The Spectrum's Top End
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Hjar turned around to face the new arrival, and prayed to whoever was listening that Margret was still behind the pillar.
The man who had addressed her as 'monster' was a Nord, judging by his features and general ruggedness. His armour was steel, but his sword and shield gleamed in a way steel usually didn't. And by far the most unusual thing about him was the cape that fluttered impressively as he walked in. it looked to be an animal pelt, plain and simple. Bear, was her first thought. But the features of the hood were those of a wolf. A very, very big wolf.
Uh oh.
He was concerning enough alone. Worse were the other men and women in similar garb that filed in behind him, arraying themselves in front of the entrance.
"Afternoon, everyone." Hjar called to them, trying to remain calm. "Uh, I'm just finishing up here? If you could give me maybe five more minutes I'll be gone, and then you can have a turn."
"We're not here for your filthy pagan rituals, beast." The ringleader declared, spitting on the floor. "My name is Krev. Krev the Skinner. The Silver Hand is here for you."
Welp. That's more than enough clues to piece together what's happening. So, has Kaie betrayed me or is she dead in the cave outside?
Still, she only benefited if they were off-balance. "Hi Krev." She waved. "Uh…the silver who?"
"Outsiders." Declared Red Eagle, the Draugr moving up to stand beside her.
"Yeah, obviously, I'm playing dumb." Hjar hissed back.
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"I see." Faolan focused his attention on the newcomers. "I do not know who you are either."
"W—What?" Krev scrunched his face up in confusion. Behind him, the other nasty-looking fighters were glancing at each other. Hjar heard at least one whisper "Draugr can talk?"
"The Silver Hand." Krev clarified. "You've never heard of us?"
"I know the Silver-Bloods?" Hjar tried. She'd genuinely never even heard of this group. "Are you with them?"
"No! Well, we buy a lot of our equipment from them, but—"
"Oh, so you're like their mercenaries?"
"We're werewolf hunters!" Krev spat.
"Ooooooh…" Hjar put as much expression as she could into the sound. "Got it, right. Well I'm not one of those. Krev, are you a werewolf?"
"No, just a briarheart."
Krev frowned at her. "Yes you are."
"No I'm not."
"Yes you are!"
"No I'm not."
"You slaughtered half the leaders in Markarth in your beast form!"
"What, that?" Hjar blinked. "Pffft. That could have been anybody."
"Anybody." Red Eagle agreed, before turning to look at her. "Is it working?"
"I dunno yet."
"Should we not try violence?"
"Hold that thought."
Krev bashed the hilt of his sword against his shield to get their attention again. "You can say whatever you like!" He roared. "But our source was very clear about you. And either way, anyone who conspires with undead is an enemy of ours."
The statement was met with renewed hollers of agreement from his men.
Hjar narrowed her eyes, and tilted her head. "Source? Who's your source?"
Krev just grinned. "Spread out, boys." He declared. "Let's gut this beast, and her zombie husband."
"They always default to the romance, don't they?" Hjar mumbled to herself. Then she unhooked her mace from her belt, and looked out at them.
I count eleven hostiles. Three flanking left and right, five coming up the middle. If they have actually killed werewolves before, they're dangerous, and it doesn't take a genius to conclude that those weapons are silvered. If I let them surround me, I'm dead. Break for the entrance? I'll need to warn Margret. Damnit, Margret. They don't seem to have noticed her, though, she might be able to use that. Hmph. This won't be easy.
"So you know what I said about mindless violence?" Hjar said, looking across at Faolan.
"Aye?" The Draugr replied.
"This is mindful violence. We need to kill all of them."
"Excellent." He reached behind himself, yanked his blade out of the floor, and strode forwards alongside her.
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When Elisif was growing up, she had heard plenty of stories about the Orsimer. To a one they had been derivative, oversimplified, and very, very racist; describing Orcs as brutish, primal thugs, drunk on battle, caring for nothing but glory and the forge. She'd only ever glimpsed a few of them before Dulurza had walked into her throne room, and nothing had shattered all her previous preconceptions quite like an Orc woman appearing before her in a very fetching dress. As a matter of fact, she'd never even thought of what a female Orc might look like before that point.
Without that experience, though? Walking into Mor Khazgur, she would have believed every single one of the stories.
The sound was the most overwhelming thing. From the moment the outer barricade had been pulled back to allow entrance, her ears had been assaulted by jeers, whoops, and roars. Orcs were everywhere, standing on hastily erected towers, crowding around great firepits, and lining the path Elisif's group took into the centre of the camp.
Cassia (the incredibly brave soul) was walking at the front. That position had initially been held by Dulurza, but she had quickly hung back until she was right at Elisif's left side. One armoured gauntlet had intertwined its fingers around her hand, a fact she was incredibly grateful for. At her other side, Bolgeir Bearclaw looked like he was having about the worst day of his life, whispering variations on "This is a terrible idea…" repetitively.
