master at it, and we may need to 'appropriate' a few things the Thalmor would rather hang onto."
"You mean pickpocket," Balgruuf scowled.
Tamsyn shrugged, unaffected by his censure. "This is war, my Jarl," she replied pertly. "I'll use any means necessary to get the job done."
"Don't let my father upset you," Nelkir grinned out of earshot of his father. "He has to put on that gruff act of displeasure in front of people, but secretly he's quite pleased with me. He told me so."
Tamsyn smiled. "I'm glad," she replied. "And don't worry, I never let him get to me."
When they set out from their base camp at Fort Pale Pass, the sun was but an hour below the western horizon. It had been an entire day since she and Marcus had returned from their surveillance mission, and had relayed what they found to Commander Tullius. The dragons, after all, had been promised they'd be allowed to feed, and getting most of the troops down from Fort Pale Pass and staged near Bruma had taken time. There could be no doubt that the Dominion-held city would be braced for a prolonged siege, which made Tamsyn's mission that much more critical.
"And you're certain you can get inside?" Vilena queried, skeptically.
"I know I can, with the right people," Tamsyn responded with confidence. "Our goal is to get to the gate and get it open. Once we exit from the house where the tunnel is hidden, we sneak through the shadows to make that happen."
"Once you're in position to infiltrate the town, give the signal," Marcus advised her, tapping the ear bud in his right ear. "The dragon riders will attack the castle," Marcus told the Commander. "The distraction should give Tamsyn and her people enough time to get to the gate."
"I'll let you know when we're ready to hit the streets," his wife nodded, touching her own ear.
Now, as Masser rose in the east, Tamsyn and her team crept closer to the northern watchtower, beyond which lay the cave and the tunnel that would eventually lead them into Bruma.
"How are we going to get past those Dominion soldiers?" Roma, one of the Imperials, whispered.
"Leave that to me," Tamsyn assured her. "Just follow Nelkir and stay together!"
A cloud passed before the larger of Skyrim's two moons, and the Arch-Mage hissed, "Alright, let's go!"
They broke cover several hundred yards from the tower, and Tamsyn concentrated on the guards facing their direction.
"What was that?" one of them called, and ran to the west side of the barbican, away from them. The other three guards followed her, certain they had heard something moving in the woods to the west.
Bastian, the Breton mage who had assisted with the capture of the city of Falkreath, now cast a mass Muffle spell over their group, to stifle the sounds of pounding feet and clinking armor and weapons. Tamsyn continued projecting sounds and glimpses of movement on the other side of the keep until her group had reached the tunnel. She caught up to them and slipped inside as the Thalmor soldiers returned, grumbling to themselves.
"Must have been the wind," she heard one of them say.
"Which way?" Nelkir hissed. He had a glow stick in one hand and a fine dagger of ebony in the other. Tamsyn squeezed past him in the tight confines of the tunnel.
"This way," she replied, and set off with a Candlelight bobbing over her head. "Nelkir, you're up here in case your rogue skills are needed. Bastian, I'll need you to watch our backs. There may be wolves or trolls down here. Use your Illusion spells to calm them. We don't want to raise the alarm if there are any Dominion soldiers skulking around."
The young Breton gulped, but nodded. Roma volunteered to hang back with him, and Tamsyn smiled her thanks.
The twisting corridor was long and narrow, allowing single-file movement only. Tamsyn knew it would take precious time to get the half-dozen members of her team to the exit point, a trap door under a house in the poorer section of Bruma. Two hundred years previous, it had been used during the Oblivion crisis by Mythic Dawn agents spying on Cloud Ruler Temple. Now, however, it was a den for wolves, bears and trolls as Tamsyn feared there would be. The Illusion spells of Muffle, Calm and Invisibility cast by Bastian and the Arch-Mage got them soundlessly through.
As they reached the far end of the tunnel complex, however, they could hear voices, and Tamsyn signaled her group to halt. Motioning to Nelkir, she and the young Nord crept forward to a gap in the stone cut by water ages ago. Beyond was a small chamber, lit with torches and a campfire, where a group of marauders had taken up residence to run their skooma operation.
There weren't many of them. Tamsyn counted perhaps eight in the immediate area. What worried her, however, was that the tunnel continued on the other side of the cavern and bent out of sight. Holding a finger to her lips, she and Nelkir retreated a short distance.
"Do we take them on?" the red-haired Nord breathed.
