A/N: Please allow me to apologise in advance: I do not like this chapter. The first half is chaotic, and, in my opinion, all over the place, while the second half feels a tad rushed. Hopefully, the next chapter should be cleaner, but, for now, this is the best I can come up with.
Laluzi: Gorgoth didn't cast a cure disease spell because there was no need; Lovidicus kicked his ribs in, but he didn't get his fangs anywhere near Gorgoth, so he couldn't have contracted Porphyric Hemophilia.
Random Reader: I haven't yet found a source better than uesp . net, so if you've found one with more info on NPCs, let me know. And it would be nice to know your opinion on something other than whether Owyn is OOC or not...
Underpaid Critic: I actually had no idea that a Whiterock Island even existed; I just thought up the name as I simply couldn't think of anything else. And I've often listened to a LOT of inspirational music when writing, and I find that it helps sometimes. Regrettably, I can't find a way of making the line breaks darker; the formatting from MS Word doesn't carry over, so I have to use the ones, which are lighter.
Zwig: They set a fast pace because Saliith wants to get away from the Arena and to actually do something to get his mind off things quickly, and dithering around instead of riding hard won't solve that problem. I can't really see Aerin managing to persuade him otherwise if he wanted to ride through the night...
Commentaholic: Brutal? Believe me, you have seen little of Gorgoth's real brutality yet... let's just say that I doubt anyone here has guessed at how evil he really can be. And as for the perverts/rapists, Xivilai are generally a bit more restrained than most Dremora, but everyone's unique; Medraka might be different. We'll find out later.
Hmm, that's a fairly long author's note... still, it's a good thing; it's long because I had so many reviewers to reply to. With 9 reviews, Chapter 15 is my most popular chapter yet, so thanks to anyone who reviewed, and, to those who haven't, a reminder: REVIEW. And now I'll stop blathering and let you get on with reading.
Chapter Sixteen: Threats
Ilend was late in rising; he'd gone to bed late enough last night. Thankfully, for the second morning running, he'd had no hangover; his suspicion that Erina was watering his drinks had been confirmed. At the moment, he was working out the stiffness in his back – he'd fallen asleep at an awkward angle – by throwing himself at a practise dummy down in the basement. Fons Llendo, bearing only scars of pride from his encounter with Aerin yesterday, was attacking the other one. Neither of them had anything to say to the other, so only sound in the basement was the impact of steel on wood, the clinking of armour, and the occasional grunt.
Saliith had gone to buy some healing potions – Ilend had recommended Falanu Hlaalu to him, but had warned him not to stay and chat for too long – while Aerin, much to Ilend's disbelief, had gone shopping for clothes. Deciding that he'd probably never understand women, he'd retreated to the basement. Upon discovering that his daedric blade was strong and sharp enough to cut through the hardened wood of the dummy, he'd borrowed a simple iron longsword from a nearby weapon rack.
As he practised, Ilend was thinking mainly about what Saliith had told him in the West Weald Inn at dinner last night. After some gentle questioning, the Argonian had revealed that after a rapid rise through the ranks at the Arena, he had been forced to fight the Redguard who had been his companion and friend for many years. Ilend had originally thought he could empathise with the Argonian, but then realised that seeing your friends cut down all around you was incomparable to killing them yourself, looking into their eyes as they breathed their last. The Imperial had offered his sympathies, but he knew that they couldn't offer the Argonian much relief from his grief. Ilend growled and focused on the practise dummy; he hated thinking morbid thoughts.
Fons' sharp voice drew Ilend's attention. "Who is that irritating Bosmeri rat you seem to like, Vonius?" he asked, leaning against the wall, fanning himself as sweat trickled down his ash-grey face. His netch leather armour was damp in patches. The Journeyman had been subdued ever since his brush with the Wood Elf yesterday. The look of distrust he was giving Ilend probably also had something to with the fact that Ilend had earlier that morning been promoted to Journeyman by Ah-Malz. However, the Argonian had warned him that, from now on, promotions would be a lot harder to come by, as he couldn't just throw them around wantonly after Journeyman was reached.
Ilend turned to face Fons, struggling to keep his anger from showing. He himself had barely started to sweat. "She's a hunter, and Warrior of the Arena," he grated. "And if you insult her again, you'll be wishing she was still kicking you in the balls." He threw his borrowed sword to one side. It hit the wall and fell to the stone floor with a loud clatter.
Fons flinched, but stood his ground. "And what were you doing taking her on official Guild business? Her and that pondscum?"
Ilend sighed in frustration. Fons had a reputation in Kvatch for getting the most controlled man to snap. "I didn't take either of them. They followed me." He knew it wasn't an explanation, but he wasn't about to waste time thinking up an answer to Fons's question. The Imperial walked briskly out of the basement, smirking at the Dunmer's flinch as he walked past. Physical harm wouldn't hurt Fons much; it would take damage to his considerable pride to dissuade him from doing anything.
Saliith had arrived back from All Things Alchemical with several healing potions and was sitting at the dinner table, involved in a deep discussion with Ah-Malz. The Warder seemed to be trying to recruit the gladiator, but was having no success. Apparently, Saliith didn't want to commit to anything until he'd cleared his thoughts. Ilend grabbed a bunch of grapes and walked out, stuffing several into his mouth at once, intending to practise his restoration spells. Gorgoth had told him that consistent practise would eventually reduce the amount of magicka needed for each spell as his technique became more refined. There was obviously a more complex explanation, but Gorgoth hadn't told him, claiming it would take too long, be too hard to understand, and he didn't need to know about it anyway.
Chewing the grapes, Ilend sat down on his bed and removed his gauntlet. He drew his dagger and sliced the back of his hand open. Ignoring the stinging pain and the blood dribbling onto his blanket, he sent a trickle of healing magic down towards his hand. The wound glowed a pale blue before healing, leaving a few drops of blood staining his hand. Ilend repeated the process until his magicka had run out. He'd paid close attention to what he perceived to be his magicka levels upon casting each spell, and towards the end of his practise, he felt that he'd detected a miniscule reduction in the cost of the weak spell. Maybe Gorgoth's advice would actually pay off; the Imperial had scarcely believed him when the warrior-shaman had told him that diligent practise could reduce the magical cost of spells.
Wiping his hand on the slightly bloodied blanket, Ilend rose, checked that his wallet was secure in his pocket under his armour, and went downstairs. He intended to visit the blacksmith; apparently, when not hung over, she was fairly good at what she did, and he was hoping she could recommend him to someone to make a good scabbard for his daedric longsword; he was growing tired of it hanging loose from a loop in his belt.
He was about to open the doors to the street when they swung open and Aerin strode in, seemingly unchanged from when she'd left. "Didn't find anything you liked?" asked Ilend, slightly curious, as he caught the door to prevent it from closing.
Aerin sighed in exasperation and folded her arms. "Yeah, a lot of stuff, actually," she told him. "Can't you see I'm wearing it?"