"Try not to show fear." Dulurza advised in her ear, barely audibly over the din. "You're a ruler of Men. They know you're not a warrior-queen, and that alone will make them respect you less. But showing courage when you're outmatched like this will lessen that."
"Oh, because their concerns are the first thing on my mind right now!" Elisif hissed back.
She's right. Relax. Potema, annoyingly, seemed perfectly calm. You have a plan, you have one of history's greatest mages, and you have a satchel full of expensive magicka potions to fuel her. The moment this goes sour, I'll take over and get us out.
Elisif let the hand that wasn't holding Dulurza's fall to the satchel at her waist, and worked on controlling her breathing. I feel like 'one of history's greatest' might be overselling you a little bit. I mean, Mannimarco, Shalidor? Not really the same weight class.
Hey, you only know those names because of me!
Don't get too uppity, everyone's heard of Mannimarco and Shalidor.
I'd be mad, but sassing me means you're not panicking, so well done.
There was a pause, during which Elisif almost managed to smile. Almost, but not quite. She had faith that Potema would be able to get her safely back to Solitude, yes. But what about her three companions?
Okay, time to ruin that good feeling. Potema spoke up again. We're being watched.
What? She thought, looking to the floor in consternation. Of course we're being watched! There's a million Orcs here!
No, not by them. Someone's invisible nearby. I can feel the magical trace. Now Potema's voice sounded concerned. Looks like there's a third party interested in this little spat.
Elisif relayed the information to Dulurza, and her face only became grimmer.
But they were running out of time for chatter. There was an echoing ring from ahead of them, and every single Orc fell silent at once. Cassia stepped to one side, and Elisif got a good look at the source of the sound. Borgakh the Steel Heart stood there, one hand on Volendrung, having just slammed it against a great steel bell (and put a dent in it).
Elisif knew it was Volendrung both from context clues and from the fact that it was absolutely massive. She knew what warhammers were supposed to look like, their heads were supposed to be small because they were made of metal and metal was heavy. She didn't even think Dulurza would be able to effectively wield the great ebony monstrosity Borgakh had in her hands. Unless, of course, it was a magical weapon granted by a Daedra.
Funny, how distant the gods of Oblivion used to feel.
"Sister!" Borgakh called, with a vicious grin. "Good to see you! Shall we get started?"
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The door to the Bannered Mare's side room was locked, which ruined Xander's first pass at entering. But he communicated as such to Cicero through a series of panicked glances, and the jester (while telling a story that enraptured the entire bar) briefly slid past the door as he gesticulated. The next time Xander tested it, it wasn't locked any more.
I shouldn't be thinking this, but the psycho assassin is really useful.
But there was no point in dawdling. He donned Morokei, and entered the room.
"…s, I know it's hopeless Rexus, but what else do I do? Return to Cyrodiil? I'd be…uh…" the nobleman (and he was clearly a nobleman) trailed off as Xander entered the room.
He was a fairly young man, early twenties, in fine robes and finer jewellery. Black hair and gold eyes, groomed to perfection, he was textbook Imperial noble…despite the fact that he was a Breton.
The Motierre family was an old one, with centuries of history in Cyrodiil. There was, at present, a Motierre on the Elder Council in the Imperial City. And standing anxiously at the back end of this room was that man's son, Amaund.
Yes, Xander knew him. They had gone to the same school.
They were actually second cousins.
The guard, Rexus, was quick to stand before his master, one hand on his sword's hilt. Xander spoke before things got out of control.
"Amaund Motierre." He said, very glad for the distorting effect of his mask.
"Y—Yes?" stammered the man who had once stolen a week of pocket money from him. "Who are you? What do you want?"
Do I play coy? Nah. "The Dark Brotherhood stands ready to fulfil your contract." Xander declared, standing at his full height (not great) and looming as best he could.
"The…The Dark…" Amaund's jaw dropped. "That's not possible. You were destroyed!"
"Rumours of our death have been…greatly exaggerated." Xander summarised. "We were attacked. But we survived. We will always survive."
But not if I have anything to say about it…
"You're…and you're still willing to…" Amaund's face split into an ecstatic grin. "Yes. YES! Oh, this is wonderful news! Thank the Divines, the Daedra, Sithis, oh, thank everyone! I was terrified, I tell you, terrified! Sat for months in that dreary ruin, performing that horrible sacrament; and of course I'd heard the rumours that the Brotherhood was in decline, ever since the destruction of their sanctuary in Cyrodiil, but then news came to me of the destruction of the Skyrim sanctuary as well! I was almost about to give up hope, but—"
"The contract." Xander prompted. Come on, fancypants. Why did the Night Mother think I would find this interesting?
"Ah, yes, of course." Amaund paused. "And, ah. You are still at your full capabilities, yes? The Dark Brotherhood are said to be the greatest assassins in all of Tamriel, and that is why I have chosen you. But, not to put too fine a point on it, if (after recent events) you find that you are unable to—"
"We will be sufficient." Xander stated, trying to sound as implacable as the Night Mother did when making those sorts of statements. "Who is the target?"