"Not yet," Tamsyn whispered. She made a silent motion with her hands, peering back towards the chamber. "Several more beyond this cave," she murmured. "If we attack, we'll be overwhelmed."
"We've got to get through, though," Nelkir insisted, "or the whole mission will have to be scrubbed."
"Let me try something," she muttered. "Stay here."
Crawling on her stomach, she inched herself back towards the cave and studied the cavern layout. Scaffolding had been set up here to reach the top of the chamber where torchlight glinted off something in the ceiling overhead. Scattered around the floor were picks and axes, wheelbarrows and crates containing mined ore. In one corner a small smithy area had been set up, with one of the marauders beating something on the anvil. The noise echoed around the small cave, and Tamsyn felt a bit more secure about the Thalmor in the city above not hearing them.
She pulled back as one of the bandits approached the one at the anvil and began talking.
"How long will it take, do you think?" he asked.
"No idea," the smith replied sourly. "I haven't got the right tools or materials at hand, and I have no intention of dodging those pointed-eared daedra trying to get to the smithy in the town to steal supplies."
"I was just asking," the first one said defensively. "You don't have to jump down my throat about it. Boss wanted to know."
Perfect opening! Tamsyn thought. Let's make a bad situation worse!
She made a silent gesture with one hand, directed at the smith, and in response he turned on his fellow bandit.
"You know what?" the smith shouted, enraged. "The boss can suck my cock! I'm sick of this shit! And I'm sick of you. Of all of you! Every day you want stuff and you never do anything for me! You can just fuck right off!"
"Hey, watch your mouth!" the first bandit scowled. "All I did was—
"I know what you did!" the smith roared, flailing about with his hammer and tongs. "It's what you all do…nothing! We sit in this shithole and wait for the elves to leave. Well, they ain't leaving, you hear me? You want your armor fixed? You want your weapon sharpened? Do it yourself and leave me the fuck alone!"
"I don't have to take that from you, you spineless guttersnipe," the first one growled, drawing his weapon. Seeing this, the smith grabbed the nearest weapon to hand, which happened to be a pickaxe, and soon the two were brawling. The noise brought the other marauders over, and Tamsyn silently cast her Master level Mayhem spell in their midst. Very soon, the cavern rang with the sounds of a full-blown riot, while she and Nelkir stayed back in the shadows. At one point, one of the brigands attempted to flee down the tunnel in their direction, but Nelkir had his dagger out and buried in the man's chest before he realized anyone was there.
It was several minutes before silence descended on the chamber once more, and Nelkir insisted on Tamsyn staying back while he slipped in to survey the situation. He returned a few moments later with a satisfied smile on his face.
"Nice work, Arch-Mage," he grinned. "There were a couple badly injured ones that I helped on their way to Oblivion, but your spell did most of the work!"
"Go get the others and bring them up here," she replied. "I'll make sure there aren't any more up ahead."
"That's not a smart idea—" Nelkir frowned, but Tamsyn shushed him.
"Relax," she smiled. "I'm not going up there physically. I'll use my Detect Life spell."
He nodded, and soon returned with the other four members of their team.
"Could have saved a couple for us," Hadrian, the other Imperial, sniffed.
"I like the Arch-Mage's way better, personally," Nelkir chuckled. "You'll have to teach me that one someday."
"Come to the college," she invited. "Right now, let's get moving. Time is passing."
Beyond the small mining chamber, the tunnel wound its way in a general upward direction, with another smaller cave lit with torches. This was empty, however, and from the footprints in the dust on the floor, Tamsyn surmised that whoever had been here had come in support of the riot earlier.
They soon reached the trap door, which Nelkir had open in a moment, despite it having a master lock to secure it. He lifted the hatch a crack to ensure there was no one in the room above, and motioned Tamsyn and the others to follow him up after stowing his glowstick away. Tamsyn quenched her Candlelight spell as a precaution.
The room was a shabby shanty, with broken furniture and pottery scattered everywhere. Dark stains discolored the threadbare carpet that pushed aside when they emerged. Tamsyn was certain it was blood, but didn't wish to risk a light to confirm it. It told her, however, that the Thalmor had been here, but had not found the secret tunnel. Silently, she cast Detect Life, and found two clusters nearby. Peering through the filthy window, she confirmed a group outside, just down the street to the left at what appeared to be market stalls. The other group was inside a building to their right. A broken sign hung from one chain, and in the glow of moonslight she could just make out the name: The Restful Watchman.
