A/N: OK, I think I owe you all a damn good explanation over the unforgivable delay for this chapter. It can be attributed to a number of factors: the release of Call of Duty: Black Ops, massive amounts of college work, and lack of motivation, but the main factor is sheer laziness and writer's block. For two weeks, this was stuck at 2,500 words, then I wrote 4,000 words in a single night. Anyhow, enough excuses; this is my longest chapter yet, and so therefore should be enough of an apology for the wait. Thanks to those of you who reviewed:
Commentaholic: In Gorgoth's case, it's not 'who' he murdered, not exactly; it's 'how many'. And the answer is: lots.
Nomz: Don't get too exited by the promise of a DB story by me; I might not even do one, as Blood and Steel has to be finished first; might take a while. And, yes, while writing it, I did feel a bit for both Branwen and Saliith (but not much, I don't DO emotional).
Underpaid Critic: I'm not considering the Thieves Guild, as I've only ever done it once and, quite simply, it doesn't appeal to me to write about it; I just find that it doesn't excite me that much. Rest assured that my DB fic, if done, would be suficiently different from the 'run-of-the-mill' ones you see in this fandom.
Random Reader: Going by the game, it's impossible to make assumptions about the Owyn/Branwen realtionship as we don't have enough material to work on. This is my take on it, and if you have a different view, well, that's your right.
To that completely anonymous person: Of course you're ready for the next chapter. A good reader is always ready for the next chapter. Why not put something useful in your review instead of telling me something I already know?
Avron: Hmm... I think I get there you're coming from, though I'm not too sure, and I'm not sure if I know how to improve it, but I've always favoured multiple main characters; it just makes it more interesting, in my opinion. Thanks for the review, in any case; they're always helpful (apart from the one mentioned above).
Laluzi: *shudders* Orc/Bosmer is more than just creepy, it's dangerous. If an Orc as big as Gorgoth had sex with an average Wood Elf, I'm pretty sure there'd be quite a few complications that would end up in internal injuries for the Bosmer. Not wanting to violate my T rating in the Author's Note, I'll move on: I thought people might expect Branwen to win, as she's the one with the more pre-developed backstory, but I like doing the unexpected. Anyhow, thanks for your reviews.
NoSoundComes: A review for a review... good attitude. Thanks for reviewing and I hope you can catch up soon. :)
Well, that's my longest Author's Note EVER, but the sheer number of reviews required it: Yes, I may be slow, but reviews overwhelm me with joy, so keep them coming. Please. Now READ ON!
Chapter Fifteen: Secrets
Having spent most of yesterday night after the goblin hunt drinking in the West Weald Inn with some fellow Guildsmen, Ilend was pleasantly surprised to wake up in the Guildhall with only a minor headache. That and the fact that he remembered most of last night was a clear indicator that he hadn't drunk as much as he'd thought. Or maybe Erina had watered his drinks. He groaned and sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes. The beds in the Guildhall were narrow with thin blankets and lumpy mattresses, but at least they were free.
Wrapping the blanket around his naked body, Ilend stood and walked slowly to the window that looked down onto the cobbled street, scratching his thick chest hair. He yawned widely; it appeared to be quite early in the morning, according to the position of the sun. Turning away, he flopped back down onto the bed, putting his hands behind his head and urging his lethargic brain to think up an excuse to stay in bed. Finding none, he grunted in frustration, sat up, and reached for his clothes, which had been tucked under his bed along with his chainmail, shield, and sword belt.
Fadus Calidius chose that moment to walk in, fully armoured. Ilend nodded in greeting and continued to dress; long years of sharing a barracks with twenty other guardsmen had stripped him of all modesty long ago. "I just checked the leaderboard for goblin hunts," remarked the stocky Imperial. "That's a bloody good kill count for a first hunt. Very impressive."
"It wasn't my first hunt," replied Ilend, searching for his boots. "I've done a few before when I got leave from the Kvatch Guard. To be honest, I haven't even checked the leaderboard yet." Fadus's jaw dropped, and he walked out, muttering something about fresh meat not knowing the importance of scoring. Ilend smirked at the obsession of goblin-hunting that seemed to run deep in the Skingrad Fighter's Guild. It didn't take long for him to finish equipping himself. Making sure that all his potions were securely attached to his belt, Ilend headed downstairs.
The leaderboard for goblin hunting was chalked up on a large blackboard in the dining area. Ilend grabbed an apple and wandered over to take a look: there were two tables, one for all-time standings, and one for the present month. Apparently, in yesterday's hunt, he'd bagged seventeen goblins, with four assists. While not caring too much about his positioning in the rankings, he did note with some pride that Fons Llendo had yet to go on a goblin hunt. The Dunmer was probably concerned that his armour would get dirtied.
As though summoned by thought, the Dark Elf's snobbish voice invaded Ilend's hearing. Fons sounded like he was vehemently arguing with someone in the hall. Ilend frowned as another voice reached his ears. This one sounded familiar. He turned and walked over to the hall just as Fons and the stranger started shouting.
Kicking open the door, Ilend stopped and failed to conceal an amused grin: Fons was writhing on the floor, clutching his most vulnerable area, obviously in immense agony, as a certain Bosmer stood over him, her voice still raised in anger. An Argonian was standing awkwardly just inside the double doors that led out to Skingrad. Ilend could tell by his equipment that he was experienced; twin shortswords hung from a sword belt, while the hilts of several throwing knives were visible over his shoulders. His armour consisted of overlapping steel scales covering every area of the body apart from the lower legs, head, and hands, allowing flexibility while not sacrificing the natural agility of the Argonian. Ilend gave him a short nod in greeting before turning back to Fons and his assailant.
"Aerin, he pisses me off as well, but at least I don't go around kicking his balls in." At the sound of his voice, Aerin paused, poised to sink her foot into the unfortunate Dunmer's ribs, before spinning to face Ilend.
"Well, what the fuck am I meant ta do when he sneers down his nose at me and tells me, in a polite sense, to fuck off out of here?" she asked him, eyes flashing in anger. The Argonian by the door let out an audible, exasperated sigh that was ignored.
Ilend rubbed his chin. "I'd have gone for the nose. Break that and you ruin his 'perfect' face." The Imperial grimaced. "I would do it right now, but I'd probably be chucked out, and it's only my second day."
Fons attempted to squeak something, but Aerin turned and kicked him in the ribs. "Well, at least now he knows not to fuck with me. Doesn't the Guild train it's members how ta welcome potential customers or whatever you call em?" Aerin spat at Fons then backed away. "Well, at least that's settled," she sighed, the anger draining from her eyes. "Hello, by the way. Is there anywhere here where we could talk?"
Ilend nodded, shooting a last glare at Fons, who was dragging himself to his feet. "Follow me," he told her, leading the way out of the hall to the dining area. Without invitation, the Argonian fell in behind them. Ilend made no comment, assuming that he was with Aerin. The room was unoccupied, and Ilend took a seat at the long table, gesturing for the others to do the same. Sunlight filtered onto the bare stone floor through numerous windows, illuminating the various bowls of food dotting the table and nearby shelves.
Aerin took a moment to shift her sword hilts out of her stomach, then launched into speech. "Ok, firstly, I reckon I should introduce Saliith, Hero of the Imperial City Arena and an all-round nice bloke, at least in my estimation." Saliith inclined his head and Ilend nodded in return. "I'll let him tell the full story if he wants to, but, basically, he needs ta stay away from the Arena for a while, so I thought there'd be no harm in letting him tag along with us." Saliith gave an almost imperceptible snort.