"Ohoho, isn't that the question." Motierre's foot was tapping on the floor, and he looked about ready to break out into a nervous jig. "Well, there are a variety of auxiliary targets, all paving the way to one, very important one. Rexus here will provide you with the details, but…well. I suppose I should get the initial shock out of the way." He cleared his throat. "The person I want you to assassinate, is…"
Crouched outside the window, ears pricked up, L'laarzen had to clamp her hands over her mouth as she went into a coughing fit.
Xander stared. And stared. And stared.
He was very glad for the fact that his mask completely concealed his face, because no matter how much training he'd received growing up, there was absolutely no bloody way that he could have possibly maintained a straight face after hearing the proclamation.
Full seconds passed, and he eventually realised that he should probably say something.
Play cool, moron, play cool!
"Very well." Was what he said, while his mind was going through an unbridled crisis.
The flat response did seem to throw Amaund off-guard.
"That's it?" He checked. "I…I tell you that and you don't even—"
"He is a man. For sufficient coin, he will die." Immersing himself fully in the character was the only reason Xander was able to remain comprehensible rather than blurt out random syllables.
"Heh. Ahahahah!" The answer seemed to please Amaund, who leaned backwards and laughed. "Oh, what an answer! I knew I chose right in employing your people. As for sufficient coin, how does twenty thousand gold sound?"
I feel like your target is worth a little more than twenty of Alain Dufont, buddy! But he wasn't about to say so. "It will do."
"Oh, I imagine so." Amaund chuckled. "Of course, I suspect the real prize will be one of reputation. None will dare accuse the Dark Brotherhood of weakness after this contract, will they? Ah, right, the contract itself. Rexus? The items." He clapped his hands twice (sweet Talos this guy is pretentious), and the bodyguard approached, holding out a small wooden box. Xander took it wordlessly, and opened the lid to reveal a sheaf of loose papers, and…
Um.
He looked up at Amaund, who clarified "There are the instructions for the targets and the methods by which they must be eliminated. Exacting, I know, but I trust you will be capable of it. And of course, the amulet is to cover expenses. I assure you it is quite valuable."
Quite valuable. Quite valuable? You offer 20,000 gold as the final reward and then you hand out an ELDER COUNCIL AMULET as expenses?
He closed the lid of the box before his hands could visibly shake, and asked "Will that be all?"
"Oh, well, yes, I suppose it will be." Amaund rubbed his hands together. "Oh, this is so exciting! You have no idea how much planning has led up to this moment! Very well, go! Go out, and do your job. I will remain here, and once it is done, I will reveal to you the location of the dead drop containing your payment. Don't worry, it's all there. I wouldn't dare to short-change an organisation such as yours!"
By that point, Xander had tuned him out. He tucked the box under one arm, turned away, opened the door, and left.
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Hjar and Faolan walked side by side towards Krev and the Silver Hand.
Five stalked forwards to meet them, weapons out and at the ready, while three crept around to either side.
In her offhand, Hjar manifested an Ironflesh spell (Xander had gifted her some more books the last time they'd met), feeling the green glow solidify around her body.
Krev reached down to his belt with his shield-arm and drew a potion in an orange vial, popping the cork out and necking it in one.
Hjar flicked her eyes over to Faolan.
And the Red Eagle let out a piercing, inhuman screech, hurling himself forwards with his sword in two hands.
Faolan's ancient blade crashed into Krev's shield, fire blossoming out from the point of impact, and Hjar reached out with flickering light in her offhand and yanked.
She had only mastered enough of telekinesis to move something the size of a pebble. But that was enough, when the pebble she fixed her will around leapt up from the ground behind the wall of warriors and cracked into the back of one of their heads. The idiot who hadn't thought to wear a helmet stumbled, dropped his guard, and Hjar darted in with a battle-cry of her own, smashing her mace into his skull.
That's one.
She quickly shoulder-checked his body away and spun, bringing her mace around to bat the sword of another thug away before socking him in the face with her fist.
Behind her, Faolan was going wild, sending Krev stumbling backwards before the two others close converged on him and forced him to spread his attention. On his side, the flanking three charged in towards him. On Hjar's, they did the same—
Only for one to stiffen, and drop to the floor.
Two.
Margret emerged from behind him, daggers flashing, and crashed into the other two, who turned to face her.
Hjar kept going at her guy. His weapon was a greatsword, and he was faster with it than she'd like, and the kick he shot out at her knee forced her to hit the ground, then roll to avoid being decapitatated. She swept at his leg as she came back up, forcing him to one knee, raised her mace—
Felt something smash against her back, and howled in pain as her flesh spell reduced the swing of an enemy sword into a meaty thwack rather than dismemberment. She stumbled forwards, flubbing her swing but managing to grab her original target's face with her other hand and hurl his head onto the ground. The crack of skull on stone wasn't enough for her, so she stomped on his face and used it as a pivot to turn, parrying the following thrust of the man behind her.