Ilend studied her body. Her boiled leathers looked exactly the same to him. "No," he said truthfully. Aerin snorted and strode off into the dining room. Ilend shook his head in mild disbelief and left the Guildhall. The skies were overcast, threatening rain. A sharp wind immediately tore through Ilend's armour, and he repressed a shiver. Summer had been over for several weeks, but this was the first real indication of the coming autumn. The Imperial hunched his shoulders and headed in the direction of the Hammer and Tongs, from where the ringing of metal on metal could clearly be heard.
Gnaeus Magnus paced the deck of the Doran's ship irritably. He'd never cared to learn the name of the bloody contraption, and had no patience for the nautical terms the two smugglers had kept shouting at each other on the voyage to Anvil. The aged Imperial disliked his leaving Whiterock Island, but in reality he'd had little choice; if he'd remained, he'd have died of starvation. It had been thirty-five years at least since he'd left the mainland behind him, and he wasn't about to be happy about going back. The hull creaked and groaned as it impacted on the side of Anvil's harbour, the Dorans clearly overworked as they struggled to bring the ship to anchor safely. Gnaeus growled and grabbed a nearby length of rope to stop him falling; his balance wasn't what it used to be.
He was worried about Selene; the half-elf had never set foot on the continent before, and it would no doubt be a shock to her despite the many stories bandied about over ale by the now-deceased dwellers of Whiterock. It wouldn't help that she was almost immobile with grief. She hadn't moved from the bed ever since he'd placed her their last night, and he wasn't about to interrupt her and her sorrow until he had to. The Imperial had lost all knowledge of how to comfort people, not that he ever would.
Garrus Doran stepped over to him; apparently, the ship was now mostly secure in the dock and the harbourmaster, a portly Nord, was walking down the jetty with a curious expression on his rounded face. Garrus, a weathered old Imperial ex-smuggler with receding white hair and a face nearly as wrinkled as Gnaeus's, wore a concerned look. "Me and Antus won't be staying here," he muttered, eyes never resting on one spot. He was the less assertive of the two brothers, and seemed to be permanently nervous. "In fact, it'd probably be best if you and Selene left... pretty soon."
Gnaeus snorted, the sound reminiscent of an indignant camel. "And leave me to tell the Count about what happened on Whiterock?" he asked, placing his hand menacingly on the hilt of his sword. "I've got no intention of going anywhere near that bloody castle."
Garrus started wringing his hands, shooting futile, pleading looks at his brother, who was conversing with the harbourmaster. "First of all, the Count has been missing for near enough a decade," he muttered, lowering his voice. "And do you really expect either of us to go see the Countess? She'd slap us in irons for sure. We're still recognised around these parts sometimes."
Gnaeus grabbed the taller man with a strength that belied his age and pulled his face down so that they spoke eye to eye. "Then tell someone who can tell the bloody Countess," he growled, ignoring Garrus's cringing. "I am NOT having a horde of Dremora walk across the bloody bay and slaughter everyone here in their sleep." He pushed the cowering Imperial away from him and stomped into the cabin.
Selene, lying flat on her bed, still fully clad in her bloodied armour, was awake, her red-rimmed eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. She didn't acknowledge Gnaeus's presence. The old hermit sighed and prepared for some negotiation that would either go smoothly or make him feel bad. "Come on, girl, we've got to move before the Dorans kick us off."
Her face turned fractionally, and her brilliant green eyes, reminiscent of emeralds, met his piercing blue ones. The lack of emotion currently displayed on her face was a mixture of the shock and her holding back her rampant emotions; he knew full well that she'd spent most of the voyage crying herself to sleep, only to wake screaming a few minutes later as she saw the Deadlands again in her nightmares. He genuinely felt pity for the poor girl, but now wasn't the time to be showing it.
"Leave me." Her voice was a whisper. "I'll chuck myself in the bay at a convenient time. I'll make my peace with the Divines." The half-elf's gaze returned to the ceiling.
Gnaeus growled and slapped her, hard. She straightened so quickly that he took a step back despite himself, but she went no further, any fight draining out of her as she slumped back to lean against the side of the ship. "I didn't drag your heavily armoured arse all the way to this fucking ship just for you to do yourself in," he snarled. "I put my back out saving your life, and you want to throw it away? Bloody youths, always making trouble for us old, senile, gits." He was exaggerating slightly; Selene's armour, custom made in Anvil, had been designed with mobility in mind and so was quite light while still offering more than adequate protection on the limbs. She herself was light enough for him to have carried both her and her armour down to the Doran's ship without too many stops to rest.
"I didn't ask you to save me, old man," she told him, slowly getting up from the bed. Her Altmer blood meant that she was taller than most Breton women; he was average height for an Imperial, and they were almost seeing eye to eye. "All I want to do is join my family in Aetherius. You want to take that from me?" She spoke slowly, as if holding back her raw emotions left no room for quick speaking.
"Now you're being stupid," growled Gnaeus, grabbing her by the arm and hustling her out of the cabin. He noted with some satisfaction that she grabbed her glaive on the way out; if she was really intending suicide, she probably wouldn't have taken the time to retrieve her weapon. He continued his tirade. "Listen to your bloody elders for once, girl; if you don't, who else will nag you until your ears fall off?" He pulled her over to the centre of the boat, near the main mast, well away from the edges. She was blinking, eyes still adjusting to the brightness outside, even though clouds covered the sky.
"I've got my whole life behind me, pretty much," continued Gnaeus. "But you, you have your entire life ahead of you, girl. Now think about doing some good in that life, helping people, you know, that stupid kind of chivalry that priests like to preach about." She was listening, he could tell. "Now imagine you doing yourself in, and then those people go without help. You're denying them happiness out of your own bloody selfish desires. Now snap out of it."
Selene sighed, her shoulders slumping. "What will I do?" she moaned. "Where will I go?"
Gnaeus sighed again. The hardest part was over, but he still didn't relish the task yet to come. "I spoke to your father before he died," he said, somewhat awkwardly. Her lower lip trembled, but she managed to hold her dam steady. "We were out of potions and magicka, not that I know any of that sorcery anyway. But he gave me this." The Imperial took Merildan's Akaviri katana off his back and held it out with both hands. He'd cleaned it and put it in its scabbard, but Merildan's belt had been sliced through by the sword blow that had ended his life.
"He asked me to tell his next of kin to take it to Cloud Ruler Temple," continued Gnaeus. "His next of kin is you. So that's what you do, and that's where you go."
Selene took the katana, a couple of stray tears splashing onto the scabbard. She clenched her fists around the aged leather and looked up at the old hermit. "I'll fulfil his dying wish if it's the last thing I do," she said, her voice growing stronger. "But I'll need help, I'll need guidance... I'll need support."
She was looking at him with a fierce look in her eyes and a stubborn set to her jaw. He'd known her father long enough to know when he wouldn't be budged on a point, and it would seem that that trait had been passed down to his daughter. "Ah, crap," he moaned.
"So... an army of Dagon descends upon an island that consists of seventeen old men and mer, mostly fugitives and hermits, and gets defeated? Somehow, I think your lord might want to rethink his strategies." Gorgoth leaned back against the tree and regarded the three daedra sitting around the remains of the small campfire the Orc had lit a few hours earlier. After travelling through most of the night and passing Kvatch, the warrior-shaman had decided that he and Vorguz needed rest, so set up camp a few hours before dawn. Upon waking several hours later, some time after sunrise, Gorgoth had felt the desire to question the summoned daedra he'd built a good relationship with over the years, and had summoned all but one of them: Kathutet was still unavailable. He'd been slightly amused to hear of their undoing by a tiny island population.