It took Ilend a second to understand. "You mean... taking him along to Cloud Ruler Temple when we're summoned?" he asked. He didn't suspect Saliith of being a Mythic Dawn Agent, but he shared Gorgoth's views that it was best not to be too trusting. "Are you sure you trust him that much?"
"Well, obviously, we'll have to and see what Gorgoth thinks," replied Aerin. "But we could really use a guy like Saliith, Ilend. He's trustworthy and good enough to reach Hero rank."
At this point, Saliith broke his silence. "Gorgoth?" he asked. "You mean Gorgoth gro-Kharz?" There was recognition in his voice. Both Ilend and Aerin simultaneously nodded. The lizard nodded in satisfaction. "I owe part of my success to him," he rasped. "Never expected to find that much help from an Orc, but life's full of surprises." At that last part, he seemed to grimace – it was hard to tell what an Argonian was feeling through facial expressions – and fell silent again.
"So, what now?" asked Aerin, her mood brightening as she pushed back her chair, stood, and started pacing around the room. Saliith leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, apparently deep in thought. "I heard that you've already been on a goblin hunt; is there anything else exciting to do in this dump?" The Bosmer stopped to look at a fruit bowl before dismissing the contents as over-ripe.
"Hey, I was born here," growled Ilend, rising to his feet and slamming his chair back into place with more force than was strictly necessary.
Aerin turned to face him, eyebrow arched. "I thought you were born in Kvatch?" she queried.
"Gah, do you have a selectively good memory? I was born here, joined the Kvatch Guard when I was nineteen. Kept up regular visits back here, though, even after my parents died."
"Why didn't you join the Skingrad Guard?" Aerin was peering out through the windows at the cobbled street.
"Because being a guard here is a loathsome, boring existence. Nothing ever happens and the pay is the shittiest in Cyrodiil." Ilend snorted in disgust at the conditions the guard had to endure. Still, it could be worse. It could have been the Bravil Guard. Ilend inwardly shuddered at the very thought of serving in that mud-infested, crime-ridden hellhole.
"So... you're saying it's a dump?" A smirk was playing at the corner of Aerin's mouth as she looked up at the Imperial, who seemed to be on the verge of a minor apoplectic fit.
"Right, as you were saying, I think there might be something to do to occupy us," stated Ilend briskly, avoiding the question and turning his back on Aerin as he went through to the hall. Fons had recovered and had either gone out or retreated to some inner depth of the Guildhall. A quick check over his shoulder confirmed that the Argonian and the Bosmer were both following him, Saliith still deep in thought and Aerin wearing an annoying, superior smirk. Ilend ignored her and barged shoulder-first into Ah-Malz's office.
The Warder liked to keep his office in a permanent state of chaos for some reason, though there were few enough documents to get lost or misplaced. Written contracts littered the Argonian's desk, along with several pens, an overturned inkpot, and a small dagger. Ah-Malz himself had his scaled, bare, webbed feet up on the table and was leaning back in his chair, which had two legs off the ground. The Warder was casually throwing darts at a dartboard mounted on the wall to the right of him while reading a report, meaning that every single dart missed the target by several feet. The wall around the dartboard was pitted and scarred by the numerous misses. On the other walls hung trophies taken from various goblin hunts.
Ah-Malz looked up as they entered and swung his chair back onto four legs, thus forcing his legs up to an impossible angle and compacting his stomach quite painfully, at the same time as dropping a dart onto the bare wood floor. Rasping a stream of curses, the Argonian pushed himself away from his desk, which was nailed to the floor, and stood, wrenching the dart out of the floorboards as he did so. "How can I help you, Ilend?" he asked, eyeing the Imperial's companions curiously.
"A contract would be nice," grunted Ilend. "I'll be in town until I get a message of some kind, so I need something to occupy me and the two people behind me, who just happen to have attached themselves to me as my companions." Aerin started forward, evidently intending to introduce herself properly, but Ilend waved her back.
Ah-Malz started rummaging through the pile of papers on his desk. "Fortunately for you, I have just the thing," he rasped, fishing out a crumpled contract. "This just came in yesterday. A farmer, Thorley Aethelred, who lives up at Shardrock farm, wants us to go up there and dispatch a few bears. He can't pay us much in the way of gold, so it'll be a more long-term benefit, but I'll chip in enough to make it worth your while. You up for it?"
Ilend smiled. "Better than nothing," he confirmed, taking out his map of the surrounding area. Ah-Malz marked Shardrock farm on it and recommended that he set off immediately.
"If you do it quickly, you can probably get back here before dusk," advised the Argonian as he showed them out. "When you get there, Thorley can explain in more detail. He seemed like a good enough bloke when he came in here yesterday. Best of luck." The door to his office slammed shut behind him, and almost immediately there was the sound of a dart hitting the wall.
"Well, killing bears is a long way away from the Arena, but at least I'll be focusing," observed Saliith. He bared an inch of steel on both his shortswords and ran a hand over the hilts of his throwing knives.
Ilend raised an eyebrow, but Aerin quickly diverted him. "We've got horses in the stables," she told him. "That lizard advised us ta leave now, so... should we?"
"Ah-Malz gives solid advice," replied Ilend. "The sooner we leave, the better. I'm ready when you are."
Within minutes, they were in the Grateful Pass stables, retrieving their horses from Ugak gra-Mogakh. Javelin and Firebrand were both eager to go, but Saliith clearly wasn't at home on horseback and his mount reflected that; the shabby bay horse was clearly past his best, though he still apparently had some vigour left in him, as sheer determination enabled him to keep up with the faster, stronger horses over rough terrain as they headed towards Shardrock farm.
The sun, directly overhead, meant that there were few shadows, yet the crumbling, ruined old fortress of Crowhaven still seemed oppressive. Creeping ivy and old age was tearing down its walls, but age had also brought with it an evil aura and a sense of barely-restrained malice. There was little evidence of the town that would once have surrounded the castle, save for a few rotting beams dotted around the slopes of the hill. Few people came here anymore, but it was a landmark that was hard to forget, so directions had been easy to get; Gorgoth had barely stayed five minutes in Anvil after reaching it earlier that morning before heading off to find proof of the Grey Prince's nobility.
Vorguz tossed his head and snorted impatiently. Gorgoth stroked the stallion's mane to calm him down. He was a fine horse, but young and fairly inexperienced. Patience and resolve would come to him with good training and experience. Vorguz was no Orsinium warhorse, but, for now, he was more than good enough for Gorgoth. Seeing no further point in sitting and observing the ruin, the Orc dug his heels in slightly and Vorguz trotted up to the archway leading to the inner fortress.
Gorgoth dismounted in one smooth movement, leading Vorguz over to a nearby shattered pillar and tying his reins to a rusted iron rung. Patting the horse once again, Gorgoth turned, loosened his mace, and walked into the ruin. The sun bathed the courtyard in sunlight, yet the light itself seemed dimmed somehow. There truly was a shadow over the place. Gorgoth himself was unaffected; he had seen and felt far worse.
Crossing the courtyard to the heavy pair of iron doors that led to the deeper sections of the fort, Gorgoth noticed a skeleton half-hidden in the tall grass. Probably some adventurer who had got out of his depth. Putting his hand on the door, Gorgoth frowned and turned. His suspicions had proved correct; the skeleton was now standing and facing him, a steel claymore grasped in its bony hands.