Three, with four of the remaining eight ganging up on Faolan. As she watched, one of the strikes from various directions got past his armour plates and tore a great gash into his side. His response was to bellow "Fus Roh!" And send two of his aggressors flying away onto their backs.
But that still left two facing Hjar and two facing Margret, and Hjar was already wounded. She barely blocked the swing of one attacker, and the next almost knocked her mace from her hands. So she gave up on defending, and instead lunged for one opponent, letting his sword crunch into her side as she grabbed his torso and smashed her mace into the side of his head; once, twice, (four) and then the other guy's sword shattered her ironflesh and buried itself into her gut.
Alright. Now would be good. Wolfey?
It was still a strange feeling to communicate with the wolf inside her, and stranger still to feel it respond in any meaningful way. But it was a part of her, not just a beast she had barely under control. The bloodlust, the primal impulsiveness, the power, the magic: Those were all hers, even if it sometimes helped to personify them as their own entity. And now, she brought them to the surface.
Hjar's second enemy let out a warning cry as the white fur sprouted from her body. As her transformation occurred, the stinging pain from the silver sword in her gut intensified twice over. Argh, that's just as bad as I remember—
The man tried to pull it out, but she wouldn't let him, clamping one claw down on his wrist and swinging for his head with the other. He blocked with the silver shield, its surface burning her palm, but she still gripped it, ripped it away, and darted out to latch her jaws about his head.
There was no time for a meal, so she just twisted her jaws until she heard a snap.
Five.
She turned, and almost immediately another silver sword sliced along her fur, eliciting another howl. At a quick look, Krev and one of his lackeys were together fighting Faolan, leaving the last four to go for her. They seemed to know what they were doing, fanning out, swinging repeatedly from a variety of angles and always keeping the spiky sticks of radiant nastiness between her and their tasty throats.
Hjar snarled and flung the corpse of the man she'd just killed at one, bowling him over, then tried to swing at another but got stabbed in three new places for it. Damnit, I need kills—
There was a high-pitched scream. Hjar's gaze snapped to it, and she saw Margret stood over the body of one man (Six) but the second had managed to stab her in the side, and she was staggering backwards with one dagger remaining, bleeding profusely.
No!
Hjar panicked, thought of what she'd done the last time her mate had been grievously wounded. But she didn't even have the ring on, she was transformed, she'd need to —
Sod it.
Hjar lunged at one of the men. He thrust his sword out to meet her—
But misjudged the distance, as her form shrunk and twisted even as she moved. The fur fell, and Hjar (naked, human, and bleeding) darted inside his guard. She grabbed his sword at the wrist, twisted, and buried it in its owner's gut. Seven.
What followed would have been absurd, without the intervention of a god.
She used the thumb and index finger to slip the Ring of Hircine off her index, and ("MARGRET!" Ping—) flicked the artefact across the room.
Margret looked across, one arm desperately repelling another sword swing, and stretched out her other hand.
The Ring slid right onto her finger like it was the easiest thing in the world.
Hjar didn't even pay attention to the following howl, she was too busy dying.
She tried to use her newly created corpse as a human shield, but one of the thugs slammed into it with their shield, knocking it over and trapping her on the floor beneath it. The myriad wounds she'd accumulated as a wolf were still there, sapping at her strength. She rolled the body off her, found Molag Bal's mace to be in her hand, and swung it wildly at the trio of swords all trying to skewer her, scrambling backwards across the floor.
Not good. Faolan— But Faolan was on his knees, a silver blade sprouting from his chest. Hjar saw Krev turn away from the Draugr and look to her, shouting "This one's mine!" before sprinting to join the rest of his gang.
I need the wolf. But she couldn't just remanifest it, could she? She'd given the form up, and she didn't have the Ring anymore—
Focus. It's just a ring. Hircine said it was for helping you understand the wolf. Nothing more.
So, she looked inside, and thought of the wolf. It was battered, bruised, and exhausted, just like she was. And just like her, it didn't know if it had the energy to continue.
But it was her. And that meant it had the will too.
Come on. We're not dead yet, are we? If we can think, we can plan. If we can crawl, we can fight. If we can breathe, we can howl.
So, Hjarnagredda howled.
Her body burned, in a way she wasn't used to it burning. Every muscle cried out in pain, like she was trying to channel power through them without them properly growing to accommodate it.
The three Silver Hand trying to skewer her all took a step back, as her war cry echoed through the cave. And then they took a good deal more steps than that, as two white shapes blurred past her and slammed into two of the thugs.
Wolves, spectral ones, glowing white and snarling. But I don't know the—Doesn't matter. Just get up, woman!
Get up she did, forcing her aching body to its feet and charging the one in the middle. Her mace redirected his sword just enough for it to graze her side and not disembowel her, and she collided into him. Maybe it was the haze of bloodlust over her thoughts that made her teeth feel much longer than they should do in her human form, but she didn't care. She clamped down on his neck and ripped a chunk out of it. Eight.