"Not all of them were old," snarled Xilinkar, pounding his fist into his palm. "And even the old ones knew how to fight. They're fugitives, they know how to survive." It was as though the Markynaz was hunting for excuses, as well he should; he'd been in overall command for the attack.
Chaxil looked up and sighed. "Gorgoth, if you were there... well, let's just say that I respected their prowess; they fought with honour." The Kynmarcher's head dropped once again to his claymore, which he was slowly turning over and over in his hands.
Gorgoth grunted; if Chaxil said they were worthy of respect, then they must have fought heroically. "We accomplished the main objective," grated Medraka harshly. The Xivilai was staring off into the distance. Whatever he saw, it certainly wasn't pleasing, as he was wearing an unpleasant expression. "The island is cleared, and it can be used as a staging ground." It sounded like he was trying to convince himself.
The warrior-shaman tapped one of his canines. "Well, firstly, Anvil now knows about your plans, so it'll be harder to take them by surprise," he began. "But not only that, it'll be a lot harder to open a Gate on that island now that there's a closed one in the middle of it; from what I've heard, it was hard enough to open one there in the first place." He knew the daedra were being reluctant to admit to the truth; there was little hope of ever creating another Gate to Whiterock Island. "Looks like you'll need to just go back to directly assaulting cities again." The irony of conversing with the enemy and offering them advice on their battle plans was not lost on Gorgoth.
Xilinkar snarled. "If we'd accomplished what we set out to do at Kvatch, we'd be dividing up all Tamriel by now and taking our spoils of war," he growled. "At least the champion of the enemy is someone I respect," he muttered darkly, shooting a significant glance at Gorgoth, who raised an eyebrow fractionally.
"I doubt the people of Tamriel would want me as their champion, despite calling me the Hero of Kvatch," he retorted. "In fact, I'm pretty sure most of High Rock would still love to chuck me into Oblivion to die an agonising death even if I saved all of them." The Orc snorted. "That's Breton gratitude for you..."
"Well, they do have several valid reasons," pointed out Chaxil. He let his head fall back and rest against the tree he was sitting against. "I have to say, that's probably the most rewarding experience I've ever had in the mortal realm." His lips, a red so dark that they were almost black, curled upwards in a cruel smile at the memory. "Did I ever thank you for taking me – us – with you on those raids, Gorgoth?"
"You may have expressed your gratitude to me a couple of times in the past," replied Gorgoth. Taking note of the position of the sun, he stood slowly. It was proof of the respect the daedra held for him that they surged to their feet almost immediately. "I think me and Vorguz are rested enough to push on," he commented. "I guess you've got to get back to... doing whatever you were doing when I summoned you?"
Xilinkar snorted. "We're organising more combat trials for the rank-and-file," he growled. "Another piss-poor performance like on that island and we're fucked. We'll be seeing you, Gorgoth, hopefully on a battlefield, and hopefully not facing you." Gorgoth nodded and dispelled the magics that kept the daedra bound to Nirn. They faded from view, and Gorgoth busied himself with breaking camp. He calculated that he'd reach Skingrad soon after midday.
In his old life as a priest in Kvatch, Martin had typically maintained a good, healthy lifestyle; he didn't drink, he ate modestly, and he made sure he followed an exercise regime to keep in shape. Overall, he had been in pretty good shape for the average citizen. However, ever since he'd arrived in Cloud Ruler Temple, the punishing regime forced upon him by the Blades' drill instructor, a grizzled old Redguard named Lathar, was like nothing he'd ever experienced. After he'd got settled in at Cloud Ruler Temple, taking the quarters assigned to the Emperor – a fact that still made him feel slightly uncomfortable – the ex-priest had barely had any time to himself; his entire day was spent either reading a book list drawn up by Jauffre – "To be an Emperor, you need to learn a lot" – and training.
Lathar had set up a gruelling regime, encouraged by Jauffre – "The Emperor has to rely on himself as his last line of defence" – which included training in just about every weapon under the sun and intense physical training intended to get Martin fit enough to use those weapons in battles that could potentially last several days. Overall, Martin was constantly more tired than he'd ever been in his life; even the orgies of Sanguine had been less tiring, due to the use of magicka to reduce fatigue. Jauffre had assured him that his training would decrease in intensity, and that he'd get more free time, when he'd achieved a sufficient level of physical prowess, but that seemed far away yet. The fact that he was still getting used to the fact that he was the next Emperor only added to his worries, as did the fact that Baurus and Glenroy still hadn't progressed much in finding the cult that had killed Uriel and stolen the Amulet of Kings.
At the moment, Martin was in the canteen eating lunch –or, at least, what passed for lunch after the heir's taster had taken his fill. An open book was next to his plate, detailing the proper way to conduct politics when in Elsweyr. It was mostly boring, but Martin knew he'd need any help he'd get to survive in the treacherous Imperial politics following his coronation, so he attempted to absorb every word. A Blade stood a few metres behind him, leaning against a pillar. Martin had taken the time to learn the names of each and every single one of his guards – they cycled shifts – and his shadow at this time was a Redguard called Cyrus, the same one who had met him at the gate when he'd first come to Cloud Ruler Temple. While he valued their loyalty and appreciated that their job was to keep him safe, and they'd be doubly on their guard since they failed in protecting his father, Martin still wasn't entirely used to the fact that a pair of bodyguards stood guard over his bedroom every night. The fact that his sleep was often disturbed by nightmares of Kvatch didn't help.
Martin looked up as Jauffre sat down at his table. The Breton had since changed out of his monk's attire to don his old suit of Blades armour, and while it was odd to see a man so old in armour, he wore it like it was a second skin. Martin himself had kept the same old robe he used to wear as a priest, and the clothes he wore under it were just as cheap and tattered. He had resisted all efforts to get him some clothes more befitting his station; he wanted to at least keep some part of his old life until even that became impossible.
"You'll need that knowledge, Sire, if the Renrijra Krin carries on like they are," he commented, nodding towards Martin's book. The heir grunted sourly and turned another page, taking another bite out of his sandwich. He didn't exactly know what it was filled with, only that it was some kind of meat; right now, all he cared about was the upcoming weapon training under the sharp eye and sharper tongue of Lathar. It had always disturbed him how the Redguard could refer to him as 'Your Majesty' in one breath, then as a 'slack-jawed imbecile who is more likely to slice his own toes off than to even scratch a goblin' in another.
"I guess I should be thankful that Baurus and Glenroy are taking so long," sighed Martin, leaning back in his chair. "If I was crowned Emperor today, I have no doubt that the Empire would disintegrate."
"Well, it's doing its best to disintegrate already," muttered Jauffre darkly. "Ocato's doing his best to hold the provinces together, but there's only so much one overworked Altmer can do; the other members of the Elder Council are mostly too busy with covering their own worthless arses." The Breton snorted, shaking his head in disgust.
