A/N: Right, next chapter. Sorry it's a bit short, I tried to pad it out a bit, but a chapter ends when it ends... next chapter will be longer, rest assured. However, seeing as Arty Thrip is my only regular reviewer, you'll be waiting for that chapter for a while unless I get more reviewers...
Arty: Yes, the Fighters Guild does seem like the only Guild of choice for Gorgoth, but I never said that the only main character would be Gorgoth did I...? I'll be introducing new major characters fairly soon, some of them original.
Anyhow, don't let me keep you any longer. Read on. Don't forget to review.
Chapter Five: Steel and Silver
"The Feed Bag isn't fancy, but it fills you up." That was what the Blue team Gladiator had told him, and it had appealed to Gorgoth. After eventually finding the bar tucked away in a corner of the Market District, Gorgoth and his appetite had descended upon it. The Dunmer publican, Delos Fandas, had obviously recognised the huge Orc's value as a high paying customer and had been eager to serve. However, he'd probably regretted ushering Gorgoth over to a free table when the wooden chair creaked and groaned under the weight of Gorgoth in his full Arena raiment.
After gorging himself on some sort of tough meat, cheese, potatoes and bread, while downing four tankards of beer, Gorgoth looked up to find the place nearly full. It would seem that the Feed Bag was a popular place for the shopkeepers of the market district after closing hours. A Redguard in full steel plate armour, minus the helm and gauntlets, sat down at Gorgoth's table, causing another chair to screech in protest under the weight.
"Looks like you know how to handle heavy armour," commented Gorgoth's new eating companion, his voice smooth as he eyed Gorgoth's movements. "I was watching your last match," explained the Redguard. "I'm Varnado. I handle heavy armour at The Best Defence, an armour shop here in the Market District." Varnado extended a tanned hand, and Gorgoth shook it. The shopkeeper's grip was firm.
"Gorgoth gro-Kharz," replied Gorgoth, waving to Delos to bring another tankard of beer. "I am ranked Pit Dog at the moment; I only just started today. My sole reason for fighting in that honourless pit is to save up enough money to equip myself properly. I will not rely on this eye-catching excuse for armour they call a heavy raiment." The Orc indicated the amalgamation of iron and cloth that made up his present garment.
Varnado nodded in sympathy as his whiskey arrived. He downed it in one. "For a big warrior like you, it's going to be a high cost for a suit of steel," he admitted. "But, in a few matches, you should have enough to buy most of it. It'd be around four hundred, four fifty drakes for the full works." The Redguard perked up, an idea occurring to him. "You know, you seem pretty good. If I get you a proper mace, instead of the stunted stick you're using, and make a few drakes on bets placed on you, I could grab you a discount. Pick up the mace at the Best Defence later."
Gorgoth's mood improved slightly at the prospect of losing less of his cash and getting a proper, long mace. "Any moderately well-forged weapon will be good enough in my hands," he grunted. "Just make sure it's longer than this ill-made stump of iron." He drained half the beer in his tankard with a long gulp. "Do you come here often?"
"Always," remarked Varnado, smiling as a barmaid delivered his meal, a stew of some kind. "It's not fancy, but..."
"...It fills you up," said Gorgoth, completing the recommendation that just about everyone in the bloodworks was ready to give him. "It certainly fulfils that objective, if little else. I've got enough energy to fight a dozen fights against those pathetic dregs often coughed up by the Arena." Gorgoth drained the dregs from his tankard and squinted out of the window at the setting sun. "Speaking of which, I can fit in a match before the Arena closes. It was good to meet you, Varnado. I will pick up whatever you have for me later."
The Redguard nodded to him and walked over to some of his fellow merchants as Gorgoth stood up and paid the bill, which amounted to fourteen drakes. He hurried out of the Feed Bag and headed over to the Arena grounds. While the raiment offered little protection, Gorgoth had to admit that it allowed a lot of freedom of movement, something that his preferred plate armour didn't allow. However, comprehensive protection was better than being vulnerable to every half-hearted slash.