As the skeleton advanced, Gorgoth took no action except to mutter the incantation for a spell under his breath. Most of his magics only used incantations to increase the power or magnitude, but the brand of necromancy that Gorgoth had learnt required verbal stimuli in several cases. The warrior-shaman raised his right hand and black magicka spewed forth, enveloping the skeleton, undoing the magics that bound its life force to its ancient, decrepit body. The black flows faded and the skeleton collapsed to the ground, the last vestige of life finally departing from the remains. Gorgoth turned and wrenched open the door, the heavy iron-reinforced wood scraping over the grass as though it had never been opened in years.
The musty smell of an old ruin mingled with something more sinister as Gorgoth walked in, his heavy boots sending up clouds of dust. There were times when the Orc almost thought he could sense evil due to his magical prowess; now was one of those times. If the fortress of Crowhaven looked evil from the inside, it most definitely felt like it on the inside. Gorgoth looked around, yellow eyes adjusting to the gloom, and snorted, the sound seeming like an explosion in the silence. Cobwebs grew in shadowy corners, stones were loosening in crumbling walls, and a thick layer of dust was everywhere. Crowhaven was the very definition of decrepit.
Gorgoth reached into his armour and, after some rummaging, brought out the old iron key that Agronak had given him. Aged and slightly rusty, it seemed to fit in with its place of origin. The warrior-shaman made his way through the fort, peering cautiously around every corner, seeing shadows flitting in and out of his peripheral vision. He cast his combat cocktail of shield and resistance spells; it was always best to be prepared. The dim light failed to penetrate most of the gloom, meaning anything could leap out of the shadows with no prior warning.
After negotiating several tunnels, each seemingly more decayed than the last, Gorgoth finally came to a securely locked door. The lock on it was rusted, but evidently very powerful; a brief use of Alteration magic had no effect. Instead of bringing his full magical powers to bear, Gorgoth simply inserted Agronak's key into the door. There was a screech of rust and a loud clank as the mighty lock disengaged. Gorgoth dragged the door open, ignoring the screaming hinges and the billowing clouds of dust.
Abruptly, the feeling of evil that Gorgoth had been aware of intensified. As he moved into the dark hallway, his sharp ears picked up whimpering and mutterings. Not being able to judge where these sounds were coming from, he continued down the long corridor, drawing his mace. The mutterings got louder, sounding like the ramblings of a crazed madman, and when Gorgoth was halfway down the hall, a figure appeared from around the corner.
It was hard to determine what race the vampire had been; he was shrivelled and hunched, with skin paler than milk and lank grey hair reaching his shoulders. Ribs and bones jutted out at every angle, stretching the pale skin over his wasted frame. The red eyes, set deep in the gaunt, sunken face had a crazed look to them, and his insane ramblings, delivered in a voice that was reminiscent of fingernails scratching on a blackboard, confirmed to Gorgoth that this vampire had not fed for decades and thus was completely, utterly insane. He raised his mace, keeping it at the ready.
Upon seeing Gorgoth, the vampire's eyes widened, and his pale tongue ran itself over his fangs, which were so developed that they almost as big as Gorgoth's canines. The vampire hissed something; Gorgoth didn't catch the exact words, but he could tell that the vampire was both happy for his release and consumed by bloodlust; he could hear Gorgoth's heartbeat, sense the flow of the blood around his body. Screaming in both rage and ecstasy, the vampire leapt for Gorgoth's throat.
Gorgoth's speed had always been surprising from one so big, but he simply could not swing his mace fast enough to stop the vampire, who crashed into the Orc at full speed. The sheer strength lent to the vampire by his condition resulted in Gorgoth flying and crashing back down the corridor, only a death-grip on his mace preventing it from being torn from his hand. He had barely stopped moving when the vampire was on him again, sinking a kick into his ribs. Gorgoth was smashed into a wall, his armour absorbing much of the damage, but the impact was still great enough to drive the air from his lungs and bruise his spine.
Using his years of experience and training, Gorgoth rose up in a rising charge the second he hit the floor, smashing his shoulder into the vampire. It was now the turn of the undead to go sprawling down the corridor. He rose again nearly instantly, but was slowed to a pained hobble; in kicking Gorgoth's heavily armoured side with his bare foot, he had probably broken every bone beneath his ankle. The warrior-shaman, unconscious combat snarl plastered over his face, moved forward, meeting a lunge with a devastating mace smash into the vampire's ribs.
Undead bones reacted exactly the same way as living bones when confronted with the blunt head of a mace; Gorgoth heard them shatter, the fragments tumbling through the vampire's ribcage, puncturing his lungs. What used to be a perfectly healthy Imperial screeched in pain as he was thrown against the wall by the power of Gorgoth's swing. Ignoring the pain, but unable to ignore the debilitation that stemmed from having a third of his ribs broken, he scrambled to his feet, only to be kicked in the mouth. Before the now-toothless vampire could recover, Gorgoth had put all his strength into a savage kick at the vampire's temple. The undead slid over the floor, turning to dust before Gorgoth's eyes. Within seconds, the only evidence of the vampire ever having been there was a pile of grey ashes and a pair of filthy sack cloth trousers.
Gorgoth growled and winced as he moved back up the corridor, attempting to feel the extent of the damage to his ribs through his armour. Despite the vampire's foot shattering on his steel plate, the sheer force of the kick had left a sizeable dent; he could repair it himself later, but for the time being, the integrity of his plate armour would be reduced. It was not only his armour that was damaged; he couldn't tell whether some of his ribs were broken, cracked, or merely bruised, but he knew that they hurt. Directing healing magic at the afflicted area solved the problem.
The corridor led to what once would have been a fine bedchamber, but the years had taken their toll; the four-poster bed had partly collapsed and was covered in cobwebs; the various cabinets and drawers were damaged and dusty, and the carpets covering the stone floor were worn and faded. Decades of hosting a ravenous vampire, driven mad with bloodlust, meant that there was little that was undamaged in some way. Gorgoth started searching for something, anything, that might be regarded as proof of Agronak's noble blood.
After destroying most of the room in the search for proof, the Orc finally came across an ancient, leather-bound book. Written on the first page in fine paper were the words Journal of the Lord Lovidicus. Yellow eyes lighting up at the prospect of finally getting what he had come for, Gorgoth started turning the pages, sinking down onto the four-poster bed, ignoring both the dangerous creaking and the numerous spiders scuttling away from this massive intruder.
With growing interest, Gorgoth read the account of the latter years of Lord Lovidicus, a Cyrodiilic nobleman who had ruled Crowhaven and the surrounding area, and who had fathered Agronak with his Orcish lover, Luktuv. The warrior-shaman showed no signs of surprise when he discovered that Lord Lovidicus was, in fact, a vampire; he'd suspected as much when he'd first met the vampire whose ashes were now piled in the corridor. He didn't know what Agronak would think of it, but this journal was irrefutable proof of his noble birth, even if the last quarter of the book was full of insane ramblings about blood. Gorgoth stood and slid the book into the pack he'd brought with him.
Walking back through Crowhaven to the doors leading out to the exterior battlements, Gorgoth noted a definite change in the atmosphere. It was almost as though a collective breath, held for decades, had been released when Lovidicus had died. While remaining morbid and forbidding, the atmosphere no longer had the threatening feeling of malice that had once permeated the old fort.
