A/N: I assure you that it's pure coincidence that three of my chapters are now entitled 'Blood and ...'; I'm just bloody awful at chapter-naming sometimes. Moving on, thanks to all who reviewed; Chapter 13 was my joint-most reviewed chapter, and, as we know, reviews are always a good thing. Keep it up, my loyal readers. ;)
Commentaholic: Fluff? o.O. In any case, it's unlikely that Aerin will think of Gorgoth as 'buff' any time soon; he does happen to be an Orc, and therefore considered quite ugly by most other races of Tamriel.
Nomz: Fear not, you'll all be learning a lot about Gorgoth and his past as this story progresses... and, later in this chapter, I'm throwing something else into the mix. And, yes, I like my OCs, but I also like taking Bethesda-made characters and giving them something more than a generic guard personailty. Means I don't have to keep thinking up names. :P
Anony moose: If I 'shoved romance in your faces', you'd probably be flaming me instead of encouraging me to write more. Yes, I'm that bad at romance. Still, thanks for the review.
To my regulars and other reviewers, thanks for reviewing. And now I'll do you all a favour by ending this Author's Note and letting you get on with what you clicked this link to do. (Oh, and don't forget to review)
Chapter Fourteen: Blood and Pain
Despite claiming that he was in no hurry, Gorgoth continued to set a fast pace, growling that only complete idiots wasted time. Neither of the others complained; the speed was fast, but manageable and not too taxing on man, mer or beast. They didn't stop in Bruma, riding swiftly through it as they had done the day before, the only difference being the direction. The gate guards seemed just as lethargic, barely moving in order to acknowledge the three heavily armed strangers riding through their city. By midday, Bruma was long behind them.
Their journey was swift and easy. Numerous bandit gangs plaguing the roads evidently thought them too tough to be worth it, and retreated back to their camps to await a nice safe merchant train to ambush. The weather remained good as they continued on down the Silver Road until they reached the road that ringed the shores of Lake Rumare. They stayed the night in the peaceful settlement of Aleswell, before setting off again early the next morning. By midafternoon, they had reached Weye, and were preparing to ride on to Skingrad when Aerin reined in.
"Hey, I've got something ta tie up in the City," she announced, waving a hand in the direction of White Gold Tower. "Go on without me, I'll catch up and meet you in Skingrad."
Ilend nodded. "I'll be in the Fighter's Guild when you get there," he told her as she turned Firebrand towards the bridge. Within seconds, the Bosmer was lost in a cloud of dust as she sped Firebrand up to a gallop. "Wonder what she's so eager to get back to," pondered Ilend, scratching his stubble as he turned Javelin to follow Gorgoth down the road leading to Skingrad.
Aerin quickly stabled Firebrand at the Chestnut Handy Stables and hurried through the Imperial City to the Waterfront. Within an hour, she was approaching her ancient, rickety, badly-built shack. She'd bought it three years ago when she'd first joined the Arena, mainly because, being dirt cheap, it was the only one she could afford; her father had been livid at her running off and joining the Arena and so had refused to support her financially, despite being able to live quite comfortably off the profits of his trade.
Turning the corner into the street, Aerin stopped dead. Her shack's door was smashed in, hanging weakly from its groaning hinges and swaying slightly in the wind. She'd been expecting something of the sort – the Waterfront shacks might as well have no doors – but it still saddened and angered her that someone had ransacked her home. She moved forward with a purposeful stride, keeping one hand on the hilt of her blade. She'd almost reached the doorway when someone stepped out.
Aerin had half of her blade out of its scabbard before realising who it was. "Easy there, Aerin," laughed Branwen, leaning back on the doorframe. "I didn't like breaking down your door, I'd like disarming you even less." The Redguard looked completely at ease in her yellow-dyed Light Raiment, with an iron round shield on her back and a steel longsword at her hip.
Smiling and sheathing her blade, Aerin moved forward to give the Arena gladiator a friendly punch on the shoulder. "I should have known you'd break down me door if I went off for more than a week without telling ya," she laughed. The two had met a few weeks ago when training in the Arena grounds, and friendship had instantly sparked. Apparently, Branwen had come up in the world since Aerin had last seen her; the dents in her shield and scratches on her raiment spoke of quite a few battles, and her posture spoke of supreme confidence in her own abilities. "You look like you've been handling yourself pretty good without me to look out for you."
Branwen's smile grew broader. "You could say that," she smirked. "I'm Gladiator rank now. Seems I'm a natural, according to Owyn." At the mention of the Blademaster, a shadow passed over the Redguard's tanned face, but Aerin ignored it.
"Gladiator?" she squealed, half in indignation, half in delight. "By the Divines, you've done more in a week than what I had ta do in a few years. What in Oblivion have ya been doing ta Owyn, screwing him?"
Branwen looked repulsed by the very thought. "I don't think so, somehow," she replied. "Saliith's a Gladiator as well, in the same time, and I really doubt he'd be screwing Owyn, so it has to be something else other than that." The Redguard paused for dramatic effect. "Maybe it's because we've both been fighting at least two battles every day since we joined."
Aerin whistled in admiration. "That's some pretty serious fighting," she muttered, leaning on her doorframe across from her friend. "But, then ya always were more dedicated ta that sandpit than I was. How is old Twitch-Tail?"
Branwen smirked. "You know how much he hates you calling him that," she giggled, looking at something over Aerin's shoulder. The Bosmer frowned, then gasped as a strong, scaled arm wrapped itself around her throat as Saliith emerged from her shack.
"Yes, she does know how much I hate it," rasped Saliith. It was always hard to tell with Argonians, but by the sound of his voice, Branwen could tell that he wasn't angry. Not that it was much comfort to Aerin, who was in the process of having her hair put into complete disarray by the enthusiastic lizard. "It's good to see you back, Aerin. It got boring without you prancing around on the Basin of Renewal after every battle."
Aerin wrenched herself free of the Argonian and pouted up at him, making some futile attempts to rearrange her ruined hair. "You exaggerate, Saliith," she muttered. "I only ever did that when drunk."