Owyn looked up as the huge Orc stomped into the bloodworks, which was much less active as dusk drew near. Agronak was still pummelling a practice dummy, and several other gladiators were practising with their preferred weapons, but others seemed to have dispersed to dinner or sleep. Or maybe they had all been killed. Unlikely, there wasn't enough time in a day to slaughter near enough a hundred good fighters in duels to the death.
"I take it you want a battle?" muttered Owyn. "The cleaners are wiping a Breton off the sands right now, what's left of him, anyway. You're clear to go in a minute." The Redguard folded his arms and leaned his head back against the wall, curiously not spitting. Gorgoth wondered if there was something wrong with the man as he settled back against the opposite wall to wait.
He didn't have to wait long. The cleaners dragged a Breton's freshly mutilated body down the ramp, and Gorgoth took off up the ramp almost before Owyn's nod of confirmation. The fresh blood from the corpse was more slippery that the semi-dried old blood, but the warrior-shaman took it in his stride easily as he barged through the blood-soaked door.
Walking up to the bars, an ear dwelling on the announcer's speech, Gorgoth eyed up his opponent; an Argonian, with an arrow nocked to a composite bow. Gorgoth wouldn't normally have worried, but his raiment offered next to no protection in some areas, and his plethora of defensive spells, which he was just casting, couldn't keep out an arrow in full flight. The shaman strengthened the shield spell; he would likely need it. This more powerful version took up a lot more of his magicka, but in effect coated his skin with steel.
The announcer finished and stepped back; the bars dropped. Drawing his mace, Gorgoth exploded out onto the sands, sprinting as hard as he could, attempting to close the distance between himself and the emerging Argonian as quickly as possible. His opponent drew, aimed and released the arrow in one smooth motion, and was nocking another immediately with speed and precision.
It was hard to miss a target as big as the rapidly approaching Orc. The arrow flew into Gorgoth's shoulder. With the combination of the raiment's protection and his shield spell, it was deflected harmlessly, only throwing the Orc off balance slightly. Halfway to the Argonian, the next arrow impacted on his right knee. Gorgoth stumbled, flailed for a moment, then recovered. Almost there. A third arrow sliced across his temple, stinging but causing no real damage beyond a scratch. The Argonian threw his bow aside and drew a shortsword, rolling aside to avoid the descending avalanche that was Gorgoth.
Gorgoth went to one knee in order to kill speed and stop in time to turn to face his opponent. However, while he was recovering, the Argonian went on the offensive, stabbing at him. Gorgoth grabbed the Yellow team combatant by his sword arm and yanked. The Argonian stumbled forward as a result of this crude move, which had the added affect of getting Gorgoth to his feet quicker. He backhanded the lizard, sending him staggering back, but he was able to recover quickly as Gorgoth moved forward.
Stepping forward, the Orc swung his mace lazily as a distraction. The Argonian watched it warily, his scaled tail flickering back and forth. Gorgoth struck rapidly, his left fist impacting in the lizard's lower ribs. The Yellow team Pit Dog, despite being winded with definite rib bruising, spun with the blow and aimed a powerful thrust at Gorgoth's armpit. Gorgoth knocked it aside with his mace and kicked the Argonian in the ribs. There was an audible snap as the combatant flew several metres and landed heavily on the sands. Some among the audience groaned in sympathy, while others roared for Gorgoth to close in for the kill.
Gorgoth walked over to the groaning Argonian, who was struggling to rise. He raised his mace, ready to bring it down on the Yellow team Pit Dog's skull, when the lizard swiftly rolled out of the way, throwing an empty bottle aside. The crowd roared as he flipped to his feet, the healing potion taking immediate effect. He drew another shortsword and, infused with optimism by the healing magics, darted forward to attack, foolishly ignoring Gorgoth's mace as he stabbed both swords towards the Orc's gut.
There was a nasty crunch as the iron mace head smashed through the Argonian's skull. A split second later, there was a squelch as it impacted on the soft brain. Then the crowd went wild. The announcer leapt to his feet started up with the rhetoric again as the Argonian's corpse fell to the sands, wildly yelling that Gorgoth was now at Brawler rank. Gorgoth left the mace where it was as he walked off to the bloodworks. Varnado had better be good for that promised long mace.