He fell to the ground with a gargled cry, and she stormed right over him, spitting the flesh out and looking up—
And a shield slammed into her face. Her vision whited out, and when she came to she was sprawled on her back, Krev the Skinner putting a foot down on her chest.
"Logrolf sends his regards." The maniac said with a grin, bringing his blade up—
Then arching his back, as a sword erupted from his chest. Krev spasmed, as the wound erupted into flames that spread across his torso. Nine. The sword retracted, and Krev crumpled…revealing Kaie, a glowing red blade in her hands.
"I leave you alone for five minutes." The Forsworn spat, before whistling and hurling the weapon across the cave.
It was caught by a bony fist. Faolan, one sword in each hand and a third buried in his chest, rose to his feet with a roar and swung both of his weapons down upon the thug that had been trying to kill him, cutting the poor man into three.
The Draugr flashed across the cave, both swords swinging, as Kaie unsheathed her own sword, and Margret (now an enormous, russet-red werewolf) tossed her own victim aside and charged across on all fours.
The remaining two Silver Hand, still beset by Hjar's ethereal wolves, never stood a chance.
Hjar sagged backwards onto the floor and grinned, as the sounds of carnage entered her ears.
Nine, Ten, and Eleven. Damn, I'm good.
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Dulurza walked across the training ground of core Mor Khazgur, reminiscing even as her feet tested the ground for stability.
"Our post's still here." She called over to her sister, reaching out and running a hand down one of the upright logs used to hold equipment. "Has it still got the…oh, there we go!"
There were the two tallies of tickmarks going down the wood, representing the wins each sister had accrued in their many, many spars. One line was a good few ticks longer than the other.
"I'm still winning in that, right?" Borgakh called back, walking over.
"Aye." Dulurza looked over. "But I took eight of the last ten, remember?"
"Seven of the last ten." Her sister corrected. "Remember how I beat your arse in the woods?"
"Heh. Point." Dulurza looked down. Then pulled the unwieldy cloth-wrapped object from her back, and started unwrapping it.
Borgakh watched her for a few seconds, then sighed. "Don't do this, little sis."
"We've already agreed to the challenge." Dulurza reminded her.
"Aye, but you can choose what happens after." Borgakh pointed out. "You know this is pointless. Solitude's in a mess, just like its country and its Empire. It can't beat us, and you can't beat me."
"Bet." Dulurza grunted.
Borgakh scowled. "Listen, we both saw what she did in the clearing. If that witch has…done something to you, then we can fix it. You're family. You can keep her afterwards if you really want to, but one pretty girl should not be enough for you to throw away everything you—"
"She's not just a pretty girl. And I'm not under some spell, don't worry. Shortstack checked." Dulurza looked up from what she was doing. "Course, I'm not the only one conspiring with mages. Who's the invisible git?"
"He's here—" Borgakh grit her teeth. "Doesn't matter."
"Doesn't it? Is father working with outsiders? Are you?"
"You have no right to judge us for working with outsiders—"
"I have no problem with it. You're the one leading the tribes on a mad, patriotic campaign while dealing with schemers behind their back." Duluza finished unwrapping her package.
On a surface level, it looked the same as when she'd sent it away. Haft of dragon bone, blade of orichalcum. But the odd gleam to it, the flickers of light running up and down its surface (and the instructional letter Xander had sent along with it) all implied that her axe was very different to the one she had left in his care.
"You are family." Dulurza agreed, hefting her weapon and reacquainting herself with its weight. "And I love you. But you're also really, really dumb sometimes. If the tribes go along with this crazy plan, they're going to get themselves butchered by every other civilisation on Tamriel. You, I, and my Jarl would all die into the bargain. I can't let that happen."
"Hmph." Borgak signalled to her left. Dulurza looked, and saw her father Larak was acting as the referee for the duel. He didn't even look at her, just shouting "Warriors! Take your positions!"
They did so. The crowd (surrounding the makeshift fenced ring that would be their arena) all quietened down, boisterous chatter falling to mutters and whispers.
Dulurza spied a few familiar faces among the horde, before turning to look at the section that had been reserved for the most important guests. There stood her father, the Orcs she assumed were the other chiefs, and then Cassia, Bolgier, and Elisif.
Her Jarl was staring at her with a desperate intensity. Dulurza favoured her with a silent nod, before returning her attention to her sister.
"You know you can't win, right?" Borgakh said, spinning Volendrung in her hands like it weighed nothing. "My weapon was enchanted by the God Of Orcs and Conflict."
"That so?" Dulurza lowered her stance, taking her axe in both hands. "My weapon was enchanted by a crazy manlet with delusions of grandeur. I think my odds are pretty good."
Borgakh squinted at her in confusion.
"This duel will be to the death, or a mutually accepted surrender!" Called Larak. "The challenger, Dulurza the outcast, fights the defender, Borgakh the Steel Heart! Are both warriors ready?"
"Aye!" Called Borgakh.