"Ah, yes, I remember trying to tempt you into drinking the Feed Bag dry before every battle you fought," recalled Saliith, his voice wry. "It worked sometimes, if my memory serves me right. Cost me a fortune before I could really afford it, but I've paid Delos back by now. Worth every drake."
Aerin growled and jerked the leather band out of her hair, letting it fall free to her waist. She hated having her hair loose, but it was either that or put up with a mangled ponytail. "So, Aerin, where have you been all this time?" questioned Branwen. "It's been, what, nearly two weeks now?" She looked to Saliith for confirmation, and the lizard nodded, folding his arms over his blue-dyed Light Raiment and leaning back against Aerin's shack, tail twitching impatiently.
"I haven't really been keeping track of time," admitted Aerin. "As for what I've been doing... would ya believe me if I said I was hauled to Kvatch by a massive Orc, went to Oblivion and back, retook the bloody city, saved the heir of Uriel Septim, and guarded him against assassins until he reached sanctuary?" She looked up at both of them with an arched eyebrow.
Saliith was the first to burst out laughing, and Branwen's resistance crumpled a moment later, as she clutched her sides and howled with laughter. "Ah, Aerin, you always were the funny one," choked Saliith, attempting to straighten himself against the side of the shack with tears of mirth pouring down his scaled face. The Argonian's shaking was actually making the entire shack tremble; he was fairly tall for his race, and his intense training had meant that not an inch of fat had remained on his body. He was probably quite capable of bringing down the rotting structure using nothing but his bare hands, though the same could be said for Branwen, or, indeed, Aerin herself.
The Bosmer had kept her face impassive, folding her arms and leaning on the wall of her shack, one foot crossing the other ankle. When they had recovered, and asked her what she had really been doing, she answered, with no change of expression: "I was hauled to Kvatch by a massive Orc, went to Oblivion and back, retook the bloody city, saved the heir of Uriel Septim, and guarded him against assassins until he reached sanctuary."
This time, they didn't laugh. While it was impossible to tell what emotion Saliith was registering, the shock was evident on Branwen's face. Now it was Aerin's turn to start laughing, as the two gladiators slowly exchanged perplexed looks. "You know, the weird thing is, I actually believe her," rasped Saliith, slowly shaking his head. Branwen nodded in agreement, running a hand through her black hair, tied tightly in a multitude of swept-back braids. "So, Aerin," he said once the Bosmer had stopped howling with laughter. "If you were guarding the future Emperor, as you say, why are you back here?"
"He cut us loose for a while," replied Aerin, still wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. "My comrades were on their way ta Skingrad; I stopped off here ta pick up a few things." She indicated her shack's interior, which was as messy as ever, with a generous increase of both dust and wood splinters from the ravaged door. "Don't worry about breaking in, I wasn't planning on returning here any time soon, and there's barely anything of value in there anyway." Moving inside, the Bosmer quickly grabbed a handful of small bags, all containing varying amounts of cash, and threw them haphazardly into a small drawstring bag. Ignoring the books crammed into the miniature bookshelf, she grabbed a few spare arrows, rammed them into her quiver, and picked up the drawstring bag, pulling it shut and slinging it over her right shoulder.
As she emerged back into the sunlight, Saliith cleared his throat, a dry, rasping sound. "So, uh, have you succeeded in getting the future Emperor of Tamriel into your bed yet?" he asked, his unreadable face probably meant to be a picture of innocence. Aerin sent him a cold glare that could probably dissolve a lesser man into incomprehensible gibbering, but Saliith merely snorted with laughter. "Just wondering," he defended.
"Just for your information, Twitch-Tail, I am still a virgin," snarled Aerin, before turning and stalking off.
"Somehow," murmured Saliith, keeping his voice low and quaking with suppressed laughter. Branwen sighed in exasperation and hurried to catch up with Aerin.
"So, are you heading off now? Not even stopping by at the Feed Bag for a drink?" asked Branwen, falling in alongside, matching the shorter Bosmer's pace easily. "Would be good to see a bit more of you."
"Yeah, well, thing is, I told em it'd only be a brief stopover..."
"Come on, Aerin, since when have you been known to run from the action?" asked Saliith, appearing at Aerin's other side. "Me and Branwen have both got big matches soon today, according to Owyn. Make a few drakes, have a laugh at the idiots trying to kill us, what do ya say?" The Argonian's scaled hands were resting casually on the fine steel shortswords he was wearing on each hip, and the numerous throwing knives on his back glittered in the sunlight. Apparently, he knew how to use them.
Aerin squirmed uncomfortably between the two desires, but eventually the desire to stay won; Ilend wasn't about to go anywhere soon once he got to the Skingrad Fighter's Guild. The delay of a few hours, or even a day, wouldn't affect matters much. She nodded. "Ok, sure, just make sure ya win, or I'll dig ya up and claim me lost money back." Sniggering, she led the way out of the Waterfront through the back alleys she knew so well, and headed across the City to the Arena.
The sun was still well above the horizon when the three gladiators approached Hundolin. "Bet on the Blue team first," Saliith told Aerin. "Owyn normally sends me out first, and, if he doesn't, I'll get him to change his mind somehow." Aerin snorted, knowing how hard it was to get the Blademaster to change his mind, but walked up to Hundolin and put a hundred drakes on the Blue team. The Bosmer filed the transaction carefully in his notebook and put the bag of gold in the massive chest sitting on the table behind him.
"Good luck, you two," Aerin told her fellow gladiators as she headed through the door that led to the sands. They smiled and nodded, each loosening their blades in their scabbards. "Spill some blood for me."
"So, who do you think Owyn is going to throw at me next?" asked Saliith as he and Branwen descended the stairs into the Bloodworks. "To be honest, there's not many among you Yellows who can stop me when I'm in form."
Branwen's lip curled, but the Argonian wasn't boasting, it was the simple truth; Saliith was being tipped as the next challenger of Agronak gro-Malog. She herself was an extremely capable gladiator, but she'd been as surprised as anyone when it became evident that her comrade-in-training for all those years had outstripped her so rapidly when they got down to business. That said, she doubted she'd ever find a better comrade, and she knew a few tricks that he wasn't aware of. She'd been able to surprise him in training a few times recently.