"Alright, everyone, listen up," she whispered. "I'll let Marcus know we're in position. As soon as all Oblivion breaks loose out there, slip outside and get over to the east side gate. Do whatever you have to do, but stick together and get that gate open!"
"What will you be doing, Arch-Mage?" Bastian asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Making sure the Thalmor are too busy to notice you," she deadpanned. She tapped her ear bud. "Marcus? We're ready," she reported.
Though Bruma had two gates, one on the east side and one on the north, it had been decided to attempt to open the east gate only for two reasons: first, because Commander Tullius' army had to come up the road from that side, and would be spotted before they could reach the north gate; secondly, attempting to reach the north gate would take them through the city with no back alleys to slink through. They would have to cross the main plaza in full view of the Aldmeri soldiers patrolling the area.
They knew the exact moment when 'all Oblivion broke loose,' because they heard the roar of the dragons, the cries of dismay, and the sounds of retaliatory magic. Footsteps outside pounded down the street, and Tamsyn saw several Dominion soldiers exiting the tavern. They waited just a few moments longer, then opened the door and slipped outside, melting into the back alleyways that Tamsyn had drawn on her map.
The Arch-Mage let them go and prayed to all the Divines to protect them. She quickly crossed the road and headed to the Temple to St. Martin Septim, keeping to the shadows as best as she could. Out in the streets she could see the castle was under attack by Marcus and his dragon riders. Two of the airships anchored near Castle Bruma were already on fire, sagging in their tethers.
It's not enough, she realized. They need the army to back them up.
She peered down the hill to the east where the portcullis was still down. The gatehouse was teeming with Aldmeri soldiers, and Tamsyn knew she needed to draw them away from their position to give Nelkir and the others a chance to get the gate up.
Summoning her magicka, she cast the Conjuration spell that would bring Golmonah to her, knowing the soldiers in the street and at the gate would notice. She threw up her shield and as the gold and green-clad Dominion forces gathered and closed in on her, she pulled a speech from her enhanced memory, sending up an apology to a certain priest of Talos in Whiterun.
"Terrible and powerful Talos!" she called out. "We, your unworthy servants, give praise! For only through your grace and benevolence may we truly reach enlightenment! And deserve our praise you do, for we are one! Ere you ascended and the Eight became Nine, you walked among us, great Talos, not as god, but as man!"
The soldiers gasped and growled menacingly, calling forth magicka into their hands, but Tamsyn backed up the steps to the Temple door and kept her shield firmly in place.
"I don't know who you are," one of them called out, "and I don't really care. But you will die this day like the dog you are!"
Tamsyn ignored him and kept up with her speech, watching the skies. "But you were once man!" she continued. "Aye! And as man, you said, 'Let me show you the power of Talos Stormcrown, born of the North, where my breath is long winter.' 'I breathe now, in royalty, and reshape this land which is mine. I do this for you, Red Legions, for I love you!"
Magicka flared, and a volley of Destruction magic flew her way, but her shield held firm, and nothing penetrated, even the arrows shot from their moonstone bows. Tamsyn grinned, because she heard a special roar in the distance, growing louder.
"Aye, love. Love!" she exhorted, enjoying the frustration evident on the elven faces before her. "Even as man, great Talos cherished us. For he saw in us, in each of us, the future of Skyrim! The future of Tamriel! And there it is, friends!" she called to whomever could hear her. "The ugly truth! We are the children of man! Talos is the true god of man! Ascended from flesh, to rule the realm of spirit!"
"What is the meaning of this?" a Justiciar demanded, striding up to the group encircling her. "Seize this woman immediately!" The group surged forward to bring her down and found themselves pushed back by the shield of magicka, which only seemed to grow stronger. Indeed, it appeared to glow with a brilliant white light, and even Tamsyn was disconcerted, and she faltered.
Stay strong, daughter, a beloved voice said in her mind. You've invoked him, and gotten his attention. Let him do this through you.
Giving a slight nod to no one, Tamsyn paused for breath and continued her litany, the glow of her magic shield taking on an incandescence that could only have come from Aetherius itself.
"The very idea is inconceivable to our Elven overlords!" she challenged them. "Sharing the heavens with us? With man? Ha! They can barely tolerate our presence on earth! Today, they take away your faith. But what of tomorrow? What then? Do the elves take your homes? Your businesses? Your children? Your very lives? So, rise up! Rise up, children of the Empire! Rise up, Bruma! Embrace the word of mighty Talos, he who is both man and Divine!"