"Not everyone can be a selfless, incorruptible paragon of all that is good, Jauffre," Martin told him. "In fact, there are very few who are. All men and mer are imperfect." Years of worshipping Sanguine and then the Divines had told him that.
Jauffre sighed, at that moment looking every single one of his eighty-one years. He pressed a hand to his forehead and closed his eyes momentarily. Then they snapped open, he straightened, and the moment of weakness of the Grandmaster of the Blades had passed. "No matter what the rest of the Empire is doing, your Blades will remain true," he claimed. "We should focus on the present for now. The future will come in its own time." The Breton rose. "Lathar tells me you are progressing well, Sire," he told Martin. "We'll make another Uriel V out of you yet." With a grin pulling at one corner of his mouth, the Breton saluted and left Martin alone with his sandwich and Cyrus.
The Emperor-to-be sighed. The only thing he'd read about Uriel V, the great warrior-Emperor, so far was a rather interesting report about his disastrous attack on Akavir, which had claimed his life and the almost complete destruction of four legions. It had been one of the more interesting books Martin had read, and he'd gathered that Uriel V was the Septim most admired by many of the Blades, but he still had no wish to emulate his ancestor; while he wasn't averse to fighting, he had no wish to make the battlefield his home. Martin stuffed the rest of his sandwich into his mouth and walked out of the canteen, heading over to the training area, shadowed as always by Cyrus. If he was late, Lathar would always think up something nasty to throw at him, heir or no heir.
As Gorgoth had predicted, he reached Skingrad just as the sun was reaching its zenith. He'd intended to ride straight through the city without stopping – Ilend and Aerin could handle themselves without him needing to check on them – but he was diverted towards the chapel by an extremely short Wood Elf who was gesticulating frantically and hissing for him to come closer. The warrior-shaman consented and drew Vorguz to a halt at the graveyard wall, almost hitting the diminutive Bosmer. "What do you want?" he asked simply, making no effort to keep his voice down. Already, several townspeople had turned to watch the huge, well-armoured Orc astride a fierce stallion, a fact that seemed to annoy the Bosmer immensely.
"We can't talk here. Too public," replied the Bosmer speaking in whispers so quiet that Gorgoth had to lean down to hear him. The Wood Elf's eyes were darting everywhere as he spoke, pausing only to deliver a short glare to every townsperson who was looking their way. "Meet me behind the chapel at midnight. Tell no-one." He was about to run off when Gorgoth grabbed his arm and roughly turned the Wood Elf to face him.
"Forget it, treehugger," he snarled. "I'm just passing through, and I don't care for you or your fucking paranoia. Go bother someone else." With that, he shoved the startled Bosmer away from him and turned Vorguz back to the main road.
Again, his progress was interrupted, this time by a gauntleted hand grabbing his stirrup. Looking down, Gorgoth saw Ilend frowning after the Wood Elf, who was walking quickly away, trembling with either fear or rage. "Glarthir's been known as the city's resident paranoid Bosmer since before I was born," he observed. The Imperial looked back up at Gorgoth. "At least his efforts were wasted on a no-nonsense Orc like yourself."
Gorgoth took the time to courteously dismount before responding. "How have you been, Ilend?" he asked, gathering Vorguz's reins and idly stroking the stallion's mane.
"Let's just say that I made Journeyman quicker than I anticipated," replied the Guildsman, his smile growing broader. "It's a good place here. I could get used to Skingrad after this... crisis with Oblivion is over." The Imperial's face momentarily twisted into a grimace as he was reminded of Kvatch.
"Journeyman already?" asked Gorgoth. "I guess your contacts help. Azzan in Anvil gave me two easy contracts and promoted me to Apprentice. I'm heading to Cheydinhal; there's more work there apparently."
Ilend snorted. "You'll find more work there than in this Guild backwater, for sure," he muttered. "The downside of having the lowest crime rate and the best law and order in Cyrodiil is the fact that the Fighter's Guild has sod all to do except hunt goblins." The Imperial shook his head. "Ah, well, good luck. See you at Cloud Ruler."
Gorgoth nodded in farewell and remounted. Within minutes he was leaving Skingrad, galloping down the Gold Road to the Imperial City.
It was a testament to the innate stamina of Vorguz that he rarely complained despite Gorgoth's harsh pace. Maybe he was spurred on by the thought of a good day's rest in the Chestnut Handy Stables, which they reached a few hours before dawn. Gorgoth stabled Vorguz, trusting Snak gra-Bura not to eat a paying customer's horse, and continued on into the city. He went to the darkened Arena, and, finding Agronak asleep in the Bloodworks, decided not to wake him; being woken up in the middle of the night and being told his father had been a vampire probably wouldn't be good for Gorgoth's health. Instead, the warrior-shaman selected a bedroll and crawled into it, for once not bothering to remove his armour. Sleeping in the heavy, stifling plate armour was enormously uncomfortable, but Gorgoth wasn't about to have it stolen.
Gorgoth woke a few hours later due to Agronak frantically shaking his shoulder. "Did you get it?" asked the half-Orc, tension evident in his face.
The warrior-shaman sat up and looked around. Despite it evidently being early in the morning, a handful of gladiators were up, and several were within earshot. "Let's take a walk," he suggested, rising to his feet and leading the way out of the Bloodworks. Agronak, suppressing his impatience, followed him.
Clouds still covered the sky as far as the eye could see, and the wind was colder and more biting than yesterday. Gorgoth observed two Imperials walk past, shoulders hunched inside fairly thick coats, and wondered what they were shivering about; in Orsinium, this weather wouldn't be out of place in a mild spring. Shaking his head, he led Agronak over to the training area that had once been used by Branwen and Saliith. He stopped and removed the journal of Lord Lovidicus from the single saddlebag he'd brought with him into the City. "I went to Crowhaven," he told Agronak, holding out the journal. "This is all I could find. It should be sufficient."
The Grand Champion eagerly snatched the leather-bound book from Gorgoth's hand. "I cannot thank you enough for doing this for me, friend," he said, clapping Gorgoth heartily on the shoulder. "There has to be some way I can repay you. I have gold-"
"I need no reward, Agronak," replied Gorgoth, his expression unchanging. "You might want to read it before you get ahead of yourself."
Agronak's pleased expression did not falter as he diverted his attention to the journal of his late father. However, as he got further through the pages, his expression turned to one of horror. His pale green hands started to tremble as they turned the pages, as if dreading what lay ahead. By the time he had reached the crazed ramblings of an ancient, blood-deprived vampire, Agronak was clenching his teeth, and his face was a picture of agony. He looked up at Gorgoth.
"I'm no 'Grey Prince'," he muttered hoarsely, his voice unstable. "I'm the son of a vampire, the spawn of evil!" The Grand Champion's breath was coming in harsh wheezes as he struggled to come to terms with his heritage. Gorgoth's face seemed to be set in stone. "I thought I was the son of a nobleman, not some blood-sucking monster!" Agronak's voice was rising in volume and intensity. Gorgoth gripped his shoulder firmly and pulled him closer.