After washing his hands in the Basin of Renewal, Gorgoth was chucked a significantly larger bag on coins by Owyn. "Brawler rank gets you a hundred drakes," he grunted by way of explanation. "Now get out of here, there's no more matches today and you're taking up room." The Redguard stomped off to his 'office'. Gorgoth curled his hand around the bag, feeling the coins inside, before pocketing it and heading up to the surface.
The sun was now fully below the horizon, and twilight was descending apon the Imperial city. The gladiators practising in the Arena grounds were now few and far between, many heading off to their beds for the night, or, more likely, off to the pubs for a night of drinking. Gorgoth himself didn't feel tired. None of his battles had been taxing. He was used to far more vigorous combat as a spellsword for hire in Orsinium. The Orc started off towards the Market District.
Gorgoth pounded his fist on the locked door of the Best Defence. Finding his way to the shop had been fairly easy; it was well known, and several people had been willing to give him good directions. The sun had by now fully retreated below the horizon, and the sky was now full of stars. Masser and Secunda were easily visible, with Secunda touching the tip of White Gold tower, and its larger, blood-red brother Masser dominating the sky to the west. The wood of the door was rough under Gorgoth's fist as he knocked again. There was a jerk as keys were forced into the well-maintained lock, then the door swung open with barely a creak on its well-oiled hinges. Gorgoth ripped his eyes away from the moons and peered into the warm light spilling out from the open door.
Varnado smiled and pulled the door wide open. "Glad you could make it, Brawler," he smiled as he ushered Gorgoth in. He was still wearing his armour. Closing the door behind him, he turned back to Gorgoth. "Yes, I was watching the match. He shortened it considerably, charging at you like an idiot. Still, I'm not complaining. I'm three hundred drakes up today because of you." The Redguard's grin grew broader as he slapped Gorgoth on the back. "Now, about that mace."
The shop front was fairly small for an armourer. In Orsinium, they advertised suits of armour in the shop window. However, in the Market District, shops were cramped for room, and Gorgoth could see that space had to be saved where possible. Varnado led him downstairs to the forge, which was larger than the shop above it. A mighty furnace, cold, the fires dead for the night, took up an entire wall. A mound of unforged steel was heaped in the corner, with finished products, stacked in racks haphazardly on the opposite wall. Swords, axes, maces, and armour all seemed ready to fall at the lightest touch. "Gin-Wulm likes it untidy," explained Varnado as he rummaged through the maces. "He's a master armourer, and gets the job done well enough, so we give him a free rein down here."
"We?" asked Gorgoth, looking around. "There's two shopkeepers here?" He'd seen two desks upstairs in the shop, but assumed that the shop was too small to hold two armourers and their wares.
Varnado's lip curled. "Unfortunately, yes," he grunted. "I have to share with Maro Rufus, the light armour specialist. He's sleeping upstairs." The Redguard spat. "I can't stand those bloody fairies, dancing around in their light leather and fur that any good sword could split," muttered the annoyed shopkeeper. "Too bad that I have to share with one of em. We get along professionally, but we're no friends." Varnado shook his head in frustration and went back to searching.
Gorgoth nodded in sympathy, tapping a steel cuirass. "You'd never see a self-respecting Orc in light armour," he grunted. "It has its uses for the smaller races – lets them dodge easier – but we're built like walls, and heavy armour supplements that." He moved down the row of racks, picking up some leather gauntlets and tossing them back onto the pile. "No point in wearing armour that doesn't give any protection when you're going to be taking hits."
Varnado was nodding in agreement as he pulled out a mace from an assorted pile with a triumphant smile. He turned round and extended it to Gorgoth. It was made from fine steel, very high quality, possibly from the Dragontails, though Gorgoth would be unable to tell until he could examine it magically. The deadly weapon had a long haft, essential to get any kind of range and power, for which Gorgoth was grateful. Giving the mace its killing power was its head, which had four large flangs, all blunt and heavy enough to cause catastrophic damage when driven at an enemy with enough force. Between each flang were two wicked spikes, for tearing holes in opponents to weaken them further if they survived the initial blow. The entire head was coated in silver, a fact Gorgoth appreciated. He hated fighting incorporeal enemies with only magicka.