"Aye." Uttered Dulurza.
"Then may Malacath bear witness, and the greater warrior emerge victorious!" Larak held up his own mace, moving next to the bell. "The match commences in THREE!"
Dulurza narrowed her eyes. Long fight: Ensure the safety of myself and the people I care about. Stop the tribes from attacking Solitude.
"TWO!"
Mid fight: Defeat Borgakh in the duel to ruin the tribes' morale, and if possible, convince her to stop this madness.
"ONE!"
Short fight… Words left her head, as her brain focused fully on the next action.
The bell rang.
Dulurza moved.
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Alexander Meteuse walked through the streets of Whiterun. Cicero started moving towards him, but he held out a hand, making a dismissive gesture. The jester backed away.
L'laarzen met up with him a few minutes later. They walked silently, side by side, through the city gates, and took a sharp right, out into the fields. They walked for over twenty minutes, until they were out in the plains of Whiterun hold. They could see for miles around, and there was nobody anywhere near.
Xander sat down. L'laarzen followed.
He breathed in.
"WHAT IN THE NAME OF SITHIS' LEFT TESTICLE—"
"SWEET MERCIFUL JODE AND JONE—"
"IS HE SERIOUS? WHAT IN OBLIVION—"
"He wants to kill the—" L'laarzen flapped one hand vaguely south, towards Cyrodiil. "As in the actual—"
"He wants us to kill him! US!"
"L'laarzen is complicit in this now." She put her head in her hands. "This is actually happening, and Khajiit knows about it. Sheggorath, I need some skooma…"
"We gotta…we can't…" Xander looked helplessly at the box in his hands. "An Elder Council Amulet. I have one. In my hands. What the…"
"This is absurd." L'laarzen flopped backwards onto the grass. Then, a second later, stood up and started pacing. "Do we just…go back and have him arrested immediately?"
"With what? Tell the guard 'hi, this man is treasonous, and we're assassins?" Xander stood, and joined her in pacing. "And, and, what if he's not alone? What if he has accomplices? He's scheming, he must have accomplices."
"And this cannot get back to the other Brotherhood members." L'laarzen warned. "If they learn of this opportunity—"
"Learn or not, doesn't matter. They just all need to die. Die real hard." Xander took in a shaky breath. "So. I think it's safe to say we're not taking this one?"
"Obviously!" L'laarzen hissed.
"Yeah, got it. Sorry Night Mother." He paused. "Silent treatment. Okay. Oh, Divines…" he brought his breathing under control, and sat back down.
"…We need to tell Octavia." He decided, after a few seconds.
"Your sister?" L'laarzen checked.
"Mm. This is her whole thing. Plots and schemes and politics and assassination, she deals with it all the time. She'll know what to do. I know she will. And then we can get her to help us finish the Brotherhood off, and we can all go about our lives."
"Right. Indeed." L'laarzen, too, seemed to have gotten herself under control. She looked over to him, and flashed a smile. "Khajiit supposes this makes us heroes, no? Perhaps you being chosen by the Night Mother was not such a bad thing, if it means we can stop this."
"Maybe." Xander gulped, and smiled nervously back. "Right then. Let's do it.
Let's save the Emperor of Tamriel."
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Borgakh came blitzing in with an overhead swing that would have buried Dulurza into the dirt if she'd let it. She twisted to the side instead, swapping her grip on the axe and swinging it at Borgakh's midriff. Borgakh arrested her momentum faster than she had any right to, bringing Volendrung's haft up to catch Dulurza's swing. There was a burst of electricity, and Borgakh grimaced, before bashing with her hammer and forcing Dulurza back, then swinging in again.
Two seconds had passed, and a lot had already happened. Dulurza was quickly starting to get a grasp on how her sister handled the Daedric hammer (with the general answer being very well), but also on how her own weapon fared.
'There are two primary enchantments on this thing', Xander's message accompanying the axe had read. 'The first is shock magic. It should conduct through metal and jump to flesh and armour, so you'll be able to do damage even if they block the attack. It's also supereffective against Dragons, in case that's relevant.'
Dulurza backed up, giving ground and angling herself to avoid being backed against the fence. Borgakh's blows came in like thunderclaps, and Dulurza knew that if one landed, it would end with her tossed around like a ragdoll again. So she deflected, dodged, knocked the weapon away at angles; did whatever was necessary to keep it from landing. She trusted her axe not to be snapped in half on contact, but wasn't so confident about her torso.
Heh. It's been years since I had to play evasive against my sister.
"What's with you, Borgakh?" She demanded, between blows. "You know, ngh, know that this isn't going to end well! You're not stupid! So why?"
"Don't lecture me!" Borgakh snarled. She went for an upwards swing that sent Dulurza's axe flying almost out of her hands, then forced her to dive to one side to avoid the next swing. "I know what I'm doing!"
"Do you?" Dulurza asked, jabbing at her sister's knees with the tip of the axe before coming to her feet. "Or are you just doing what Dad tells you to?"