"Agronak, you have not studied vampires in any way, that much is evident," he started. "I have; to know your enemy, you must know them, and I have fought many vampires over the years." Agronak didn't seem to be listening; Gorgoth shook him violently. "Listen to me, gro-Malog, unless you really want to believe that your soul is damned for eternity just because your father was a vampire," he snarled.
The half-Orc's head snapped up, and he fixed Gorgoth with a steely glare. Seeing that he had Agronak's attention, Gorgoth continued. "It is impossible to create a vampire by birth; they are created, not born. Undead cannot spawn undead, no matter who they breed with. Think about it." Gorgoth shook Agronak fiercely, hoping to bring the gladiator to his senses. "Yes, your father was a vampire, but he cannot pass on those vampiric traits through conception; he has to bite someone to infect them." The warrior-shaman leaned closer. "You are half-Imperial. IMPERIAL." He shoved Agronak away from him, forcing the half-Orc to step back.
"But... he..." Agronak was stuttering, still attempting to damn himself and his heritage for some reason unknown to Gorgoth. Confusion reigned on his face.
"You breathe. Your heart beats. You feel no desire to feed on the living. You can feel the sun warm your skin without being burnt to a crisp. You. Are. Not. A. Vampire." Gorgoth empathised each word, as though driving them into Agronak's brain with a warhammer. "Do I have to push even more arguments into that thick skull of yours? Wake up, you pessimistic idiot!"
It worked. Agronak seemed to snap back into reality. His shoulders slumped and he breathed a sigh of relief. "Then I'm not..." he shuddered, as though the idea was now too horrendous to comprehend. "I... Thank you, Gorgoth. Without your persuasion, I'd have chucked myself in Lake Rumare at the first opportunity." The half-Orc took a deep breath and visibly brightened. "And this means that there is proof of my noble blood after all," he proclaimed, picking up the journal, which had fallen from his hands in shock. "If you ever need anything, Gorgoth, anything..."
"I'll know who to contact," Gorgoth finished. He held out a hand, and Agronak shook it vigorously. "Spill some blood for me, Agronak."
"May you be forever blessed, my friend," stated Agronak in farewell. He turned and went back down into the Bloodworks, a huge smile plastered over his pale face. As Gorgoth stood watching, the same short Bosmer who'd kept annoying Agronak burst out of a nearby bush and started running after his hero, then stopped and looked down at the ground forlornly; he evidently wasn't allowed into the Bloodworks under pain of death by torture. Gorgoth shook his head and walked off in the direction of the Market District.
Approximately thirty-six hours later, Gorgoth arrived in Cheydinhal. He'd taken a significant shortcut by casting a spell of water walking on Vorguz and riding over the eastern end of Lake Rumare, but had then been slowed by some surprisingly effective bandits who had used hit-and-run tactics to great effect until he'd killed all eight of them. It had struck him as odd that the bandits had seemingly attacked no-one on the road – the journey had passed without Gorgoth meeting many other people, and certainly not any victims of bandit attacks – and seemed to be very focused on Gorgoth, who wasn't exactly a good mark for a bandit. He'd pondered the oddity all the way to Cheydinhal.
After stabling Vorguz in the Black Waterside Stables – he'd had to knock on the door loudly and repeatedly before the night ostler appeared, bleary-eyed – Gorgoth managed to get into the city without too many questions asked by the guards, who'd been naturally suspicious of a massive Orcish warrior-shaman wanting access to their city in the early hours of the morning. Once one of them recognised Gorgoth as the Hero of Kvatch, however, they'd almost fallen over themselves letting him in, despite the Orc's private disgust.
The Fighter's Guild was dark and silent as Gorgoth crept in, using a modified Silence spell to hide his footsteps and a Night-Eye spell to find a bed without tripping over anything. He wasn't about to wake a Guildsman at this hour enquiring about a contract. If he did, he'd likely find himself demoted and assigned to cleaning the Guildhall with a toothbrush. The warrior-shaman removed his armour and crept into bed. He sincerely hoped that the contracts here were a lot less boring than the grunt work he'd been assigned so far.
"Ah... that's bloody good." Ilend was moaning in pleasure as his muscles were having the best massage they'd ever had; years of guard work and sleeping in a tiny bunk in a barracks had made him susceptible to knotted muscles, and when he'd suffered from several after waking up from an afternoon nap following a successful goblin hunt, Aerin had consented to apply what she'd learnt from a masseuse who'd plied her trade next to the tavern where the Bosmer had worked as a dancer for six weeks.
"By the Divines, Aerin, where have you been for the last five years?" asked Ilend, grunting in pleasure as Aerin's hands worked his well-muscled back, loosening the knots and relaxing his tensed muscles. He was lying, naked except for a towel, on a table in part of the Fighter's Guild basement, a part that was rarely used. His clothing and armour lay haphazardly against one of the walls, along with his sword belt, Trueshot, and Aerin's sword belt.
The Bosmer snorted in response to his question. "A mixture of growing up, hunting, and fighting in a glorified sandpit," she told him. "I certainly never expected I'd ever end up massaging a fairly good-looking Guildsman in the basement of the Guildhall in Skingrad when I joined the Arena."
"Well, these things happen," smirked Ilend, leaning his chin on his hands. His smirk grew broader as he mentally repeated what she'd just said. "Did you say good-looking?" He laughed as her hands almost imperceptibly trembled.
"I said fairly good-looking, guardsman," she growled, pounding his lower back muscles with more force than was strictly necessary. "I've seen far better."
"Yeah, well, you used to hang around in the Arena," retorted Ilend. "I'm pretty sure you get your fair share of insanely well-developed men passing through there, to meet their end at the wrong end of a weapon." He snorted. "Saw that happen enough times in the Kvatch Arena. Could have used men like them in the Guard." Aerin muttered something under her breath about his obsession with the Imperial Legion.
Saliith walked in and stopped. "She never did that to me," he whined, folding his arms and fixing Aerin with what Ilend assumed to be a chiding expression. The lizard seemed to be becoming better at holding in his grief, though Ilend knew that the scars would take a very long time to heal, if they ever did. For now, the Argonian gladiator was returning to what Aerin called 'his normal self' for periods of time, before lapsing back into his silent, gloomy state.
Aerin stuck her tongue out at Saliith. "I never could work with your scales, Twitch-Tail," she told him, darting to the other side of the table as though to use Ilend to shield her from the Argonian's biting glare. "Ok, Ok, don't get tetchy on me." She held out her hands in a placating gesture until Ilend growled at her to resume attacking his muscles.
Saliith snorted. "My scales are no problem; Branwen gave me mas-" His words caught in his throat as the memories came back, and Ilend noted that his eyes clouded over. The Imperial felt a twinge of sympathy for the Argonian, who cleared his throat, growled something unintelligible, and walked out.
"He seems to be bearing well," commented Ilend. His voice was devoid of sarcasm; he knew that if he'd had to put his closest friend to death, he'd have slashed his own wrists by now. The only reply was a grunt as Aerin finished her massage and stepped back.