"So, what do you think?" asked Varnado as Gorgoth took the mace and swung it a few times, getting a feel for it. The grip was perfectly suited to his grasp. The normally stoic Orc turned to Varnado and gave a rare smile.
"Not as good as a fine, Orc-made mace from Orsinium, but, then, not much is, and this comes damn close." Gorgoth grunted in appreciation of this weapon's power. "Don't you want payment for this?"
Varnado simply smiled and clapped Gorgoth on the shoulder. He had to reach up to do it. "I told you, friend, I already won three hundred drakes today betting on you. Keep that up, and I'll be rolling in money while you roll around getting accustomed to your new armour." The Redguard's smile grew. "Come in tomorrow morning for measuring. I'll have it custom made. Might cost you a bit extra, but I'm pretty sure you'll have no problem getting that money, and Gin-Wulm's quality is worth it."
Gorgoth nodded in understanding. He'd always chosen quality over cheapness or availability. When you needed your armour, you didn't want it collapsing around you because you'd paid a bit less for it. Quality was always worth the price. "Sounds good," rumbled the Orc, sticking the mace into a loop on his belt that his old, near-useless mace had occupied. "I'll be round in the morning. Could you recommend a good place to sleep?" Reconsidering, the warrior-shaman shook his head before Varnado could reply. "Don't bother. I'll sleep in the bloodworks. If I'm going to buy custom armour, I need every drake."
Varnado understood; he could empathise. The Redguard led the way back upstairs, locking the armoury door behind them and heading over to a door behind his desk. "This is where I sleep," he explained. "If me and Rufus shared a room, we'd probably kill each other before morning." Varnado chuckled and waved Gorgoth out. "Good luck, I'll see you tomorrow. Kill some novices for me."
Gorgoth gave Varnado a semi-salute as he closed the door behind him. "Damn right I will, Varnado," he muttered to himself, heading off towards the Arena. He kept one hand on his mace, getting the feel of the silver head. This drew him a few inquisitive glances from the Night Watch, but nothing more. The Market District was nearly empty, with only the drunks, beggars, and those who had late business around. The sound of laughter and music drifted from some nearby pubs. Gorgoth walked on past them. It had been a long day, what with the Emperor suddenly turning up in his cell, escaping, then fighting in the Arena for near enough the rest of the day. Gorgoth didn't feel particularly tired – he only needed a few hours sleep a night – but some rest would do him good. In his profession, sometimes it wasn't known when you'd next get a good night's sleep. He walked on towards the Arena.
The near-empty streets gave Gorgoth time to himself, time to think. He wondered what he was doing here, fighting as a gladiator. A more fervent supporter of the Emperor might have rushed straight off to see Jauffre with the Amulet, still in his prison rags, and probably get killed in the process. The Amulet was a weight in Gorgoth's pocket, always reminding him of his duty. But he wasn't about to risk his life, and possibly the last hope of the Empire, just so that a message could get delivered quickly. Gorgoth needed proper armour and proper weapons in order to make him feel able to carry out his task; as a mage, some might argue that magic could replace those, but Gorgoth had always used magic as a mere supplement, never fully relying on it. He had seen what happened to mages when he'd Silenced them. They were suddenly reduced to weak, unarmoured, untrained warriors, easy pickings. Reliance on magic was a weakness, one that Gorgoth never exposed himself to.
Gorgoth started thinking about his old life. He was unsure what course his life would take after his Emperor-given task was complete; he'd been a good spellsword back in Orsinium, with a solid reputation for getting things done to the letter. However, Gorgoth knew that, deep within himself, he wanted to stay away from Orsinium for the time being. Any normal Orc in his position would have been happy with his old profitable life, but Gorgoth was no ordinary Orc. Fate had seen to that since his birth. The Orc shook his head to clear thoughts of his past, repressing the slight snarl that threatened to appear on his normally stoic face. He hated thinking of the past. What he had to focus on now was the present. Dwelling on the past was likely to get himself killed. It offered too many distractions, too many regrets.