Stepping outside, Gorgoth let the door swing shut behind him as he shaded his eyes from the harsh light of the sun. He hadn't been in Crowhaven for long – the sun was still climbing towards its zenith – but it still took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust. Vorguz was patiently waiting for him outside the gates, chewing on some nearby grass. After untying his reins, Gorgoth shoved the journal into a saddlebag and mounted the stallion. He turned Vorguz in the direction of Anvil and dug in his heels.
The island of Whiterock lay thirty miles off the coast of Anvil. Named for its white rocks, the island was tiny, measuring only a few square miles of mostly forested land. Despite being so close to Anvil, it was well away from any trade routes and thus was very isolated; the perfect place to live in solitude, the perfect retreat for those who did not want to be found. The only signs of habitation were the handful of shacks and small houses, each quite far from its nearest neighbour, which housed the island's population of seventeen. A wooden jetty hosted a fair-sized boat which was the only real contact with the outside world, two brothers making the weekly trip to Anvil and back for supplies.
Nothing ever really happened on Whiterock; the population, consisting mostly of hermits and fugitives, kept to themselves mostly. However, as fate would have it, Mehrunes Dagon, in all his wisdom, had decided that the island would make a good staging post for the attack on Anvil and had ordered the creation of a Gate on Whiterock, right in the centre of the island.
"Won't they see the sky in Anvil?" asked Marie Otius, a Breton mage who'd been living on Whiterock for the last twenty-eight years. In her youth, she had been good-looking, but as old age beckoned, deep lines were appearing in her face, and streaks of grey marred her long brown hair. However, she still retained her magical ability, the reason why she was one of the inhabitants of the island who was still alive; the front of her dress was stained with blood, and a rip over her stomach showed where the Dremora had slashed her.
"They might see a red glow, but nothing more than that," replied her husband, Merildan, an Altmer. "It's a matter of perspective; we see it as horizon to horizon, but it isn't actually covering the entire world; it just looks like it is." The High Elf had brought his wife to the island with him for a quiet life and had never regretted his decision. He himself was a lot more prepared for the daedric invasion; at the first sign of trouble, he had rushed to his secret storage area behind the bookshelf and donned his old suit of light plate armour, which covered him from neck to feet. His katana was stained with the blood of daedra, and most of his magicka was gone, but he was unharmed, for now.
The Oblivion Gate was standing tall in the middle of the island, surrounded with scorched earth and the bodies of daedra. Trees nearby had been burnt to the ground or had collapsed due to the unique nature of the portal. Over roaring of the flames and the shouts of the inhabitants, the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks could barely be heard. Marie shivered and drew closer to her husband. "I'm worried, Meril. What are we going to do?"
Merildan coughed, covering his mouth with his fist. It was a recurring affliction that became more noticeable under stress. "I don't like it, Marie, but we'll have to close it." When his wife looked at him, fear etched into her lined face, he continued: "If they take Whiterock, they can attack Anvil. They have mages; they can walk on water." His cultured voice was grim. "Going in and closing it is my – our – only choice. Besides, it is my duty." The Altmer looked down at his katana and grimaced. It was finely made in the Akaviri style.
Marie noticed his glance. "You were released from your oath," she reminded him. "I'm not having you dying out of some misplaced sense of duty-" Merildan cut her off.
"Once a Blade, always a Blade." He sighed heavily and headed over to where most of the surviving islanders were gathered. His status as a retired Altmer battlemage had given him some limited authority over the other inhabitants of Whiterock, and, when the civilised anarchy needed a leader, he'd historically always assumed the role. Now leadership was an unwanted burden on his shoulders, but he bore it stoically, never flinching once from what his duty dictated. Just like the old days.
Antus Doran, the elder of the two Doran brothers, who operated the island's only ship, was speaking in his loud, gravelly voice, bloodied sword in hand, gesturing violently at the gate and then in the direction of Anvil. "No, I don't care for your excuses. There is simply no way we can hold those daedra back, mages or no mages. Now, we need to-" He stopped abruptly as Merildan shouldered his way into the crowd.
"Antus, you and Garrus will go to your ship and make it ready for the voyage to Anvil," announced Merildan, allowing the crowd to share a few smiles of relief before continuing. "The rest will stay here for now. Some will remain here, while most of us will have to enter Oblivion to close that Gate. The-" His voice was drowned out in an instant uproar, with everyone shouting at once, some looking positively terrified at going near the Gate, let alone entering it. Merildan sighed and started wiping the blood from his katana; he knew better than to attempt to control the crowd; he was no good at it.
Predictably, he received help in the form of a half-elf drawing himself up and bellowing "SHUT UP!" at the top of his lungs. His son's mighty voice could quell even the Doran brothers when they got drunk, so he was very useful to have around, even though if his magical talent was slightly lacking. However, Merildan was no average Altmer, and there mere thought of culling his only son still repelled him. He loved Hannibal and his sister Selene with all his heart and more; he couldn't have asked for better children given the circumstances. Whiterock Island was no place to bring up children possessing such talent, but they had expressed an odd desire to stay after hearing his tales of the mainland.
Shaking his head and bringing himself back to the present, Merildan realised that the islanders were all looking to him for either guidance or an explanation; he himself hadn't been listening to Hannibal's exhortations. "As I was saying," he started, his voice calm and level. "We must go in and close the Gate, leaving behind a small guard to prevent the ship from being overrun. If the Gate is not closed, then Dagon and his minions can use this island to attack Anvil." Merildan paused and leaned forward. "We do not want another Kvatch at Anvil. I need volunteers."
The first to step forward, surprisingly, was Gnaeus Magnus, one of the more reclusive hermits of the island. Having been there long before Merildan had arrived, the Imperial was wizened with age; his sun-dark skin was drawn tight over his lithe frame, and a close-cropped white beard seemed to give him an appearance of wisdom, which was reinforced by his piercing blue eyes, which would not have looked out of place on a hawk. Some put his age at around seventy, some said even more, but in his hands was a bloody broadsword made from the finest ebony, and the front of his tunic was stained with daedric blood.
"I guess I should tell you that neither you nor I are going through that gate," stated Gnaeus, pointing a shrivelled finger at Merildan. His voice was clear and, despite his age, he still had most of his teeth. "Me, because I'm too bloody old to be running around in the realm of some upstart Daedric Prince, and you because you're the best healer we have; you can't keep up a defence with a few people without having holes poked in them."
Merildan grunted, but, upon thinking about it, agreed with the old hermit. While his daughter Selene was an excellent battlemage, he really wanted her in the attack, and the few other mages on the island were simply not as good as either of them at Restoration. "You have a point, Magnus," he said to the Imperial, who grunted and nodded. "Now, I need volunteers to go through that Gate." He looked at the surrounding islanders. "It's our only hope, Anvil's only hope," he added for inspiration.