"Want me to do your legs?" she asked wryly, a sly grin appearing on her face. Ilend smirked and shook his head, starting to push himself up and reaching down to secure his towel, when Aerin snatched it away from his grasping fingers and swayed over to where his clothes were piled, her grin even broader.
"I hope this is pay-per-view," Ilend grunted as he swung himself off the table and walked over to his clothes. Aerin raised an eyebrow and nodded in appreciation. "I spent six years in a cramped barracks, Aerin," he told her. "Do you really think I have any modesty left?" Smirking and shaking his head, he pulled on his clothes and armour while the Bosmer leaned back against the wall, watching his every move.
"Remind me to repay you by loosening your muscles some day," Ilend told her, pulling his sword belt towards him and fastening it around his waist. The scabbard he'd had made was a near-perfect fit for his daedric longsword; it had, at least, stopped bashing into his legs and was slightly quicker on the draw.
Aerin sighed and rolled her eyes in exasperation, attaching Trueshot to her back and joining him in ascending from the basement. Outside, thunder rumbled overhead and rain beat down on Skingrad as the cold wind gusted down the streets. It was for that reason, mainly, that all of the Guildsmen, plus Aerin and Saliith, were resolutely staying in the Guildhall; they'd only go out if they got paid, and as no contracts were forthcoming, they were content to eat, sleep, practise, and, in some rare cases, read.
As Ilend and Aerin reached the main hall, Ah-Malz stuck his head out of his office and yelled "Contract!" before withdrawing his head. There was an instant rumble of feet as most of the Guildsmen dashed towards Ah-Malz's office; the first there would get the contract, unless it required multiple members. Ilend's positioning meant he was stumbling into the office first, with Fadus breathing down his neck, groaning in dismay. Apparently, this practise was long-established; the infrequency of good contracts made it depressingly common.
"Take a seat, Journeyman," offered Ah-Malz, gesturing at the rickety chair standing before his desk. It creaked under the weight of Ilend and his chainmail as he flopped down, causing the Argonian to wince. He pulled out a document from the piles of papers strewn across his desk. "We finally have something that's not boring and not a goblin hunt. Could pay well, too."
Ilend raised a curious eyebrow. He was swiftly growing bored of hanging around in Skingrad, his only diversion being whacking a practise dummy and sparring with Saliith; the Argonian so far had won three of their five sparring matches, which had been watched with great interest by Aerin and most of the Guild. "A well-paid job normally implies danger," he said, a questioning tone creeping into his voice.
"Damn right, Ilend," sighed the Warder, running a finger down the contract before handing it over. A citizen of Skingrad, an Imperial by the name of Gerich Loran, hadn't returned from a trip in the West Weald to gather alchemy supplies. His worried wife had contracted the Fighter's Guild to either find him and bring him back alive, or bring back his wedding ring as proof of finding his corpse, with quite a generous reward. Apparently, he normally harvested alchemical ingredients from the area of the West Weald northwest of Skingrad, specifically near a cavern known as Greyrock Cave.
"That's odd," mused Ilend as he handed the contract back to Ah-Malz. "I though Falanu and Sinderion had a virtual monopoly on alchemical supplies here."
Ah-Malz stared at the Imperial for a second before understanding him. "He was employed by Sinderion," he explained. "That Altmer never leaves the city, and he's too tight to buy his ingredients himself."
"Any advice?" asked Ilend, standing and checking that his sword belt was on properly.
"You'll probably find some ogres roaming around," warned Ah-Malz, putting his feet up on his desk. "Greyrock Cave has been a home to a fair few in the past. I'd normally say this was a two-Guildsman job, but seeing as you have those two 'assorted hangers-on', I'm guessing you'll take them instead."
"Will do," replied Ilend, opening the door and almost walking into Aerin, who'd clearly been eavesdropping. "You heard us. Get ready to move out." She nodded and hurried off to find Saliith. Within the hour, all three of them were saddling their horses.
Burz gro-Khash, upon waking up to find a strange Orc asleep in the bed next to him, had naturally been suspicious, but upon identifying Gorgoth both as the Hero of Kvatch and the new recruit from Anvil, he greeted him to the Guild in his gruff manner and had sent him off on a contract. The owner of a mine west of Cheydinhal had contracted the Fighter's Guild to clear it of goblins. Burz had sent Gorgoth along with some weapons for the Guildsmen and instructions to help them clear the mine once he'd delivered the weapons. A simple enough assignment.
Two goblins were patrolling around the entrance to the mine, if patrolling could be defined as picking their noses and grunting. Gorgoth decapitated both of them with his Akaviri dai-katana, which he'd found a suitable strap for, so the scabbard was now held in place slanting across his back. The blade was a good one; it cut through muscle and bone as though it was paper, and Gorgoth was big and strong enough to use it like any normal Blade would use a katana. Wiping the blade clean using a handful of grass, he sheathed it and moved into the mine.
The three Guildsmen were sitting around a small fire, and leapt to their feet with undisguised eagerness as Gorgoth arrived with the weapons. The Redguard archer, clad in studded leather, seemed to be the leader, and they discussed their plan of action. Gorgoth and the Orc, Brag gro-Bharg, being the strongest and most heavily armed and armoured, would take the lead, with Rienna just behind them, picking off threats, while Elidor, an Altmer swordsman clad in rusty mail, would cover the rear and stop any goblins from reaching Rienna.
"Seems like a good plan," grunted Gorgoth. "We should get this over and done with. I won't get too creative with the magic; it's too confined for much extravagance." The other Guildsmen exchanged curious glances, then muttered their assent and started off towards the gate leading to the bowels of the mine, drawing their weapons and assuming battle formation.
The goblins had apparently expected them; the dim light of wall-mounted torches revealed a sharp barricade at the entrance to the first cavern. Gorgoth smashed it apart with telekinesis before drawing his mace and charging through into the cavern, left hand crackling with lightning. A goblin yelled a warning to its comrades and leapt at him. The warrior-shaman smashed it aside with a second thought. It was hurled into a support beam, splintering ribs scything through its vital organs and embedding themselves in the aged wood of the beam. Two other goblins appeared from a small alcove, but before they could move, lightning smashed into them, jumping from one to the other, leaving nothing but charred ruins.
More goblins were pouring into the cavern. Brag roared a war cry and moved to meet them, a sweeping attack sending one goblin, its chest crushed, into another, slamming it into the cave wall. Elidor disembowelled one with a smooth movement, and Rienna, free to pick and choose her targets, took down two. Gorgoth mopped up the rest with pathetic ease, elemental spells lighting up the caverns, the screeches of dying goblins echoing throughout the mine as they fell with horrendous burns from fire, lightning, or frost covering their corpses. Soon, the floor of the cavern was littered with dead goblins, and the squad were moving up. The path forked. Rienna led Elidor and Brag down the right fork, leaving Gorgoth alone to deal with the horde of goblins awaiting him in the next cavern.
A shaman gabbled something and fired a lightning bolt from its staff at Gorgoth. The warrior-shaman's armour sparked, but the elemental magic was completely absorbed by his magical shielding. He moved in, kicking a berserker aside, and spread his arms wide, white magicka shimmering at his fingertips. A band of razor-sharp magicka exploded out across the cavern at waist height, cutting through every goblin in its path until it hit the mine walls and dissipated. Walking across the blood-soaked cavern filled with the goblin dead, most of whom had been cut in half, Gorgoth found the main passage blocked by a rock fall, so he retraced his steps and went down a smaller passage.