The dry grass crackled under Gorgoth's feet as he strode into the Arena grounds. Practising was now extremely sporadic, with only the most dedicated gladiators up training at this hour. Grunts, clashes, and mutterings of an ardent pair of Imperials practising caught Gorgoth's ear as he walked by, then a burst of blonde excitement tore itself out of the bushes in front of him. Gorgoth tightened his grip on his mace, then relaxed as he realised it was a short, excited Bosmer rushing towards the entrance to the pits, where Agronak was just emerging. Gorgoth raised an eye as the Bosmer, who was about half the height of the half-Orc, started prancing around him, singing in apparent delight. Agronak looked less impressed.
"By Azura! By Azura! By Azura! It's the Grand Champion-" The Wood Elf's prancing and singing was cut short by Agronak's fist meeting his face, and the Bosmer staggered back, holding both pudgy hands to his broken, bleeding nose. This, however, did not seem to deter him.
"I bet that's the same punch you used on the last challenger, isn't it?" mumbled the Bosmer through a badly broken nose. Agronak was turning a colourful shade of puce. Gorgoth felt sympathy for him. "I watched that game, it was the best demonstration of your undeniable prowess, oh great Grand Champion-" This time, Agronak's kick sent the Bosmer flying back into the bush from which he had come. The half-Orc turned angrily to Gorgoth.
"I'm going to try for a restraining order against him," growled the Grey Prince. "Every single time I leave the Arena, he's onto me like some fucking hero-worshipper. It's driving me insane." Agronak spat at the bushes and headed off to the Market District, irritably kicking the sands as he walked. Gorgoth looked after him, then, shaking his head in disbelief, headed on down to the bloodworks, ignoring Hundolin's two hefty bodyguards dragging the huge chest down to where it slept.
The bloodworks was near-deserted. No-one was practising; those sleeping outnumbered those awake, so it would be logical to assume that any hardcore gladiators had to risk mass verbal abuse if they persisted in practising. Gorgoth made no effort to quiet his thundering footsteps; such an attempt would be pointless. He'd always been completely hopeless at staying quiet, not that he'd ever needed to. The sleeping gladiators made a few murmurs of protest as he stomped by, but left it at that. Gorgoth searched for a bedroll that was both big enough and relatively blood-free. They seemed to be in short supply.
At last Gorgoth found what he was looking for and started ripping his raiment off. Some of it left sticky tendrils of sweat as it left his clammy skin, but he ignored it. When fully clad in heavy armour, the sweat fell in waterfalls; this was nothing by comparison. He grunted in mild relief as he eased off his breastplate and the cool night air, filtering through the open door, chilled his suffocated skin. The shin guards and boots were idly chucked into the corner. Now naked save for his ragged trousers, Gorgoth took out the bags of money and tucked them under his pillow. He hoped that he looked threatening enough while sleeping to deter potential thieves.
The huge Orc slid down under the thin, inadequate blanket and attempted to find a position in which both his feet were covered and the blanket came up to at least the middle of his chest. Failing this, he attempted to pummel the pillow into some semblance of softness. This also failed, and Gorgoth gave up trying to make his temporary bed comfortable. He'd slept rougher than this before; he was used to it. And in the Imperial city, he was less likely to wake and find his toes frozen and covered in frost, as was common in the Wrothgarian Mountains. The disadvantage of the heat from the south was that lice seemed to be more numerous. At least the weaker southern variants wouldn't be able to penetrate Gorgoth's thick skin. He shifted over on his side, facing the wall, and closed his eyes, working one of his thick braids out from under him. Using methods of relaxing his body, part by part, he had always been able to get to sleep easily. This time, his mind took some quieting before being able to drop into a sound sleep.
A/N: Just another gentle reminder: Review.