"Enough!"
Dulurza barely got her axe up in time to block the next swing, and had to spin a full circle to shed its momentum and keep her footing. Her breath came out in pants, arms throbbing, and she struggled to keep putting actual offensive pressure rather than just keep blocking. But she knew a purely defensive style would be a death sentence.
I'd heard that Volendrung drains the stamina of its enemies, but Malacath, is it this bad? I feel like I've been fighting for an hour.
The repeated shocks of lightning that might have forced a lesser fighter to back down were doing no such thing to Borgakh; each clash of their weapons only seemed to make her angrier. She wasn't stopping.
But, she was slowing down.
The onslaught was becoming more and more sluggish as the fight went on. This fact seemed to be confusing Borgakh, in fact. She didn't seem tired, but her arms were struggling to maintain the rapid pace of strikes she was putting out.
Dulurza was able to bat one attack away and counter, swinging horizontally for Borgakh's midriff and forcing her to block.
"Feeling stuck, sis?" Dulurza asked, grinning.
"What are you doing to me?" Borgakh hissed back.
"Evening the field." Dulurza kicked at one of Borgakh's legs, and then while her attention was down, brought her axe up and forwards and slammed the haft against her sister's face.
Borgakh stiffened, entire body tensing up for a split second, and the momentum sent her rocking backwards on her heels.
Enough time for Dulurza to wind up and swing down at her chest.
'The second enchantment is paralysis.' Continued Xander's note. 'You may know that these are rare, run out of charge very quickly, require a perfect (or lucky) hit to work, and usually only freeze the target for five seconds or so.
Well, mine doesn't work like that.
You can get a partial effect just by clashing weapons or tagging armour, slowing down the joints closest to what you hit, and any strike that lands will paralyse the full body. The downside of packing all this in is that the full effect of the paralysis doesn't last long, less than half a second. But that should be more than enough for you, right?'
Borgakh's arms didn't unfreeze fast enough to get her hammer up. Dulurza's axe bit into her breastplate and bore her down to the floor.
"Surrender." Dulurza grunted, crouching over her and pushing.
"Not a chance." Borgakh spat, pushing back with the shaft of her hammer.
"I don't want to kill you!"
"Then you'll lose!" Borgakh kicked up at Dulurza's chest. It was made immediately clear that Volendrung's enhanced strength didn't only apply to the hammer; Dulurza was forced off her sister and almost off her feet. Borgakh exploded upwards, jabbing with the spiked tip of Volendrung and stabbing at the seam at Dulurza's armpit, drawing blood and sending her back another step.
"I'm sick of this! Sick of you!" Borgakh roared, charging in and swinging. "You and your damn moral high ground! Spend a month with the Nords and suddenly you think you're so damn smart, huh?"
"It's not about me!" Dulurza shouted back, swiping low and then jabbing high. "It's about the people who are going to die if you don't—"
"Of course its about you! It's always about you!" Borgakh continued to push, and this time it was messy. She caught a number of glancing blows to her shoulders and arms, forcing her to freeze up for brief moments, but they weren't able to stop her momentum. "You've always been so bloody important, haven't you! Acting like you're the strongest, cosying up to Dad and the others, getting your special missions! What in Oblivion does he even SEE IN YOU!?"
Borgakh swung, and Dulurza, exhausted, couldn't keep her hands on her weapon. The axe went flying up into the air, and buried itself in the dirt nearby.
Dulurza flung herself forwards and brought her fist into Borgakh's nose. There was a crunch, and they both staggered with the momentum, before Borgakh roared and brought her knee up into Dulurza's sternum, doubling her over.
The last of her breath was forced out of her lungs, and she collapsed to her knees. She gasped, tried to stand—
And her sister's fist slammed into her jaw, rocking her head down and forcing her to plant her hands on the ground to prevent collapsing entirely.
"Well our God didn't pick you, did he? He picked me!" A hand gripped Dulurza's hair and yanked her head up, bringing her face-to-face with a furious Borgakh. "How does it feel, Dulurza? How does it feel to know that when it really matters, You! Aren't! Good enough!"
Dulurza desperately sucked in air. Rib cracked. Muscle fatigue. Might pass out any minute. Between gasps, she was barely able to manage the words "Fine…by…me."
Borgakh's eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"
Panting, Dulurza was barely able to bring her weight off her arms, continuing, "You can…have Malacath. You deserve Volendrung. I…I don't care." She looked forwards. Between Borgakh's legs, she could see across to the edge of the arena. To where Elisif was standing, arms clenched at her sides, shouting something Dulurza couldn't quite hear.
She smiled. "I already have what I want."
Borgakh stared down at her in shock. Glanced behind herself, then looked back. "What? Her?"
"Mm." Dulurza met her sister's eyes. "My Jarl. And my friends. And access to your inner thigh."
Before Borgakh could react, Dulurza grabbed one of her fists in the other hand, and brought her elbow down as hard as she could on the side of Borgakh's knee.