He found three goblins cowering in the corner. His dai-katana made a satisfying sound as it rattled out of its scabbard. A normal Imperial Legionnaire would struggle to use either of Gorgoth's weapons in one hand, let alone both at once, but Gorgoth had learnt from the best warriors Orsinium could produce, and then perfected his technique by mastering several different types of fighting, some of which he invented himself. Two of the goblins turned and frantically scrabbled at the rock wall, pathetically attempting to dig a way out and escape the walking personification of death that was drawing closer. The goblin that valiantly tried to combat the warrior-shaman had its legs knocked from under it, leaving it defenceless against the dai-katana that pierced its frantically beating heart. Realising the futility of their existence, the other two goblins went berserk and threw themselves against the wall, their blood streaking it even before Gorgoth put an end to their miserable lives.
Finding no other goblins to kill, Gorgoth returned to the first cavern. His Guildmates had just returned from their path, having dispatched all the goblins remaining in the mine. Gorgoth healed their only would – a slash on Elidor's forearm – and took his leave. He wanted to get back to Cheydinhal before dinner, having missed lunch, whereas they had orders to wait at the mine for another day to kill any goblins that'd been out at the time of the slaughter. Gorgoth exchanged farewells with his victorious Guildmates and mounted Vorguz, the stallion's hooves kicking clods of dirt over the two rotting goblin corpses lying outside the mine.
He reached Cheydinhal in good time. Burz gro-Khash was pleasantly surprised to see the warrior-shaman barge into the Guildhall so soon after leaving. The surly Guardian paid Gorgoth a full six hundred drakes, promoted him to Journeyman, and promptly told him that there was no more work to be had in the Fighter's Guild in Cheydinhal. However, he did recommend checking at the Guild regional headquarters in Chorrol; they occasionally needed internal issues that needed dealt with. Gorgoth grunted in acknowledgement, left the Guildhall, and looked up at the brightest part of the clouds. While the overcast conditions were not ideal for judging the time, he deemed it too late to leave for Chorrol and so resolved to explore Cheydinhal a bit.
Walking past the Chapel, he couldn't help noticing the run-down, abandoned house near the East Gate. To his trained eye, it was painfully obvious that the house was hiding something. He wondered how much the Dark Brotherhood was bribing the Count with. The warrior-shaman hesitated for a second, wondering to visit the sanctuary or not, but decided against it. He didn't want to have anything to do with the Brotherhood than was strictly necessary, and finding a point of entry to the Sanctuary would inevitably take too long. Gorgoth moved on, turning his thoughts to deciding where and what he wanted to eat.
Greyrock cave looked unthreatening from the outside; several plants had grown in cracks in the rock, making it seem almost welcoming. However, it was a well-known lair for a small clan of ogres, meaning that anyone in possession of common sense stayed well clear. Unless, of course, they were getting paid for going in.
"Remind me how much we're getting paid?" prompted Aerin, taking an arrow from her quiver and nocking it to Trueshot. Despite the biting wind and the certainty that it would be cold underground, the Bosmer had left her cloak in her saddlebags; it would restrict her movement too much.
"I think it's about eight hundred, eight fifty, something like that," replied Ilend, checking over the reins of the horses, making sure that they were all securely tied to a massive oak, while allowing them enough freedom to lie down. "High payouts like this don't come along any day, so they're well sought after, even if the drakes are split three ways."
Saliith snorted. "Make that a two-way split," he told Ilend. "Count me out of the payment; I've made shit-loads fighting in the Arena." The Argonian had loosened both his sinuous blades in their scabbards and was actually looking eager at the prospect of diving into the cave and wreaking havoc.
"Saliith, take point. Aerin, watch our backs. I'll carry the torch." Ilend was regretting his inability to recall the Light spell Martin had once taught him long ago; it had been months since he'd last cast it, thinking it effectively useless for a guardsman. It would have been far more convenient than carrying a torch.
Moss covered the walls of the cave, the flickering torchlight illuminating trickles of water dripping from the high ceiling as the Guildsman and his two companions moved down into the passageway. Their footsteps echoed unpleasantly throughout the cave, which had wide passageways and various cracks in the rock large enough to hide a rat. There was often the sound of a rat chattering away in its alcove, or an occasional squeal as the light of the torch hit its light-sensitive eyes.
Minutes after entering the cave, Ilend knew that there was something very wrong. The stench of death was starting to make itself known, and Saliith, who had the most refined sense of smell, claimed that he smelt ogre blood. Ilend was sure that it was his imagination, but in brief moments of silence, he thought he heard distant voices calling out to one another. Apparently, he wasn't alone in hearing this; Aerin hunched her shoulders and moved closer to him, looking around warily, and getting distracted by the smallest rockfall.
Saliith entered the first cavern, a large opening in the cave bordered with a large number of mushrooms, and stopped dead. Ilend and Aerin moved up beside him and stared at what had shocked the Argonian, Ilend holding the torch up so that they could see properly. The mound of grey flesh lying on the rocky floor before them was undoubtedly that of an ogre, and it was definitely dead; there was a blood trail from the stump of its neck leading to the head, which had rolled several feet away from the rest of the body. Ilend was the first to move, kneeling down beside the dead ogre and examining the wound.
"A battleaxe did this," he told them, keeping his voice low; even so, it sounded like a shout in the dead silence that had befallen Greyrock cave. "A wandering alchemist didn't do this." His voice was grim as he straightened, and his grip on the torch tightened until his knuckles, hidden under his gauntlets, grew white.
"Bandits?" rasped Saliith, looking around for any hidden listeners.
"Possibly," replied Ilend, peering over at the only other passageway leading out of the cavern. "It's not often that a band would pluck up the courage to take a base of operations from a clan of ogres, though." He sighed, but kept his back straight; he wasn't about to show weakness and dispirit his companions. Keeping morale up was a valuable lesson that his Watch Sergeant training had taught him. "Well, I don't see the point in us waiting around here. Let's move on."
Saliith led the way down the next passage, which started off narrow, but then widened out. Ilend kept close behind him, at times even holding the torch over the lizard's shoulder. Aerin kept even closer, occasionally turning and walking backwards for a few seconds, sometimes half-drawing Trueshot at the faintest footfall. Ilend didn't blame her for her twitchiness; he was now convinced that the voices he kept hearing in the distance were real. Clefts in the rock walls provided planet of places for an ambush, and more than once the Imperial thought he saw something move in the shadows.
Upon turning a corner, they were confirmed by another dead ogre slumped against the cave wall. Two arrows were lodged in its chest, but Ilend discerned that they hadn't penetrated the tough flesh enough to kill it; this theory was backed up by the fact that the ogre's small, ugly head had been cleaved in two by a battleaxe. Moving on, they entered another, smaller, cavern, to find four more ogres, all dead, lying around on the floor, accompanied by another corpse. Saliith moved closer to get a better look.