Owyn looked up as they approached and turned to face them, a cruel smirk pulling at one corner of his mouth. Both gladiators inwardly winced. When Owyn had that smile and that gleam in his eyes, he had a challenging match planned, the kind that left gladiators checking whether they still had any limbs left. "Good to see you two finally made it," he growled, spitting, the saliva splattering the bloodstained floor. "The crowds are gonna love this one, I can tell. Ysabel was wetting herself with excitement, near enough." The Redguard's smile broadened.
"Get on with it, Owyn," muttered Saliith lazily, leaning on a nearby weapon rack. "Tell me who to fight and I'll go upstairs and gut them." Few got away with talking to Owyn like that, but it was commonly accepted that if you hit Gladiator, you had his grudging respect for surviving so long.
"The way I see things, the only two competent people left in either team at Gladiator rank are you two," continued Owyn, ignoring Saliith. "I'm not about to feed you two scraps anymore." He paused, the evil grin now fully developed on his face. Saliith and Branwen frowned and exchanged confused glances. Neither of them liked the sound of Owyn's proposal. Seeing their discomfort, his grin deepened.
"Well, now the crowd get a fight to whet their appetites. You two are going up there, and only one is coming down. Give them a show." Owyn clapped his hands together and pointed them in the direction of their respective routes to the sands of the arena. Neither moved. Owyn lowered his arms, his face hardening.
"I am not prepared to walk into that Arena and fight to the death with Saliith," Branwen snarled, her teeth audibly grinding together. Saliith's hands had curled into fists, and a low growling sound emanated from his throat.
"You think you're my daughter?" asked Owyn contemptuously. "Prove it. Prove you're good enough to beat him, and I might actually believe you." A handful of gladiators had appeared, hands on weapons, who appeared ready to force them up the stairs to fight each other if need be.
Branwen's jaw worked as she attempted to form a response. "But, Owyn..." she begun, in a beseeching tone, but Owyn cut her off.
"Stop whining and do it," he barked, anger starting to become evident in his voice. "This is the Bloodworks, and I am the Blademaster. You do what I say willingly, or you get your throat slit and chucked into the sewers. Your fucking choice."
Saliith snarled, and would probably have attacked Owyn then and there, if not for the gladiators ready to step in between them. Growling in anger, he spat on Owyn's boot, turned, and stalked towards the Blue Team's ramp. "See you up there," he called to Branwen. The Redguard helplessly watched him go, then her shoulders slumped. She turned and walked towards the Yellow Team ramp, dragging her feet. She turned her head in time to see Owyn striding over to the stairs leading to the gladiator's watching area.
The thoughts and emotions racing through the heads of both gladiators as they made their long, slow ascent were similar; they'd known each other for years, and had developed a bond that went beyond friendship. Now they were going to attempt to kill each other in front of hundreds of baying gladiatorial fans. Both of them dreaded the moment when the gates would come screeching down, but this way, at least one of them would survive; the alternative would involve their bodies being thrown side by side into Lake Rumare.
Branwen could see Saliith's scales glittering in the sunlight even from all the way across the Arena. Shaking off the emotions that threatened to wash her away, Branwen hissed harshly and bared an inch of her blade, then checking the sharp-edged light iron shield, which she used as a weapon more than a blocking device. Gorgoth's advice had got both of them far. The Redguard knelt and washed her hands in the sand, giving her a better grip on her sword hilt. Saliith didn't need to take the same measures; his own scales provided more than enough grip to hold his deadly shortswords.
The announcer was in his element, striding grandly about in his box and bombastically waxing lyrical about the upcoming battle. Branwen ignored him and focused on Saliith. Across the expanse of the Arena, their eyes met. At the moment, the announcer finished, the gates dropped, and the crowds roared. The two gladiators walked slowly across the sands until they were within arm's length of each other, never breaking eye contact. The noise of the crowd abated to a low hum.
Neither spoke; the look in their eyes was enough to express their thoughts to each other, after years of comradeship. Saliith slowly extended his right hand. Branwen grasped it, squeezed it. They pulled each other into a fierce hug that was strong enough to make their ribs creak. "Whatever happens, our souls will meet again in Aetherius," muttered Branwen, her mouth close to Saliith's ragged ear. The Argonian muttered something in assent, and they drew apart, each walking backwards a few paces.
Saliith's shortswords could be drawn quicker than Branwen's longsword, and it took her a few precious seconds to get her shield off her back. By that time, the Argonian Gladiator was rushing forward, jumping forward and slashing both swords down at the Redguard. Branwen rolled through his legs, coming up in time to see the Argonian recover from his own roll and turn to face her. The sunlight slashed off the throwing knife as he threw it, his motion almost too quick for the eye to see. The knife made a solid thunk as it embedded itself in Branwen's shield.
Before his knife had stopped vibrating, Saliith had once again launched himself at Branwen, twin shortswords striking so fast that to the audience they were blurs, extensions of his arms that did his merciless bidding. Branwen was forced back by the sheer ferocity of the assault, barely able to block the Argonian's lightning-quick strikes, let alone launch an attack of her own. After driving her across half the Arena, Saliith locked blades with her, drove the other blade deep into the iron of her shield, and darted forward, jaws open, razor-sharp rows of teeth visible, eager to meet her exposed throat. Branwen ducked at the last second and rammed her head into Saliith's throat, pushing her body forward and forcing him back. He let go of the sword embedded in her shield and spun out of her reach, reaching for a knife, throwing it.
The Redguard had been occupied with trying to get the shortsword out of her shield, and couldn't duck in time. Saliith's knife sliced open her right forearm and continued on, sinking into the sands somewhere behind her. Branwen cursed, but had no time to be distracted by the blood running down her arm and smearing the sand covering her palm; Saliith was once again rushing forward. He pivoted on one leg and executed a brutal roundhouse kick that sent the Redguard staggering back, reeling from the blow and struggling to draw breath. Saliith gave her no respite, ruthlessly advancing, moving into a forward flip that turned into an overhead jumping cleave with his sword held in both hands. The slightly curved blade swished through the air inches from Branwen's face as she kept staggering back.