It came as no surprise to him that his two children stepped forward together in unison. Aged twenty-eight and twenty-six, Hannibal and Selene were by far the two youngest people on the island, and were arguably the most effective in combat; Hannibal was a master with his blade and used supplementary magic to great effect, while Selene could smash open any battle line with her magic then dance through the gaps, wielding her elegant weapon, a glaive, with almost poetic effectiveness. Both were unique among the races of Tamriel; as half-Altmer, they had a slightly golden tint to their complexions; Golden hair exactly the same shade as his own cascaded from their heads, their ears were slightly pointed, and their heads were longer than the more rounded shape of a breton skull. Other than that, they were mostly Breton. Hannibal was clad in his chainmail that had arrived from Anvil all those years ago, while Selene wore an odd assortment of armour; her head was bare; heavy steel gauntlets and pauldrons covered her arms, and her legs were shod in steel boots and greaves that reached to mid-thigh, but her only other armour was a short chainmail skirt and a short chainmail cuirass that barely covered half her chest and always seemed too flimsy to be of much protection. No matter how much Merildan disapproved of his daughter flaunting herself in this manner, she claimed that her armour suited her fighting style the best, and he was grudgingly inclined to agree.
Next to step forward was Marie, but Merildan stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. "You're staying here," was all he said. The stubborn look in his eyes told her that he wouldn't be budged on this matter, and she reluctantly stepped back.
Gradually, most of the islanders realised that there was no way out of their predicament and trickled forward to join Hannibal and Selene. Merildan led the motley band to the gate and placed the handful of defenders in a loose perimeter. The Doran brothers were sent to make their ship ready, while Marie made sure that the attackers were well-stocked with potions; several knew Restoration quite well, but anyone was vulnerable to a spell of Silence.
Miraculously, throughout the long minutes of preparation, no attack came from the gate. Merildan grew uneasy; the Dremora had to be planning a big attack; the islanders might be walking into an entire legion of them. Still, he had no choice but to watch as his grim-faced son raised his sword to him in a final salute before leading the company through the Gate. Merildan sighed and took his place among the defenders. It would be a long day.
Aerin grunted as she wrenched her arrow out of the skull of a West Weald bear. It had been firmly lodged in the thick skull of her target, and she almost overbalanced as it finally dislodged. Rising to her feet, the Bosmer took one look at the tip and growled in disgust; the arrowhead was bent. Tossing aside the now-useless arrow, she drew her dagger and once again bent down beside the bear, starting to hack off its fangs.
Thorley Aethelred was a simple man with a simple task; West Weald bears, more violent and dangerous than the normal variety, were killing off his sheep, his livelihood. He had tasked the Fighters Guild to kill enough of them to drive them from the area, and to bring him back enough of their fangs as evidence of their killing. Ilend, Aerin, and Saliith had all agreed that defeating bears in combat was something they could each do easily, and so had decided to split up to make the hunting quicker. They were to meet up again at Shardrock farm at some point soon after midday. Given that their only method of timekeeping was the sun, Aerin estimated that it was unlikely that they would all arrive back at the same time.
The hunter pulled the bear's second fang free from its mouth and added the new pair to the three pairs already shoved through her belt. She smirked as she thought of the others; they had little to no experience of hunting, and she was willing to bet Trueshot that they were having a lot more difficulty in actually finding the bears than she was. Tracking the bears, for her, was easy; they didn't seem to care much about the trail of bent grasses and damaged bushes their heavy, muscular bodies left behind them as they made their way through the wilderness in search of their next meal.
Straightening, Aerin squinted up at the sun through the canopy of trees, then down at her own shadow. She wasn't the best at judging time, but it was probably better to arrive back at Shardrock earlier than late. The Bosmer started to make her way back to the farm, trusting in her sense of direction and the tracks she'd left on her hunt. She certainly wasn't expecting a bear to find her.
The Bosmer was so surprised by the massive bear's sudden appearance right in front of her that she didn't have time to get Trueshot off her back before her nemesis had closed the distance. Aerin had relied on Trueshot for her previous four kills, and knew that her shortswords wouldn't do much good against a bear as big as this prime example; she was fairly good with them, but it was a matter of strength and power required to penetrate the animal's tough hide, neither of which she could count among her assets. Aerin decided that discretion was the better part of valour and ran.
However, she didn't panic, and within seconds was back on the track leading back to Shardrock farm, doing her best to outpace the angry bear behind her. A quick glance over her shoulder revealed that the massive ball of fur and meat was gaining; she knew that bears could move quickly when needed, but that knowledge was really no comfort to her at that moment; she'd be trampled into the leaf-strewn forest floor before she made it back to the farm. Growling in frustration, she managed to snatch Trueshot off her back at a run, slowing her momentarily. She could almost smell what she imagined to be the stench of the bear's last meal.
Running past a tree, Aerin grabbed it and used her momentum to flip herself up onto a branch. The bear roared and reared up on its hind legs, razor-sharp claws ripping open the bark mere inches below Aerin's feet. In a state of near-panic, the Bosmer scrambled further up the tree before turning and nocking an arrow. She waited for her breathing to slow and for her hands to steady before releasing the arrow into the bear's eye. The entire tree trembled as the enormous creature slumped forward into it. Aerin collapsed against the tree as the adrenaline left her, leaning her head back and sucking in vast lungfuls of air. At the very least, she wanted to be composed before she got back to Shardrock; if the others knew how close the 'experienced hunter' had came to death, she'd probably never hear the end of it, especially as she had bragged about her hunting skill half the way there.
Ilend was already back at the farm by the time she returned, significantly calmed. He was sitting on a tree stump, sharpening his daedric longsword. Two pairs of fangs lay on a tree stump next to him. He looked up at her approach, nodded in greeting, then went back to applying his whetstone to the daedric steel. Aerin still wasn't sure how he could treat the weapon so manner-of-factly; he'd taken it from a dead Dremora in the Battle of Kvatch. If it had been her, she'd have been showing it off to everyone as proof of the part she had taken in the battle. But, then, she hadn't been a Kvatch guardsman at the time, and she certainly wasn't a soldier. Ilend, no doubt, had his reasons.
"Saliith not back yet?" she asked airily, flopping down cross-legged on the ground beside Ilend's tree stump and beginning to idly play with the grass.
"Yes, actually, he's invisible and is standing right behind you," muttered Ilend. Aerin didn't catch the undercurrent of sarcasm in his voice and actually twisted round to look behind her. Upon hearing the Imperial sniggering, she turned and glared at him before placing her ten fangs on the tree stump next to his four. "Not a bad haul, but, then, you are the only hunter here," was Ilend's reaction. He straightened and put his whetstone back in his saddlebag, which was lying on the grass next to him. Their horses were tied to a fence post just outside the sheep's pasture. The Imperial thrust his sword through a loop in his belt – he'd yet to have a scabbard made to hold it – and stood up, surveying the edge of the forest.
"So, who is this lizard?" asked Ilend, looking down at Aerin with a curious look on his face. He'd obviously been interested in Saliith ever since they first met, but this was the first opportunity he'd had with Aerin alone to ask her about him.
The Bosmer sighed and got to her feet. Even straining for every inch of height – not that it was important in this case – the top of her ponytail barely reached Ilend's considerable biceps. "You should hear most of his story from him," she told him, folding her arms and leaning back on one leg. "What I will tell you is that he's Hero rank in the Arena, but needs to spend some time away from it for a while. Personal issues."
Ilend grunted in frustration. "That's basically a rewording of what you've already told me, treehugger," he muttered sourly.
Aerin raised an annoyed eyebrow. "We don't hug trees," she told him coolly. Any Wood Elf disliked being called a 'treehugger'; living in trees didn't necessarily mean that they embraced them.