Crack.
The elder sister screamed, and the younger surged upwards, headbutting Borgakh under the chin and sending her teeth clacking together. The goal wasn't the damage though; the goal was the hammer. Crashing forwards against her sister, Dulurza grabbed the hilt of Volendrung with one hand, bringing the other down to try and break an elbow—
But that was caught. Borgakh slapped the hand away and backhanded Dulurza across the face, before putting both her hands on her weapon and pulling. Dulurza did the same, gripping the hammer and straining to pull it out of her sister's grip.
They scrabbled about in the loose dirt, barely keeping standing, Dulurza barely conscious and Borgakh with one broken leg.
Dulurza heaved, the muscles in her arms burning, roaring in one last desperate act of defiance. If I can just…get the damn thing off her…
"NO!" Borgakh refused, her own arms shaking just as hard. "I WON'T LET YOU BEAT ME! NOT THIS TIME!"
Dulurza started to slide forwards, the remnants of her prodigious strength for once not enough, fingers slipping on the cool metal of the weapon.
She sucked in a breath. "Alright. You win."
She let go.
Borgakh's eyes widened just in time for the flat of the hammer's head to crash into her, as she essentially punted her own weapon into her face with as much strength as she could muster.
Dulurza followed right behind it, ramming a shoulder into her and bearing her to the floor.
This time Borgakh was unable to mount a proper resistance. Dulurza punched her in the face once, twice, grabbed Volendrung from her sister's nerveless fingers, and hurled it away, before resuming the onslaught.
"USE! YOUR! HEAD!" She demanded, punctuating each word with another strike against her sister's face; then she grabbed the top of her sister's breastplate and used it to pull her up and slam her back into the ground. "Is this all because of me? Tell me that's all you want, and I'll forfeit the match right now! But don't you dare ruin the tribes on your Malacath-damned POWER TRIP!"
She leaned in closer. "You know damn well that this attack will accomplish nothing and leave thousands dead! So WHY?"
"I DON'T KNOW WHAT ELSE TO DO!" Borgakh screamed.
Dulurza went silent, breathing heavily.
Her sister's face was covered in blood, bruises, and…tears. Borgakh closed her eyes, and sobbed "What am I supposed to do? Betray my father? Betray my people? You left! You decided you didn't want to go through with the mission and you didn't tell me, and then the whole tribe was running across Skyrim! I took Malacath's mission because I had to! And then they were all calling me a chosen hero, and saying that I was going to lead them to victory, and…what was I supposed to do? Huh? A thousand angry warriors baying for blood, expecting me to lead them, what was I supposed to do?"
The crowd, seeming to realise that the violence had stopped, started to go quiet.
Dulurza pulled her fist back. Sighed. Opened her fingers, and let her arm drop.
"You point them at the people who are really responsible for this." She answered, in a low voice. "You tell your people how they were deceived. You help me stop the bastards who are trying to set Mor Khazgur and Solitude at each other's throats, and then you tell our people to go home."
"They aren't going to like it." Borgakh warned.
"They don't have to like it." Dulurza retorted. "You find out what's best for them, and then you do it, whether they love or hate you for it. That's what a leader does."
"Father is our leader." Borgakh corrected.
"Aye. But he doesn't have to be." With that, Dulurza stood. Utterly exhausted, she limped across the arena under the silent gaze of hundreds of her kin. With one hand, she picked up her axe. Then she limped a little further, leaned down, and scooped up Volendrung.
Oof. Heavy when I'm not your champion, aren't you?
Would you like to be?
The voice made her pause. A low, guttural rumble between her ears, as Volendrung flashed a brighter green.
She didn't answer. Just turned and walked back over to Borgakh, who had also managed to clamber to her feet.
Dulurza held out the hammer. Borgakh stared at her for a few seconds, then reached out and took it.
Dulurza gripped her axe in both hands. Then fell to one knee, holding her weapon out above her head.
"I surrender." She said, as loudly and calmly as she could.
Sweet Jesus this one was long-
The Motierre scene was weird to write. Like there was a lot of fun I could have with it but also the big shocking reveal was one...everyone reading this almost definitely knows. Strange situation. But no, obviously, Xander doesn't plan to go along with killing the Emperor. It's his Emperor.
Meanwhile Hjar is almost dying, in her first big combat scene of this arc, which means more powers. Imagine completely forgetting about the werewolf perk tree from Dawnguard until you realise you've written your character into a corner. Couldn't be me.
And I suppose the highlight of the spree of battles this chapter, Khazgurbowl. Did you think I was gonna pull the played out 'protagonist loses a straight fight but wins by doing something sneaky?' I would never be so cliched. Instead you get 'protagonist loses a straight fight but wins by doing something sneaky but then loses by forfeit' cliche! Is that a cliche? a cliche portmanteau. A conglomeration of bad writing. Whatever, let me know what you thought.
Next Time: Someone contemplates suicide, someone gets a smooch, and someone talks about swords.