Saliith quickly recovered from his miss. He sheathed his sword and threw two throwing knives in quick succession. One clattered off the edge of Branwen's shield, while the other scored her cheek and severed her left ear. Biting her lip to hold back her yelp of pain, the Redguard planted her feet, ignoring the burning pain on the side of her head and the blood trickling down her chin with some effort, and was ready for Saliith when he advanced again. Ducking under another throwing knife, Branwen barged into the Argonian's torso, his attempted slash grazing off her raiment. Saliith staggered back, and Branwen darted forward slashing down towards his stomach. As he parried the blow, her sharp-edged shield made contact with him, slicing his right shoulder open and smashing his head sideways. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, the Argonian growled and grabbed the hilt of the shortsword that was protruding from Branwen's shield. He wrenched it free at the cost of being sliced across the forearm. Both gladiators fell back to regroup.
Once again, their eyes met, but this time, they conveyed no emotion. Both were entirely focused on the task at hand; the fact that they had been as close as siblings for years was not gone from either mind, but it was hovering around the edges, kept out by the mental wall constructed by each to help focus their mind and energies on the combat. Blood dripped onto the sands from each of them as they circled each other, both of them wounded in the arm, with Branwen missing her left ear. Neither had any fatal injuries, or wounds that would slow them down. The crowd was fully voicing its desire for more blood to stain the sands.
Saliith moved first, dashing forward in an attempt to get past Branwen's guard. The Yellow team Gladiator smashed her shield into his face, forcing his head back, and got a line of burning pain down her ribs in return as the Argonian's slash missed her stomach and sliced open her side. Branwen winced but pressed forward, knocking aside Saliith's defence and delivering a blow that would have disembowelled him if he hadn't spun to deflect the full force of the slash. The Redguard kicked him in the back of the knee and he fell to his knees with his back to her. Letting forth a war cry, Branwen swung for his head and missed entirely as her opponent rolled forward. Overbalancing, she was unprepared for Saliith as he flipped to his feet and delivered a vicious, piercing slash to her chest. The sheer pain of the Argonian's blade slicing through her torso was enough to shock Branwen into dropping her longsword. Within seconds, Saliith had thrust both shortswords into her stomach up to the hilt, the ends of both blades poking out of her back.
As Saliith stepped back, Branwen looked down at his two swords, then back up at him. Her tanned face was smeared with the blood from her ear, but her deep brown eyes were fully focused on her killer. Her comrade. A look of sorrow passed over her face as blood spurted from her mouth. Knees buckling, she fell backwards towards the blood-drenched sands. Saliith darted forward and caught her, gently lowering his fallen friend down. The enormity of the battle's end was starting to sink into the Argonian as he knelt at Branwen's side, hand trembling as he pushed away a stray strand of hair from her face.
"Well... fought," gurgled Branwen, struggling to speak, blood clouding her once-strong voice. "I guess... this is... the end, huh?" The dying Redguard made a feeble attempt to smile. "At least... I went out... in style..."
Saliith struggled to speak, the words fouling in his throat, refusing to come out. The entire Arena was silent except for Branwen's breath rattling in her throat. "We always knew this would happen one day," he managed eventually. "But now that it's happened..." He shook his head, his breath leaving him in one, long, shaky sigh. His hands began to shake violently. "Branwen, I'm-" The Gladiator cut him off.
"Don't... don't regret this, Saliith," Branwen paused to cough violently, blood spraying over her face. Blood was already pooling around her. "Go on, and... fulfil our dream... reach for the heights..." Saliith clenched his fists in a futile effort to stop his hands shaking. "Worry not... we'll meet again... in Aetherius..." Branwen hacked up some more blood and was still, her eyes glazing over, still staring up at the best friend she had ever known. Saliith clenched his jaw shut and closed her eyes with a trembling hand before straightening.
The Arena was quiet enough to hear a pin drop. Not even the announcer said a word. Maybe he knew that Saliith wouldn't hesitate to kill anyone who made even the slightest sound. The Argonian bent and picked up his shortswords. Without taking another look at Branwen, perhaps unable to, he turned and walked slowly back to the Blue team tunnel, head down, wounds still dripping blood. Anyone would think that he had been defeated, instead of having just overcome the biggest challenge of his career so far.
After washing and healing his wounds in the Basin of Renewal, Saliith stripped off his Blue team light raiment, piece by piece. Wearing nothing but his sword belt and ragged cloth trousers, the Argonian marched up to Owyn and rammed the raiment into his chest. The Blademaster said nothing, his face just as unreadable as the Argonians. He held out a substantial bag of money, letting Saliith's raiment clatter to the floor. Saliith grabbed the bag of money and turned to leave. "You'll be back, Hero," called Owyn after him.
Saliith, halfway to the exit, stiffened and turned slowly, anger evident in his snarl. "I know," he rasped. Making no further comment, he continued on his way out. No gladiator dared say a word until the door had swung shut behind him.
Emerging from the Bloodworks, Saliith was confronted with the sight of Aerin glaring down at Hundolin, her height of just over five feet making her very tall by Bosmeri standards, which was evidently helping in this situation. Hundolin was visibly cowering, attempting to back away from the furious archer. His guards looked on, hands on cudgels. "I was merely informing you that you have won two hundred septims," Hundolin was whimpering.
Aerin's voice was soft and dangerous. "Do you really think I care about your fucking gold when one of my friends is lying dead in there?" she snarled, her voice low as she gestured towards the Arena. "Keep the bloody gold; use it to pay for a decent funeral." Hundolin's relief was evident as the Bosmer turned away.
Upon seeing Saliith standing at the entrance to the Bloodworks Aerin's expression softened, and she extended a hand to him. "We need to get away from here," she muttered to him. Saliith nodded dumbly and took her hand, his overwhelmed brain unable to think straight any more. She led him away from the Bloodworks, towards the Market District, presumably to attempt to get him completely drunk. He grunted and wrenched his hand free, stumbling over to the area where he and Branwen had used to train. They'd trained there yesterday, as carefree as any two gladiators could be. The stones were smooth where incessant training over the years had worn them down. Saliith knelt to touch them, feel their familiar smoothness.