Something strange was happening beyond the glow of her shield, and Tamsyn couldn't see clearly enough to know what it was. There were those in Bruma, however, who had escaped the wrath of the Thalmor, who hid themselves in the Temple and in their homes, who heard her words in spite of the distance. They threw off their fear and took up arms. They emerged from their places of hiding and began to attack the elves on their streets.
The front line of elves, pressed against her shield began to scream, as if in excruciating pain, and several suddenly burst into flames. The Justiciar, horrified, attempted to flee this sudden, unexplainable phenomenon, and return to the safety of the gatehouse, but the mobs gathering in the street encircled him and beat him down.
Near the gatehouse, Nelkir and the others waited until most of the soldiers abandoned their posts to converge on the Temple, but there were still so many Aldmeri troops between them and the gatehouse.
"Listen!" Bastian exclaimed. "Do you hear that?"
The sounds of angry townsfolk fighting back against their oppressors reached their ears.
"This is our chance!" Hadrian said, drawing his sword. "Nelkir, you and Bastian get in there and up to the top of the wall. That's where the turnstile for the gate will be. Rona and I and the others will stand guard down here!"
"There may still be too many up on the walls," Bastian said fearfully.
"Are you a mage or not?" Rona asked him quietly, for his ears alone.
Bastian looked into her brown eyes, so hopeful and trusting. He nodded.
A loud roar and a column of flame overhead alerted them to the presence of a dragon, and they hugged the walls. At the height the dragons flew, and in the darkness, they might not be able to distinguish between friend or foe, even with a rider.
"Ru, fahliil!" a decidedly feminine voice challenged. "Zu'u los Gol Monah! Faas dii yolos!"
None of them knew dovahzul, so her taunting and challenge went unknown to those who heard her.
"It's that green dragon the Arch-Mage was riding!" Nelkir exclaimed. "She just swept the top of the wall! Come on, Bastian, let's go!"
"Right behind you," the Breton mage muttered. "I've got your back."
Commander Vilena Tullius waited for the portcullis to open, after Marcus and the dragons began their attack on the castle. But the gate remained closed, and she began to worry that the entire mission was for naught.
"Commander," General Galmar pointed. "What's that?"
A bright glow was coming from somewhere inside the city.
"Have the dragons set the town alight?" Jarl Balgruuf worried. His younger son was in there somewhere.
"That's not firelight," the Commander pointed out. "It's too bright."
"Well, it's no dragon flame that I've ever seen," Galmar muttered, as one swooped low overhead and spewed a line of fire along the top of the wall. Green scales gleamed from the illumination of the conflagration, and several flaming figures leaped to their deaths below.
Several moments later, the portcullis slowly began to crank upwards.
"Forward!" Commander Tullius ordered, and the Alliance army surged towards the gate.
There was still resistance, and as they poured through, they saw a small knot of Alliance members backed into the stairway of the gatehouse, fighting for their lives. One had already fallen, and another was in bad shape. The army swept in and eliminated the threat.
"Good work, team," the Commander praised as she paused in her advance. "Where is the Arch-Mage?"
Nelkir, being thumped on his back by his father, pointed up the hill. "You can't see that blazing beacon from here?" he quipped, throwing a thumb over his shoulder towards the Temple.
The Commander followed where he pointed with her eyes and saw the Arch-Mage at the steps of the Temple, the bright white glow fading from around her. She was mounting the green dragon that had landed nearby. All around her were pockets of townsfolk, battling Dominion soldiers with a viciousness she hoped never to see again. Vilena was a strong woman, but the cruelty and savagery with which the Brumans fought made even her stomach turn a little.
"Let's push on towards the castle," she ordered. "Help the townsfolk where you can."
"Honestly?" Jarl Balgruuf muttered. "They don't look like they need any help."
Marcus saw the light, from his position in the skies above Castle Bruma, but it was taking all his concentration to coordinate the dragons against the Dominion airships and ground troops left to defend Bruma. He could only assume it was something bad; whether that meant bad for the Alliance or bad for the Dominion, he didn't have time to figure out.
Two of the airships that had been tethered near the Castle went down quickly, as the dragons glided in on silent wings. Marcus had warned them all not to trumpet out their usual challenges until the battle was joined. The other four ships, alerted by the first wave of attack, were suddenly limned with magicka. Lines were thrown clear and they rose into the air to meet their aerial foes. Destruction spells flared out from each ship, and Marcus realized the dragons had one distinct advantage: they could not easily be seen against the black of the night sky. Winterfang and Mistwing stood out, as did several other white dragons, but most were harder to spot.