"This is no ogre," he rasped, turning the dead bandit over to reveal some bloodstained fur. The Khajiit's chainmail armour evidently hadn't saved it's skull from being crushed by an ogre's massive fist. The lizard looked up. "I somehow don't think this Loran bloke has any hope of survival."
"Well, there's always hope," countered Ilend, drawing his longsword. The daedric steel made a satisfying rasp as it left the scabbard.
Aerin snorted. "That's not what Gorgoth says," she muttered, peering into every shadow intently.
"You may have noticed that we might be slightly different, Aerin," growled Ilend as he motioned for her to bring up the rear, starting down another passage. "Keep the noise down, we don't want to announce our presence to every bandit on Nirn." Aerin rolled her eyes but thankfully kept her silence.
Another dead ogre greeted their entrance to a much larger cavern, its beady eyes looking full of malice even with a sword sticking out of its gut, but the main attraction of the cavern was the Imperial lying dead in the centre of it. As Aerin took a vantage point on a small rocky ridge, Ilend moved over to the body to identify it.
The Journeyman sighed. "It's Loran all right," he muttered, closing the alchemist's staring eyes, ignoring the wound that split his torso in two and exposed his ribcage. "Looks like he was killed with the same battleaxe," he observed, wresting the dead Imperial's wedding ring off his finger. It felt too much like desecration of the dead for Ilend's liking, but it was what his wife had requested.
"Well, at least we can scarper," sighed Aerin. "I don't-" She was cut off by Saliith hissing and raising a clenched fist. All three fell silent, hardly daring to breathe, as they listened to the voices that were coming closer.
"All eight were killed. We couldn't recover most of the bodies, but none of them made it to the rendezvous." The accent was clearly that of High Rock; obviously, the Breton hadn't been born in Cyrodiil. He sounded annoyed about something.
"As I expected. He's not going to fall prey to something that easy." The answering voice was far deeper than the Breton's cultured tones, and the words were roughly pronounced, as though the Orc had never perfected his Cyrodiilic. His voice was less angry than that of his companion; clearly he'd been expecting whatever news had just been delivered. "Just like I thought, we're going to have to contact the Redguard," he continued, drawing closer to the cavern where Ilend, Saliith, and Aerin were hanging on every word, with weapons drawn.
"Are you sure we can trust him?" asked the Breton. Moments later, before the Orc could reply, torchlight showed in the passage and the owners of the voices stepped into the cavern, directly across from where the intruders had emerged.
The Breton was lightly clad in some sort of animal furs, and carried a Morningstar mace hanging from his belt, a torch clutched in his hand. His short stature was accentuated by the fact that his companion was massive, and he was wearing heeled boots, probably in an effort to strive for more height. His hairline was rapidly receding, and his nose had been broken more than once, but his brown eyes were alert, and full of shock at finding three intruders in a supposedly safe cave.
In contrast, the Orc was not surprised; in fact, he nodded to himself as though he'd been expecting an incursion of this kind. He was clad head to toe in a massive suit of Orc-wrought plate armour, the dark grey metal looking both fearsome and purposeful. There were pits and scars in the metal from where it had seen battle, and there was a large rent in his open-face helm around the area of his most distinguishing feature; a wicked, cruel scar that reached from his temple to his jawline, running through the jagged hole that used to be his left eye socket. A huge battleaxe strapped to his back completed the picture.
Aerin gasped, instantly half-drawing Trueshot. "Burzukh," she murmured, wide eyes fixed on the Orc's scar.
Burzukh gro-Ghash cocked his head to one side, a smirk playing at a corner of his mouth as he studied Aerin, his dark tongue running over his prominent canines. "I thought you would remember me," he growled. "It's not often that you come across someone stupid enough to forget this face." A snarl contorted his features as he spat, his saliva splattering the dry rock floor of the cavern.
Ilend glanced to Aerin, then looked back at Burzukh. "You two know each other?" he queried, his face a picture of pure confusion.
"No," replied Aerin, shaking her head. "I've only seen him once, that's all. But he and Gorgoth have a history, I think."
"A history?" snarled Burzukh, pulling his battleaxe off his back. His Breton comrade quickly gripped his Morningstar, throwing his torch to the floor. "Don't talk about things you don't know, girl." He swore vehemently in his own language, then turned to Ilend. "What the fuck are you doing here, Imperial?"
"I could ask you the same question," replied Ilend, staring defiantly at the massive Orc, whose battleaxe was nearly as tall as Ilend. "We're here legally, investigating the murder of this poor sod-" he motioned towards the corpse of Loran "- whereas you seem to have moved in here and murdered him. Not the best for public relations." The Imperial's sword was held low, but he could move into a combat stance at any moment.
Burzukh snorted. "You're not the Guard," he observed. "Means you're the Fighter's Guild. I'd send you on your way, as you're no real threat, but... you've annoyed me." The Orc's eye hardened, and he hefted his battleaxe. The Breton started to swing his Morningstar, building up momentum. "Seeing as you have no weapon that can get past my armour..." he left the sentence hanging and took a step forward, an evil grin spreading over his face.
Aerin drew and released an arrow before Burzukh had taken a second step. He changed his posture at the last minute, but he was too close to Aerin for the expert marksman to miss; the arrow punched through the formidable Orcish battle armour as though it was paper and embedded itself in Burzukh's shoulder. The Breton stopped short in his tracks, looking wide-eyed from the warrior beside him to the archer in front of him. He never heard Saliith's throwing knife swishing through the air until it tore through his throat.
The Orc's snarl of pain and rage echoed throughout the caverns as he dropped to a semi-crouch and took a step back. Aerin had another arrow drawn, ready to loose, while Ilend and Saliith were moving forward slowly, circling around Burzukh, whose axe had drooped. The Orc raised a hand. "Enough," he growled. "I have twenty men awaiting my order to pounce upon you, but I am not one to tempt fate. You have five minutes to leave." With that, he turned and sprinted for the passage with a speed that would have been impressive even if he was unarmoured. Aerin, refusing to shoot someone in the back, relaxed Trueshot's bowstring.
"Well, that was... odd," observed Saliith, retrieving his throwing knife from the Breton's throat but keeping his swords drawn. "What do we do now?"
Ilend was staring down the passageway that Burzukh had disappeared down with an odd look on his face, but he shook himself, sheathed his sword, and turned to leave. "You heard him. If I'm going to ever take on twenty bandits, then it'd have to be for a lot more than what we're getting paid now. Come on." He led the way back up the way they had come, the torch almost failing a few times. He sincerely wished that he'd remembered that Light spell Martin had taught him.
The wounded Orc was true to his word; despite seeing at least two bandits hidden in alcoves, the Guildsman and his companions made it to the surface safely. Aerin sagged, pressing hands to her knees, as she leant against the moss-covered rock. "Next time I see Gorgoth, I am definitely asking him some very prying questions," she panted. Her intentions were shared by both Ilend and Saliith.
A/N: Yes, that surly Orc from Chapter Seven is back, and he means business. I'll remind you all once again to leave a review. They can only help me, and it's only a few minutes of your time...