Aerin moved to stand next to him and gripped his shoulder. She made no attempt to speak; she knew that anything she said couldn't ease the pain she knew the Argonian was suffering. Saliith's hands, tracing the stonework, started to tremble again. His memory reached back over the years, remembering all the good times he and Branwen had shared, many of them on this very slab of stone. The Argonian's entire body started to shake violently as her face invaded his thoughts. He'd never see her again, and he, her killer, was directly responsible. His last mental barrier broke down, and he wrapped his arms around Aerin's knees, his muscular body racked with sobbing as his broken heart started to bleed.
"Correct me if I'm wrong, Ah-Malz, but I'm pretty sure the work of the Fighter's Guild in Skingrad is not pure goblin hunting."
It was the second day after Gorgoth and Ilend had left Aerin at the Imperial City. Riding hard, they had reached Skingrad early in the morning, and Ilend had joined the Fighter's Guild immediately. Gorgoth had declined an invitation to stay and rode on to Anvil. Ah-Malz, the Warder in charge of the Skingrad Fighter's Guild, had been happy to admit Ilend to their ranks as an Associate, having been firm friends of the Imperial for many years. Unfortunately, Ilend had learnt that Fons Llendo, the unfriendly Guild Journeyman from Kvatch, had transferred to Skingrad. Ah-Malz had told him to ignore Fons and make himself at home, and had been swift to suggest goblin hunting as a first assignment.
"Of course not," rasped Ah-Malz in response to Ilend's statement. "I just think you're wasted as an Associate; this gives me a reason to bump you up to Apprentice quickly." They were crouched behind a rock a few miles east of Skingrad, eyeing a mine supposedly infested with goblins. "Besides, Fons and Fadus can take care of the contracts given by the citizens of Skingrad easily enough; we don't get all that many. It's the contracts from the top we have to work on, and they're few and far between. So we have more time to spend hunting goblins." It was hard to tell with Argonians, but Ilend suspected that ah-Malz was smiling broadly.
"Well, I, for one, am not complaining," replied Ilend, grinning in amusement. He'd expected to have to do a lot of menial contracts before getting a respectable rank; goblin hunting seemed a lot more fun. He liked Ah-Malz as a leader already.
"Are we just going to sit here talking all day?" cut in the third member of their group, a Bosmer archer of Protector rank, Parwen. She was similar to Aerin, in that she was skilled with a bow and had brown hair tied in a ponytail, but the similarities ended there. Parwen preferred studded leather armour that actually made some difference in combat, had little skill with close-range weapons, and she seemed to be far more serious than Aerin. A disturbing fanaticism about keeping score had perturbed Ilend slightly on the way here; she had constantly been telling him about the scoring system of kills, assists, and rescues that she had recently devised. Ah-Malz had shaken his head in exasperation and told Ilend to ignore her and just focus on his kill count.
"You raise a good point, Parwen," grunted Ah-Malz, rising to his feet. "The usual tactics. Ilend and me lead, Parwen, watch our backs." He swung his large claymore off his back and moved forward in a combat stance, tail swishing, freed by a hole specially cut in the Argonian's iron plate armour. Parwen nocked an arrow to her bow as Ilend moved up to join Ah-Malz with sword drawn and shield ready.
There were two goblins sitting outside the mine, presumably on sentry duty, but facing the wrong way. They didn't stand a chance; Parwen's arrow slammed one forward into the ground, while the other, sitting up and scratching its bald, wrinkled head in confusion, was decapitated with ease by Ah-Malz. The Argonian wasted no time in kicking in the door to the long-abandoned mine. Immediately, the fetid stench that indicated lengthy goblin occupation reached their noses, but they plunged into the darkness without hesitation.
Ilend put his shield on his back and lit a torch. The flickering orange glow lit up the series of narrow tunnels that used to be used by miners many years ago. Now, with the veins of ore long since dried up, these tunnels were smeared with goblin shit and the dried blood of many an unfortunate adventurer or goblin hunter. Ilend held the torch high, but was careful to keep it away from the walls; he'd prefer it if the entire tunnel didn't go up in flames. The rotting support beams sometimes groaned under the pressure of holding up tons of rock, and occasionally a few loose rocks would tumble down the slopes of the tunnel.
"How safe is this mine, Ah-Malz?" queried Ilend, slightly perturbed by the falling rocks. "If it gets intense in here, I'd like to know if we're likely to be buried alive."
"The ex-foreman I spoke to said that the beams are reliable and solid; they'll hold the earth up for years yet," replied Ah-Malz, his green eyes never staying still for a second, always flickering from rock to rock, searching for goblins. "There's nothing wrong with the integrity, don't worry about it."
"It's held up fine the last five times, at least," added Parwen. "I doubt that it'll start to fall apart now after hosting some of the most violent goblin hunts ever seen in the West Weald. I don't think the greenskins would keep moving back in if they thought it would collapse on top of them."
"Glad to hear it," muttered Ilend in reply. The passage was widening out into a fairly spacious, mostly empty cavern, and he held the torch up, spreading its light over the surrounding area. A few crudely-made torches hung in rusted brackets on some support beams, adding their flickering light to the stronger glow of Ilend's torch. In the distance, harsh goblin chattering could be heard echoing off the walls of the deeper tunnels. The sole occupant of the cavern was a human skeleton. It had clearly lain with its spine against a support beam for some time, as cobwebs had grown between the joints.
"They know we're here," rasped Ah-Malz, head cocked to one side, listening to the goblins in the distance. "They've only got one passage that links to this cavern. It's a good bottleneck until their main wave is dead." The Argonian moved up and took up a position to the left of the mentioned passage exit. Ilend moved to the right, while Parwen hang back, an arrow nocked and ready to fly.