"Benor," he called through the ear bud. "You and Iona order the white dragons back. Have them strafe the ground troops. They're too easily seen at night."
"I understand, Marcus," his old friend replied.
Soon enough, the half dozen or so frost dragons peeled off and headed out over the town to wreak havoc among the Dominion troops rushing up to the Castle.
With the darkness to their advantage, and with mages riding double with the dragon riders who could not perform magic, the fate of the four remaining airships was a foregone conclusion. They simply could not stand up to the concentrated efforts of the dov who enjoyed this new game.
The sun was just coming up when Marcus was finally able to have Odahviing deposit him in the courtyard which had been cleared of Dominion soldiers. The Castle itself had been breached, and those Aldmeri who had not surrendered had been put to the sword. All in all, it had been the dragons that had turned the battle to their favor. The Alliance had suffered losses they could ill afford, but the Dominion losses were catastrophic.
Tamsyn rejoined him as the search for survivors inside the Castle began.
"You know the layout here," he murmured in her ear. "Where would we be likely to find the ruler?"
"The Count might be held in his own dungeons, if they didn't outright kill him," Tamsyn said quietly. "I believe it's this way."
They found several people below in the servants' quarters, but the dungeons themselves were empty.
"It's alright," Tamsyn assured them. "It's over. We've driven out the Thalmor."
"How do we know what you say is true?" a woman in a cook's uniform demanded. "How do we know they won't come back when you leave?"
"The people in the town below have fought to regain the city," Commander Tullius replied. "We can leave a small detachment here for security, but we must push south to engage the Dominion troops before they reach the Imperial City."
"Have any of you seen the Count?" Jarl Balgruuf asked. "Do you know what happened to him?"
There was silence. Eyes shifted, looking at each other, and it was clear they didn't wish to betray confidences.
"It's alright," said a scullery, a youngish man with a mop of red hair. He was filthy, from his head to his toes, and the rags he wore indicated his station as the lowest rank in the kitchen. "I believe them."
"What's your name, young man?" Marcus asked kindly. "Do you know what the Thalmor did with the Count?"
Tamsyn began to chuckle. Marcus turned to her and raised an eyebrow.
She giggled again and bowed to the scullery. "Am I addressing Count Desilus of Bruma?" she inquired, desperately trying to keep a straight face. The scullery grinned sheepishly at them.
"It seemed like the best way to avoid getting captured," he shrugged. But his face sobered. "What has happened to my town? To my people?"
It took some time to explain the situation, but to give the man credit, the Count took it in stride. "I sent a division south, to assist the Imperial City," he explained, after he had cleaned up and changed into garments more appropriate for the Count of Bruma. "Not a day later, the Dominion swept down the Jeralls and invaded the town. The city guard and townsfolk tried to resist, but we were no match for them." He gave a heavy sigh. "Sadly, it will take us some time to rebuild our fair city. Even now, the larger part of the occupation forces that invaded here has already moved south, heading for the capital. I owe you all my life, and the lives of those who remain," he continued. "If there is anything I can do to assist you, please let me know."
"I think you're going to have your hands full for a while, here," Commander Tullius said. "But for now, let my troops rest for the day. In the morning we need to push south. I won't ask for supplies; I don't believe the Dominion left you much in that way."
"Most of my people are of stubborn Nord heritage," Count Desilus said. "Your army is welcome here, but when you leave, I can still muster another small contingent to accompany you. I believe you would find it hard to turn them away."
"I won't turn them away," the Commander accepted graciously, "and I'll leave a small force here to help secure your town as well as our rear flank, but if your people need healing, have them come to us. We'll do what we can."
"Talk to Karla and Bastian," Tamsyn told him. "They're in charge of the mages when I'm not available."
"Where will you be, Arch-Mage?" the Count asked, eyes widening in curiosity.
Tamsyn exchanged a look with her husband, and Marcus nodded. "My wife and I will be on a special mission of our own," was all he said. "And we leave immediately."
[Author's Note: We are closing in on the end of this saga. The next chapter, of course, takes us to the Summerset Isles, and we will see what our heroes find there. Thank you so much for your reviews. I read them all, and reply if it's needed. It's muchly appreciated.]