"Well, you call Gorgoth 'big guy' and me 'guardsman', to name but a few," retorted Ilend. "I figure that we might as well make up a few for you." Aerin snorted, but otherwise stayed silent. Ilend had a point. "Anyhow, don't change the subject. Surely you can tell me his background."
"To be honest with you, Ilend, I really don't know all that much about his past," admitted Aerin, spreading her arms wide. "All I know is that he was born in Black Marsh and later emigrated, alone, to Cyrodiil, where he later joined the Arena and rapidly rose through the ranks. Happy now?" Aerin had an innate sense of loyalty; Saliith's traumatic experience in the Arena yesterday wasn't hers to share; it was Saliith's tale to tell when he was ready.
"Not really," grunted Ilend. "If we're going to be fighting alongside him... well, let's just say I'd prefer to know more about our potential allies." He raised his hands in defence as Aerin raised her eyebrow with a questioning air. "It can't hurt to be sure," he said. The Bosmer pointedly sniffed as though his questioning of her friend's loyalty had been a personal slight. Ilend sighed and took a swig from his canteen.
After a few minutes, Saliith arrived, his green scales almost blending in with the forest, though the sun reflecting off his scale armour would ruin any attempts at camouflage. He silently walked up and placed four fangs on top of the already considerable pile. "Pretty tough up front, but easy if you get behind em. My blades can penetrate deep enough to be fatal, thankfully." After delivering this report, the Argonian withdrew one of his throwing knives and started rubbing at a stubborn patch of bear blood with a ragged cloth.
"Well, that was quick," observed Ilend, squinting up at the sun as he collected up the fangs. "This'll be more than enough to appease Thorley, and we'll probably be back in time for dinner." A slight tremor erupting from his stomach reminded him that he hadn't eaten since the morning, and he hurried into the farmhouse. Thorley, sitting in a weathered armchair and reading a battered book, looked up at his approach and smiled at the sight of the fangs clenched in Ilend's fists.
"Now, that IS a weight you've taken off my shoulders," he congratulated, rising slowly and gesturing for Ilend to lay them on the table. The fangs, many with bits of gum still attached, made a clattering sound as Ilend dropped them on the stout wooden table. "I doubt they'll be coming back to these killing fields any time soon." The farmer shot Ilend a toothy grin. "I can't pay you much, but I can spare a hundred gold. It's worth it for saving my livelihood." The Breton pushed across a small bag of gold to the Guildsman. "If you're passing by-" At this, they both smirked at the low chance of that ever happening "- feel free to come in and read at your heart's content. I never lend books, but read all you can." The farmer gestured at a bookcase that was by far the largest feature in the otherwise cramped farmhouse; it took up half a wall, the wooden shelves creaking under the weight of books that ranged from tattered to fine hide-bound volumes in pristine condition.
"I'll keep it in mind if I'm ever nearby and caught in a storm, Thorley," reassured Ilend before nodding in farewell and leaving the farmhouse. Ah-Malz had been right; Thorley had been a good man to deal with, effective in the description of what had to be done without being too obstructive, and truly grateful on completion. True, the contract had been a bit tedious and not exactly very rewarding, but it had been easy; if all future contracts were like this, Ilend could see why most of the Skingrad branch spent their time hunting goblins.
Outside, Saliith was cleaning the last of the bear blood from his throwing knives while Aerin was talking to Firebrand in a hushed tone. Ilend secured Thorley's payment by putting it in his saddlebag, which he then returned to its proper place, hanging from Javelin's saddle. "Saddle up," he ordered the other two. "I don't want to be hanging around here for too long. There's a special offer for dinner over at the West Weald Inn and I intend to be there for it." Ilend turned and hoisted himself up onto Javelin's saddle. The chestnut had long since grown used to the weight of the Imperial and his heavy armour, and merely snorted. Within minutes, the small party was carving a path through the West Weald, going as the crow flies back to Skingrad.
Gorgoth looked up from his book as a log settled into a different position in the fireplace. He idly looked out of the window, and saw that the sky was much unchanged; a sea of stars reigning in a cloudless night sky. The warrior-shaman sighed and settled further back onto the chair, ignoring its creaking, as he turned a page of Mixed Unit Tactics. He had read it already, of course; he'd filled his mind with every source of military knowledge available, then added to it from his own experiences on the field of battle. The reading was merely a way of passing the time. Norbert Lelles had been unable to be specific about the exact time the thieves broke into his store, but it was always some time after he'd gone to bed. It meant a lot of waiting for Gorgoth, but it was still better than his first assignment.
After returning to Anvil from Crowhaven, Gorgoth had immediately signed up to the Fighter's Guild, had been immediately accepted and had immediately found some grunt work to keep him occupied. He'd barely spent a few minutes in the Guildhall before being sent to deal with a rat problem plaguing Arvena Thelas. It had turned out that the rats were not the problem; it was the mountain lions killing them. After keeping his disbelief muted, Gorgoth had joined Pinarus Inventius, a local hunter, in tracking down and exterminating some of the local mountain lions, a pathetically easy task.
Upon returning to Arvena, Gorgoth had found, to his immense disbelief and slight horror, that the Dunmer was even more hysterical. After dispatching a second mountain lion, he'd eventually agreed, grudgingly, to spy on Arvena's neighbour, Quill-Weave. After sitting around for hours in the Dunmer's back garden, invisible, bored, and disillusioned, the Argonian had eventually appeared and chucked some meat on the ground. Gorgoth had confronted her, and after some 'persuasion', she had admitted everything. Gorgoth returned to Arvena and was so eager to escape the Dunmer's pathetic gratitude that he almost forgot to collect his payment.
After shouting at Azzan, the local Guardian, for several minutes over the absurdity of his assignment, Gorgoth was promised a better one by the Redguard, and was promptly sent out to combat thieves breaking into Lelle's Quality 'Mercandise', arguably the funniest street sign in Anvil. Upon hearing the problem, Gorgoth had settled down to wait. Lelles stocked a fine selection of books, and Gorgoth had already got through half of Mixed Unit Tactics, an account of Khajiiti tactics used in the Five Years War. Despite being completely illiterate until his twelfth year, he could read quickly; it was writing that defeated him. He much preferred speech, as his handwriting was an untidy scrawl that barely anyone could read, let alone understand.
A clicking in the lock mechanism, an indication of powerful Alteration magic, snapped Gorgoth's head up. He swiftly replaced the book and cast an invisibility spell. While they suffered from limitations, the Orc preferred invisibility over chameleon spells when remaining stationary; an eagle-eyed man or mer could spot the faintest ripples that resulted from even the most refined chameleon spells.
They entered the shop quickly and quietly, a Bosmer, a Dunmer, and a Nord, closing the door behind them before spreading out, having clearly pre-identified their targets. Gorgoth remained seated, invisible; the Dunmer came close enough for the Orc to feel his breath, but he remained undetected; none of them had thought to cast a detect life spell. Gorgoth's combat snarl was starting to form, but he kept his fists away from his mace; after the frustration of his last contract, he wanted something to invigorate his senses; using his mace on these half-trained thieves would be far too easy. He stood.
The heads of both mer whipped around and stared at the creak the chair made as Gorgoth's weight left it. The Nord drew an iron sword and twisted his head in every conceivable direction, looking for the hidden intruder. Wearing a ferocious mix of snarl and smile, Gorgoth appeared.