They didn't have to wait long. The sounds of the approaching goblins grew louder with every second, until the scampering of their feet could be heard just down the passageway. Parwen drew an arrow and released it in one smooth motion, and had another nocked by the time the goblin's dying screech had echoed throughout the caverns. "Two," she muttered to herself, releasing her second arrow. "Three," she intoned again as the second scream rang out. By then, the goblins were about to pour out of the mouth of the passage.
Ah-Malz roared as he put his entire body into a swing, the result being that his claymore sliced the first goblin to appear clean in two. The next goblin ran into Ilend's daedric longsword and was decapitated. Two goblins emerged at once; one fell to Parwen's arrow, while the other swung at Ilend. He blocked the goblin's mace with his sword and smashed the end of his torch into its head, stunning it and giving Ah-Malz time to dismember it from behind. Ilend darted past his superior and impaled an emerging goblin. He kicked it off his blade into one of its brethren that was already falling, clawing at Parwen's arrow in its throat. The bodies were piling up and the slaughter was beginning to become evident even to the dim-witted goblins, who slowed their advance, then turned and ran back to sanctuary, yelping and screaming in their own primitive language.
The Guildsmen pursued them, mercilessly cutting down any they caught up with, leaving the ground behind them slippery with blood and littered with corpses. Unlike the goblins, however, they knew not to go blindly charging into unknown territory, and when the passage widened, Ah-Malz slowed them down and went forward more cautiously. "I'm on six, I think," hissed Ah-Malz as he peered forward into the flickering shadows cast by Ilend's torch.
"Eight here," announced Parwen, who'd had the foresight to bring not one but two quivers and therefore had plenty of ammunition left.
"I think I'm on nine," grunted Ilend.
"Heh... beginner's luck, eh?" chuckled Ah-Malz as they turned a corner in the tunnel. There were five goblins waiting for them, clearly a delaying force of some kind. Ah-Malz immediately launched himself at them, removing the arm of one. The severed limb fell to the ground, still grasping the goblin's sword. The goblin looked down stupidly at his lost arm until Ah-Malz's claymore pierced his chest. Ilend's blade cut a goblin in half from chin to groin, the daedric steel cutting through the poor attempt at armour effortlessly. Parrying a lunge from another goblin with his torch, the Imperial rammed his sword into the goblin's exposed stomach. Parwen brought down the other two.
"Seven, ten, eleven," Parwen reminded them all as they continued.
"You don't have to keep count for all of us, you know," grumbled Ah-Malz. "We CAN count."
"Keep it down," hissed Ilend, making frantic hushing motions with his hands. "I can hear them up ahead."
There were indeed goblins talking up ahead, where the tunnel narrowed, then opened out into what seemed to be a large cavern. A perfect bottleneck. Ilend moved forward, holding the torch out in front of him, illuminating the trio of goblins armed with bows. The Guildsmen leapt back and pressed themselves against the sides of the tunnel as the arrows whizzed past them. Ilend threw his torch to Ah-Malz and took his shield off his back. Telling Parwen to shoot over him, he crouched slightly and advanced down the centre of the passage, attempting to fit as much of his body behind the shield as possible. It was his old guardsman's shield from Kvatch, and still had the wolfshead of Kvatch embossed on the battered, pitted steel.
Ilend heard Parwen's arrow passing over him, and heard a moan as the goblin fell. There was a jolt as two arrows embedded themselves deep into his shield, but it was exactly what he and Parwen had been hoping for; before the unskilled goblins could reload, the Bosmer had shot them down. "Nice work, Ilend, that's three assists for you," she called to him as he straightened. The Imperial barely had time to put his shield back on his back before Ah-Malz threw him the torch and led the charge through the bottleneck.
Following his superior through the gap, Ilend barely ducked in time to avoid a mace swinging at his head. Its wielder, overbalanced by the swing, staggered into the Imperial, who pushed him off and gutted him. Ah-Malz had already cut down three goblins, but was swiftly getting overwhelmed by sheer numbers. Ilend moved in to help, severing the spine of one then kicking another's kneecap, dislocating it. A green arm wrapped itself around his neck, then loosened and slid off as Parwen's arrow took the goblin in the back. Once again, the goblins were taking flight, but this time there was nothing to shield them from being scythed down from behind by Parwen's arrows.
Ah-Malz growled deep in his throat, and Ilend hurried over to find the Argonian examining a deep rent in the pauldron of his iron cuirass. His left arm hang uselessly, while his right was fumbling for a healing potion. "Bloody goblins... always have to swarm you," he snarled, wrenching a potion free from his belt and downing it in two gulps. The Argonian hissed at the painful feeling of his shoulder putting itself back together, then worked his repaired left arm.
"If you need healing potions, Falanu at All Things Alchemical gives us a discount for being such regular customers," Ah-Malz told Ilend, hefting his bloody claymore. The only evidence of his wound would the sizeable dent and corresponding hole in his pauldron. "Bloody good quality, as well. Heals you in seconds."
"I'll keep that in mind," replied Ilend and they set off after the goblins, stepping over those that had fallen to Parwen's arrows. His first reaction to any wound would normally be to heal it himself, but he also recognised that he couldn't heal anything much worse than a broken bone. Back in Kvatch, the Imperial had always made a point of always carrying at least two healing potions on him at all times, but he'd used them both in the battle and hadn't found replacements.
"I don't think there's many left in this rabble," observed Parwen as they caught up with her. "That said, we haven't come across the shaman or the warlord yet. Best to be on our guard." Ahead, the cavern narrowed once again into a tunnel, which forked. Ah-Malz led them down the left fork, claiming that the right fork had long since been blocked off by a cave-in. Approaching yet another cavern, Ah-Malz cautiously peered around both corners, then hastily pulled his head back.
"Warlord and shaman are both there, whipping the rest of em back into shape," he rasped. "There's four other big fuckers who look like they can handle themselves. The rest are rabble." The Argonian grinned, baring his rows of razor-sharp teeth. The goblin blood dripping from his claymore reflected the flickering flame of the torch. Parwen wrenched another arrow out of her quiver and nocked it. "Ilend, there's going to be light aplenty through there," muttered Ah-Malz. "Get your shield out. It might be useful." Ilend nodded and threw his torch down, taking his shield off his back and making sure the bindings were tight.
Parwen was the first to step through, loosing an arrow then sidestepping quickly to avoid a fireball. Ilend dashed through, shield ready, just in time to block a mace swing from a goblin that was gibbering in rage. Ah-Malz appeared and sliced the goblin in two, before spinning to parry an attack by the warlord, who was bigger, heavier, and meaner-looking than every other goblin present, wielding a war axe with considerable skill. The shaman, a short goblin wearing a robe and wielding knotted staff, sent a fireball at Ilend. It hit an over-eager goblin in the back, blasting its body past Ilend, who ducked and barged shield-first into another goblin. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Parwen line up a shot and sent a hopeful arrow speeding towards the shaman, but the goblin saw it and cast a shield spell, which deflected the arrow harmlessly.
Diverting his attention back to the goblin in front of him, Ilend ducked under its shortsword and slashed its leg open from hip to knee. The goblin fell shrieking to the floor, and Ilend put it out of its misery by slitting its throat. He looked up just in time to see the large goblin, wielding a small hammer, crash into him, taking them both to the ground. Ilend growled and threw the goblin off him, climbing on top of it and gouging at its eyes. Ignoring the ear-piercing shriek, Ilend continued to ruthlessly dig in his thumbs until his gauntlets were splattered with blood and the goblin lay still. Retrieving his sword from where it had fallen, Ilend started to surge to his feet only to have another goblin stumble into him, this one already dead, Parwen's arrow jutting out of its chest.
Kicking the corpse off him, Ilend turned to help Ah-Malz, who, having killed the warlord, was struggling to contain three of its bodyguards at once. Ilend stabbed one in the back and bashed another around the back of the head with his shield. Ah-Malz took the opportunity to sever both its arms then decapitate it. Leaving the Argonian to deal with the final goblin, Ilend turned to the shaman in time to block a fireball that was streaking towards his face. Ilend hissed in pain as his arm was scalded by the heat, but his shield remained intact. The shaman gabbled something and thrust his staff at Ilend, who threw himself to the ground to avoid the ball lightning that shot out of the end of the staff. It hit the wall of the cave with enough energy to crack the rock.
Fortunately, the shaman had been so focused on Ilend that it hadn't noticed its shield spell dissipating. Parwen noticed the purple glow fading and immediately loosed an arrow, striking the shaman in the chest and sending it crashing to the ground, staff rolling out of its hand and rolling over the ground until it came to rest against a corpse. Ilend leaped forward and plunged his sword deep into the shaman's heart. Parwen snorted.
"I don't appreciate killsnatchers," she growled at him.
"He was still breathing," grunted Ilend in response. Ah-Malz, having dispatched the remaining handful of goblins, merely laughed.
"Always best to make sure a shaman's dead," he rasped. "Those buggers have been known to continue surviving long after any decent goblin would have politely died." The Argonian gestured to the cavern, sweeping his arm wide. "Loot what you can carry out of here. The takings from this motley band won't be much, but it'll pay for ammo and repairs." Ah-Malz was quick in stooping and retrieving the shaman's staff, strapping it to his back with a look of greed shining in his eyes. Parwen muttered something about upper ranks and started to retrieve her arrows.
Loot was in short supply, so the Guildsmen had to be content with a handful of gold each and a few enchanted weapons that the goblins had been using without much skill. Emerging from the mines, they had to shield their eyes from the sun, which was blinding after spending so much time underground. Their horses were tied to trees a short distance away from the mine to prevent any overlooked goblin sentries from finding them. Loot was roughly shoved into saddlebags, and within minutes they were on the road back to Skingrad.
"Well, congratulations, Ilend," rasped Ah-Malz, riding up beside the Imperial. "You're now an Apprentice. Too bad I can't promote people any higher than that purely for goblin hunting, but at least no-one has to slog for months at Associate in my Fighter's Guild."
Ilend smirked. "I'm pretty sure that's against central Guild policy," he replied.
"It is," remarked Parwen. "Never stopped him, though." The Bosmer jabbed a thumb at Ah-Malz. "Still, this is a bloody backwater in terms of actual contracts, so he gets away with it." The Argonian appeared to smirk.
They reached Skingrad just as the sun was starting to dip beneath the horizon to the west. After a trip to the various shops in the market district, they split up and headed their own ways, Parwen claiming that she was going to chalk up their scores on the goblin hunt leaderboard in the Guildhall. Ilend walked into All Things Alchemical to take Ah-Malz's advice and get some healing potions. As the Argonian had told him, Falanu Hlaalu indeed gave a discount for Guild members. As Ilend blinked in surprise at her striking copper-coloured hair, she fetched an entire box of healing potions from under the counter. Ilend took four and slid over eighty septims. As he turned to leave, Falanu called after him.
"You used to be a guardsman, correct?" she asked him. When he nodded, a ghost of an odd smile flickered over her face. "Good. Could you possibly tell me what the fine for necrophilia is in Cyrodiil?"
Ilend raised an eyebrow, but left his visible surprise at that. He wasn't one to pry into the private lives of people. After thinking for a minute, he asked: "Is it the first offense?"
A slow, skewed smile spread over Falanu's face. "Let's assume 'no'," she replied.
Ilend rubbed his chin, attempting to remember the penalty for defiling of the dead for reasons of personal pleasure. "I think it's at least five hundred gold," he offered.
Falanu laughed. "That's nothing compared to Morrowind, thanks." He nodded in acceptance and hurriedly left. He made a mental note to keep future dealings with Falanu brief, and that when he died, he'd have to make sure his next of kin knew to bury him somewhere far away from Skingrad. Securing the healing potions to his sword belt, he turned and headed in the direction of the West Weald Inn, hoping that Erina would have forgiven him for given her that mess to clear up last time he'd visited.
Gorgoth, sitting on his bed in the Brina Cross Inn west of Kvatch, looked out of the window at the setting sun. After leaving Ilend in Skingrad, he'd travelled hard until he reached Kvatch, where he stopped briefly in the city to take a look at how work was progressing. The last remnants of the daedra and their mortal allies had been dug out a few days ago, and the slow process of rebuilding was starting. Help had come from all the cities in Cyrodiil, and Savlian Matius seemed to be settling into the position of leader. Gorgoth hadn't stayed long.