Roaring a war cry, seemingly ignoring the fact that he would be heard by half the docks, the Nord leapt at Gorgoth, who nimbly sidestepped, belying the weight of his armour. The Nord crashed headfirst into the bookshelf. Gorgoth spun and jabbed his straightened fingers into the thief's lower ribcage. The Nord howled in pain and rage as the armoured fingers of the Orc penetrated his skin and lacerated flesh as they passed through his body. Gorgoth withdrew his hand and turned to smash aside the Dunmer's claymore with his forearm. Stepping forward, he headbutted the ash-skinned mer, throwing him to the floor with a badly broken nose.
The Bosmer actually jumped in an effort to reach Gorgoth's neck with a dagger. Gorgoth merely grabbed him mid-jump, knelt, and brought the struggling Wood Elf down on his upraised knee. The warrior-shaman rolled the convulsing mer, definitely dead, off his knee and turned to face the Nord, who had managed to get himself out of the bookcase and was drawing back his sword for a thrust. Gorgoth punched him several times in the ribs, forcing him back, then spun and delivered a devastating roundhouse kick to the burly thief's throat. As he fell, choking, Gorgoth ducked, letting the Dunmer's claymore swish through empty air.
Turning, Gorgoth proceeded to disarm the Dark Elf and give him what was probably the worst beating he had ever sustained in his life. Eventually, after growing bored of kicking him around the shop and snapping his bones like twigs, the warrior-shaman stepped back and held out a hand, which started to glow purple. As the complex inverse water breathing spell started to take effect, the Dunmer feebly started to cough and choke; water poured out of his mouth, and he struggled to claw his way to Gorgoth, plucking at his boots with shattered hands, presumably in a futile plea for mercy. The Orc remained resolute and kept up the spell until the Dunmer lay dead in a mixed pool of his own blood and magically-created water. Not the first drowning in Anvil by any means, but almost definitely the first drowning to take place in a shop completely devoid of any water, save for some in a vase in an attempt to keep a wilted bunch of roses alive.
Gorgoth stomped out of the shop, ignoring the blood staining his gauntlets, and headed over to The Flowing Bowl, the harbourside pub where Lelles was waiting for his report. Opening the door to the pub, light and laughter washed over the Orc as he stepped in. It was mostly full, with the patrons, mostly sailors, winding down after a hard days work. Gorgoth quickly located Lelles, the Breton standing out from his surroundings, sitting alone at a table with a tankard of beer before him. Apparently, the pub further down the harbour, the Fo'c's'le, was even less civilised than the Flowing Bowl. Gorgoth walked over to the Breton's table and sat down.
"Your problem's been solved," grunted Gorgoth before Lelles could speak. "A Bosmer, a Dunmer, and a Nord. You'll find them in the shop. The mess was unavoidable." That last part wasn't completely true; he could have killed them quickly and cleanly, but it would have been too bloody boring.
Nevertheless, the Breton seemed pleased. He smiled and pushed a bag of gold over to Gorgoth. "That's a relief," he sighed. "Now I feel safer knowing that they won't plague me any more. Here's your payment." He drained his tankard, got to his feet, and left. Gorgoth stuffed the bag into his belt and removed his gauntlets to clean them. Magically created ice, melted with fire, was good enough for the job and within minutes the gauntlets were free of any crimson, their grey surface unblemished. The warrior-shaman had been intrigued by the colour of the steel; in Orsinium, the locally-mined iron was refined in such a way that most of the resulting high-quality steel was a grey so dark it was sometimes mistaken for black; Gorgoth's own suit had been a fine example.
He got to his feet and walked out of the inn. A drunken sailor staggered into his path, and Gorgoth merely kept moving, his shoulder hitting the Imperial's head and sending him sprawling. In his advanced state, he was likely to fall into a drunken stupor simply lying there. Gorgoth snorted and continued out into the street.
At times, Gorgoth found himself wondering why the Countess tolerated a pirate presence on the streets and harbour of Anvil; these rogues, when out at sea, would be attacking and pillaging the Empire's ships, so he couldn't fathom why they were free to dock in Anvil. Understanding your enemy was the key to defeating him, but Gorgoth had found that at times it was very hard to understand the Imperial political system. He ignored the various pirates brawling on the streets and entered the city proper, making his way back to the Fighter's Guild, where lights were still showing, casting their warm glow out onto the cobbled street.
Stepping inside, Gorgoth walked around the practise area, where a middle-aged, experienced Redguard Guildsman, Rhano, Swordsman rank, was practising, his blade striking home in the dummy's vulnerable areas quickly and decisively. Gorgoth felt that he vaguely recognised him, but he couldn't place the Redguard in any of his memories. Moving on, the Orc made his way up the stairs, ignoring the inevitable creaking, and marched into Azzan's office. Despite the hour, the Redguard was still diligently chewing through some paperwork, though he looked incredibly bored. He looked up as Gorgoth walked in, a smirk tugging at a corner of his mouth, clearly wondering if he was in for another tirade about the low quality of a contract.
"If you hear a rumour about a Dunmer thief being drowned on dry land in a shop, the person telling you isn't mad," announced Gorgoth bluntly. Azzan smiled.
"Creative. I like that in a man," he chuckled. "I see potential in you, Orc. You're promoted to Apprentice, and I'd like to give you some more advanced work, but all the contracts I have are already assigned." The Redguard spread his arms wide in a gesture of helplessness. "You could try Burz gro-Khash in Cheydinhal; he has plenty of contracts and barely anyone to carry them out."
Gorgoth only considered for a second before making his decision. He'd received no word from Jauffre yet, and he could drop off the diary of Lord Lovidicus on the way to Cheydinhal, so he didn't see why he shouldn't partake in a bit more grunt work for the Fighter's Guild. It was better than sitting around bored in Cloud Ruler Temple with nothing to do but spar and hold long conversations with Medraka, a Xivilai he'd summoned many times in the past. "I'll see what he has to offer," he grunted, before turning and walking out.
Downstairs, Rhano was still practising diligently, not seeming to tire from the effort. Again, Gorgoth felt a flicker of recognition, and, again, it died. The Redguard seemed to have the same thoughts; he gave Gorgoth a second glance as he passed, a momentary cloud of confusion descending over his eyes before he focused once again on the practise dummy in front of him as the doors swung shut behind the departing Orc.
Gorgoth would normally have rested and spent the night at the Fighter's Guild, but after his prolonged sleep yesterday night, he didn't feel the need for more sleep at the moment; he'd sleep when necessary, but before that he intended to waste no time. He made his way out of the city gates, which the guards opened for him without any questioning; apparently they recognised the massive Orc as the Hero of Kvatch. Gorgoth had taken a dislike to the title as soon as he'd heard it; there was not one Hero of Kvatch, but many; he had been the driving force of the latter stages of the battle, true, but it was the Kvatch Guard who had contained the Daedra and prevented the complete destruction of Kvatch. Savlian Matius and his men deserved a lot more credit than what they were getting.
The warrior-shaman waited patiently while Vorguz was brought from the stables by a sleepy-looking ostler. Gorgoth mounted and within minutes was at full gallop up the Gold Road to Kvatch and beyond.
The Deadlands were living up to their name. Eleven of the population of Whiterock Island had ventured inside the Gate, and nine of them were now lying in Dagon's realm, never to return to Tamriel. Instead of the honoured graves they deserved, they would most likely be ignominiously tossed into the lava. Selene felt no sadness for her deceased companions; she couldn't. Letting her guard slip, even for a second, just to mourn her companions, would be fatal. Mourning could come later, when the Gate had been closed; for now, she was just concentrating on staying alive.