He'd realised that he wouldn't reach Anvil before nightfall and had stopped at the Brina Cross in to get some proper sleep in a proper bed. His armour already decorated the floor along with his vest, leaving the Orc naked except for his trousers, which now looked a bit worse for wear after long days of constant usage, but Gorgoth wasn't about to waste time to visit a tailor.
The warrior-shaman's thick right index finger was tracing the brutal, dark scar on his stomach. Merely letting his mind wander brought back the sights, sounds, and smells of that battle; he would forever remember the face of the warrior who'd almost claimed his life that day; the Redguard was one of the few people who could rightfully call themselves Gorgoth's equal in martial combat, and for that the Orc respected his foe's prowess. There were few others who could say that they had proven to be able to at least match him, blow for blow. Burzukh gro-Ghash probably bragged incessantly about how he had once left Gorgoth broken and bleeding, while neglecting to tell his audience that he had lost his eye in that battle, and that he'd had two good Orcs on his side, whereas Gorgoth had been alone. Gorgoth had healed his wounds, while Burzukh would forever be crippled.
Shaking his head, Gorgoth looked away from his scar, instead looking out of the window again. The sun was mostly below the horizon, casting long shadows over the Gold Coast. Gorgoth's eyes were drawn to movement down by the gate, and he leaned forward for a better look. What he saw intrigued him, and he settled back, with his back against the wall, to wait.
It wasn't long before his spell of life detection showed him a figure climbing the stairs. The Orc's eyes had been following the shape since it had entered the inn. Despite Gorgoth's skill with detect life, it was still nearly impossible to determine between the glows of Imperials, Bretons, Redguards and Nords, but this time he didn't need to guess; he knew exactly who was coming. What he didn't know was why.
The unlocked door creaked open, and closed again, seemingly on its own, but the strong chameleon spell hadn't fooled Gorgoth. Before the intruder could cancel the spell himself, the warrior-shaman flung out an arm, dispelling the illusion magic before Silencing the now-visible shadowy figure. Gorgoth took a moment to study the man standing in front of him before speaking.
"I know that you're not here to kill me, or I wouldn't have seen you down in the courtyard," he rumbled. "However, that makes me wonder. Why are you here if not to kill me, Lachance?"
If the black-robed Imperial standing before Gorgoth was unnerved by his Silencing or the Orc's greeting, he didn't show it. Little of his face was visible under the black cowl, the shadows seeming to cling to the robed figure. "I am here to question, not to kill," he spoke in his soft, macabre voice.
"You're not in a good position to question me, Speaker," growled Gorgoth. "You stand there, alone, Silenced, with me inches away from you, knowing many ways to kill you within seconds with my bare hands." Gorgoth paused to regard the Brotherhood Speaker for a few moments. "I take it you want to know why I have appeared in Cyrodiil?"
Lachance nodded. "After your... actions in Orsinium, some of us were wary of your presence here," he explained. "Obviously, if you were here to eradicate us, you'd be getting on with it already, so I'm interested to know... why are you here?" Gorgoth didn't answer, didn't move a muscle. Lachance sighed. "Murderer, if you wish to-" Gorgoth cut him off.
"That title, that rank, no longer applies to me," he muttered, leaning forward slightly.
"You defeated the Wrath of Sithis when it came for you, did you not? You would be a valuable asset-"
"Do not bandy words with me, Lachance," snarled Gorgoth. "I did not break the Tenets, I shattered them. If you wish to recruit me again, or to bring me back into your family, then that will be your last action on this plane of existence." The Orc stood abruptly, head brushing the ceiling, towering over the Imperial. If Lachance was intimidated, he showed no signs of it, merely stepping smoothly back to give Gorgoth room.
"If you must know, I didn't come to Cyrodiil of my own free will. But now I have found something to occupy me, and you will be pleased to know that it does not involve destroying the Brotherhood." Gorgoth looked down at Lucien and slowly leaned forward, clenching his fists, a look of malevolence appearing in his eyes. "Let us make an agreement, Lachance. The Brotherhood will not attempt to kill me, and, in return, I will not destroy the Brotherhood." The Orc straightened and walked to the window, looking out at the glow on the horizon. The sun had set.
"I will pass on your message to the rest of the Black Hand," said Lachance. He waited for a reply. Receiving none, he interpreted the Orc's posture as a clear dismissal and left the room. Gorgoth turned and watched his glow move down through the inn and out to the courtyard. He'd lifted the Silence spell as soon as Lachance had left the room, so it was only a blur that mounted the dark horse waiting in the stables.
Gorgoth sighed and rested both hands on the window frame. He had memories of the Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary in Orsinium, the only one for hundreds of miles. He had stayed there, been called family, for a short time. He ruthlessly crushed the memories before they could form a coherent image in his mind. Apart from the Brotherhood themselves, there were only two people who knew of his dealings with them, and neither would reveal that short chapter of his past to anyone.
The Orc moved and sat back down on his bed. He intended to leave well before dawn tomorrow, and so had already settled everything with the innkeeper. Feeling that a good night's sleep was in order to prepare him for whatever Crowhaven would throw at him, he'd planned on getting an early night, but the appearance of the Dark Brotherhood Speaker had driven all thoughts of immediate sleep from his head. If Lucien knew his location, then he was vulnerable. Gorgoth didn't trust the Brotherhood an inch; Lachance had said he would consult with the rest of the Black Hand, but he was easily capable of sending a small army of assassins his way. The Orc stood and started securing the room with an impenetrable web of magic traps. He intended to be prepared for whatever came his way, no matter what it was.
A/N: If you can guess who gave Gorgoth his dark, stomach-damaging star, you're a genius (though, if you do guess, tell me in private so that I can keep others guessing ;) ). In other areas, I'd just like to inform you that Blood and Steel will not include the Dark Brotherhood storyline in any way, shape, or form... though I am planning to write a fic about the DB storyline in this same universe after BaS is finished.
Review, people. It makes me happy.