After entering the Gate, an unpleasant experience, the islanders had immediately been attacked by what was clearly Dagon's next attack wave; a squad of Dremora, a handful of Xivilai, and assorted lesser daedra. Six of the men and mer from Whiterock had fallen in the brutal fighting, but the powerful magic of Selene and Hannibal's martial might had been enough to blunt the daedric assault and eradicate them. Since then, they had fought through the Deadlands every step of the way to the massive obsidian tower that dominated the landscape. Merildan, before they had entered, told them that they had to find the anchor that chained the realm to Tamriel and remove it; he was unspecific as to what the anchor exactly was, but he assured them that the fight would be hard.
And it had been hard. Only Hannibal and Selene remained, and both were exhausted. Selene was crouched close to the ground, bloodied glaive leaning on her shoulder, a dull look in her eyes as she looked around them for any sign of life, using a powerful detect life spell. Hannibal was standing, sighing as he downed the last potion they had left; it invigorated him and washed away his fatigue, but the situation was still dire; the anchor had to be close, they were near the top of the tower, but he had no magicka left, and Selene barely had enough to maintain her detect life spell. There were numerous dents and scratches on his chainmail, and Selene's plate armour on her limbs were in a similarly bad state, but neither of them had sustained any serious wounds.
"Any movement?" asked Hannibal, his normally deep, bold voice harsh and rasping; neither of them had drunk anything for hours, and the heat of the Deadlands combined with the intense combat accelerated dehydration.
Selene blinked. "The same; there's three figures in the room up ahead, but I can't see any others," she replied, her own normally melodious voice barely managing a whisper. "It's not going to get better any time soon." She signed and struggled to her feet. "We have to get this over with, Hannibal. Who knows what Dagon is unleashing while we wait?"
Her brother's face contorted into a grimace, but he nodded in agreement and raised his steel scimitar once again. There were already notches in the blade where it had been forced through tough skin and bone. Together, the two siblings picked their way through the dark grey rocks that pockmarked the floor of this section of the tower. They eventually came to two archways leading into a spacious room where the magical anchor speared straight up through the centre. Ridges seemingly made form flesh stretched up to the highest point of the tower, but before the two half-elves could launch their final assault, they were spotted by a Xivilai.
"Chaxil! Xilinkar! The survivors have finally arrived!" The daedra's voice was deep and loud, and the seven-foot tall ash-skinned figure wasted no time in springing off the ledge and hefting a massive battleaxe in one hand. Hannibal and Selene instinctively started back towards the other ledge, which was clear. Two Dremora, both clad in full daedric plate armour apart from the helmets, and wielding a claymore and a dai-katana, descended the ledge and took up positions flanking the Xivilai.
"About time we got some of the spoils of war," growled one of the Dremora, eyeing up Selene with an approving eye. "That girl looks tired now, but I bet she'll be good for at least two days." His grip on his katana tightened, and Selene's eyes grew slightly wider, out of both fear and anger. Hannibal's mouth twisted into a snarl, and he took a step forward.
"Leave some for me, Xilinkar," grated the other Dremora. "I've been fantasising about a good rape ever since you described to me that Wood Elf who seems to be following Gorgoth around. Medraka might want some of her as well."
The Xivilai raised a hand, cutting off Xilinkar's reply. "We'll divide her equally between us, but we've got to fucking capture her first," he told them. Turning back to the mortal intruders, he took a step forward, almost bringing Hannibal within the range of his axe. "You made a mistake in coming here, mortals," he muttered, lowering his voice menacingly.
Hannibal continued to glare at the Xivilai. "Selene, run before they cut off your path. Get to the bloody anchor and take it. Take it now!" The last words were uttered in a shout as Hannibal charged forward, knocking aside the Xivilai's blow and slashing towards its chest. The two Dremora cursed and leapt into the fray.
Selene knew that to do anything else than run was pointless; most of her magicka was gone, and the two of them could not defeat three battle-hardened, rested daedra. But she remained, lingering for precious seconds, watching her brother as he fought for both their lives. Then the claymore-wielding Dremora looked up, saw her, and snarled, leaping away from Hannibal and starting towards her. Selene gasped and sprinted up the ledge, running as fast as she could in her armour, glaive banging against her legs. The clanking of the Dremora's armour and the smell of his sulphuric breath reaching her nose served as a motivator, pushing her beyond her normal limits.
The moment she reached the platform, the moment she saw the anchor, a black sphere in the stream of pure magicka, she heard a roar of pain and agony that chilled her blood. The half-elf missed a step as the thought of Hannibal dying in this forsaken pit of doom caused anguish like she had never known before. Then her hand closed around the sphere, and she heard the Dremora behind her scream in frustration, felt the air stir behind her as his claymore dug itself into the ground mere inches behind her boot. Selene turned and threw herself backwards, away from the vengeful Dremora, her fist clenched around the anchor; she would never let go, not even in death. A wall of flame rose up and consumed both of them.
Smell was the first of the senses that returned to Selene; she guessed that she must have passed out upon her return to Whiterock. And Whiterock it was; beneath the stench of decaying flesh and burnt trees was the unmistakeable salty smell of the sea. Hearing returned next; the crackling of fires and the crashing of the waves on the white rocks. She opened her eyes and found her cheek pressed against the scorched earth outside the Oblivion gate. Attempting to push herself up, her exhausted, battered, bruised body rebelled against the most simple of instructions and merely gave a small wriggle before lying still. A pained groan burst from the battlemage's dry throat. There was not an inch of her body that didn't feel like it had been pummelled to near death. She recognised the fact that there might be danger near - survivors from a recent daedric wave of attacks – but her body was refusing to move, and she felt the warm embrace of the long sleep reaching out to her, attempting to embrace her in its comforting oblivion.
Selene was torn from the brink of death by a hand shaking her shoulder with significant force. "Come on, girl, wake up." She moaned. Another shake, this one powerful enough to turn her onto her back. The anchor, or whatever it was, was still tightly gripped in her right hand. A wizened, tanned hand slapped her in the face, and her eyes flickered open, eventually focusing on the lined, weathered face of Gnaeus Magnus. Blood was smeared over his white beard, and his tunic was sodden with blood, but his eyes were alert. And angry. "I said, COME ON, girl, unless you want to wait here until the Dorans flee to Anvil without us? I thought you young people were meant to be energetic." His exhortations eventually persuaded her to rise.
She looked around her. The devastation was even worse than when she had left. Daedric corpses littered the ground around the gate, and most of the trees on the island were now shattered, charred ruins. Most of the shacks had been reduced to nothing more than firewood. Whiterock Island had been completely destroyed.
"Mother? Father?" she mumbled. She'd meant to form coherent sentences, but her tongue no longer seemed to work. It was adrenaline – pure adrenaline, and maybe a few spells to augment her stamina – that had kept her going in Oblivion, and she was reeling from the withdrawal. Her brain was working well enough to recognise that neither her mother nor her father were visible, either among the dead or the living.
Gnaeus's eyes and voice softened. "Dead," he grunted. "I'm sorry, girl, but we have to move before those bloody smugglers leave us in the lurch-" He got no further, as Selene had fainted, collapsing into his arms.
A/N: Remember, tell me EXACTLY what you think by writing a review. It can only help me, and it's only a few minutes of your time...