A/N: I know Chapter Nineteen was uploaded quicker than normal, but that's no excuse not to review it... 5 reviews is OK, but I ALWAYS NEED MORE. I think I always say that in my author's notes, but that doesn't make it any less true.
Underpaid Critic: When I first created him, I considered making Gnaeus the Hero of Daggerfall, but note that he's been gone from the mainland for 35 years. That means he left one year before the events of Arena, so it's impossible for him to be any of the PCs from a mainstream TES game. And Camoran might be an easy fight in Paradise ingame, but he SHOULDN'T be. He's one of the most powerful mages of all time, and he's fighting from within his own realm. He SHOULD be invincible.
Zombie chow: Always have loved gore, though not gore for the sake of gore. That's just bloodthirsty.
Random Reader: Adrenaline Rush is very powerful, yes, might use that later. And this'll probably end at the 'end', but nothing's definite yet. As for the 'Infernal City' book, I haven't read it, and I'm not treating anything within those pages as canon unless it's confirmed in Skyrim.
Revelation6166: Gorgoth? A sympathetic character? I know what you mean, but, in later chapters, you're very unlikely to feel any sympathy towards him...
Anyhow, enough from me for now. Leave a review when you've finished reading.
Chapter Twenty: Spies
At Cloud Ruler Temple, the first snow was falling. Fine white particles drifted onto the ancient stone battlements, slowly covering the ground. Any snowflake that fell near a brazier instantly melted, but for those away from the sources of heat, all they could do was shiver and pull their cloaks tighter. It was only mid-autumn, but the north winds were blowing freezing air from the Jeralls and Skyrim down to Cyrodiil. The lack of heat from the sun, hidden under the rolling black clouds, added to the heavy, brooding atmosphere.
Jauffre suppressed a sigh of relief as he took the weight off his legs by leaning heavily on the battlements, under the cover of one of the watch towers. The Breton would never admit it, but he was feeling his age; he'd been semi-retired when the Emperor had been assassinated, and had been planning to retire completely before the year had been out. Now his duty was calling on his eighty-one year old body once again, asking it to endure one more crisis. Jauffre was weathered and hardy, but even he could not stave off the effects of age; he was no Telvanni, no masterful mage who could prolong his life through magical means.
"I should have sent reinforcements," he muttered in a low voice. He was speaking to himself; the other Blade occupying the watch tower, a shivering Imperial named Belisarius Relan, was too focused on his duty to hear his Grandmaster mumbling to himself. "Sending them into the lion's den alone was... foolish." Jauffre had regretted not acting the moment Baurus and Glenroy had showed up, telling him that the location of the Mythic Dawn had been found, but, inside, he knew that, even if he had sent Blades to reinforce Gorgoth, they would have got there too late anyway, and Gorgoth would not have waited. Jauffre was certain of that.
Belisarius's voice shook Jauffre out of his daze. "I see someone coming, sir," he intoned, leaning forward to peer at something on the path leading from Bruma, pulling his cloak tighter around him as he did so. Jauffre moved across to the front of the watch tower and looked down to where the Imperial was pointing. The Breton's eyes had degraded over time, so it took him a few seconds to locate what Belisarius had seen. When he finally located the mounted party making its slow way up the mountainside, his first instinct was to sigh in relief. However, as they drew closer, a hint of worry invaded his wrinkled features.
"Is it just my pessimism, or do they not look like returning victors?" Jauffre asked Belisarius, who shrugged. The Grandmaster hurried out of the watch tower and ordered a nearby Blade to open the gates. He moved to the section of wall immediately above the gate and, with the aid of a fellow Blade, wrenched a lever, which initiated the process of opening the massive gates down below. Jauffre was already on his way to the steps leading down to the entrance.
"Have they returned?" asked Martin, who had apparently been taking a morning walk. The heir had gained a lot of free time ever since Lathar had deemed his advanced training complete, and left Martin with a training regime to follow, along with sparring sessions every day to constantly hone his fighting skills. Jauffre nodded in reply and they started descending the steps together.
Gorgoth was the first in line walking up the steps. Upon seeing Jauffre and Martin walking to meet them, he handed Vorguz's reins to Aerin and walked to meet the Grandmaster of the Blades and the heir to the empty throne of Tamriel. The rest of the party walked past them, leading their horses to the stable. Observing Blades raised eyebrows and started muttering about their dented armour, parts of which were still bloody.
"Do you have the Amulet?" asked Jauffre. While he was naturally concerned for the welfare of one of his men – the Orc's armour was battered and parts were missing – the fate of Tamriel was somewhat more important.
Both the Breton and the Imperial knew something was wrong when Gorgoth, instead of responding in the affirmative, wearily motioned that they should go into the great hall. Falling in behind him with increasing worry, Jauffre barely waited for the doors to close behind them before repeating the question.
"Mankar Camoran was too strong for me," sighed Gorgoth, his face expressionless as always, but a hint of frustration evident in his voice. "He escaped to his Paradise, taking the Amulet with him. I know of no way to follow him."
The Orc had not bothered to keep his voice down, and there was utter silence in the great hall. Every eye was staring at Gorgoth, some accusing, some understanding. The hope seeping out of the room was almost tangible. After some working of his jaw, it was Jauffre that eventually broke the silence.
"Surely you got something out of this?" he asked, feeling despair threatening to rise and crushing it brutally. Beside him, Martin was also keeping his emotions successfully in check, ignoring the snow that was melting and trickling down the neck of his robes.
"Most of the Mythic Dawn has been destroyed, and I recovered this," replied Gorgoth, taking the Mysterium Xarxes out of his belt bag.
"By the Nine!" shouted Martin, dragging Jauffre back with him as he lurched several steps back from Gorgoth, looking at the tome in his hand as though it was a deadly viper. "The Mysterium Xarxes is far too dangerous to handle, Gorgoth!" Some of the Blades in the hall had looked around, placing hands on sword hilts, before realising that the only danger apparently came from a book.
"Dagon cannot corrupt my soul, Martin; it is black enough already." Gorgoth laid the Xarxes down on a nearby table. "It is the best I could come up with. We could possibly use it somehow."
Martin had calmed down quickly, and he cautiously edged closer to the Xarxes, peering at it. "You say that Camoran went somewhere you could not follow?" he asked Gorgoth.
The Orc nodded. "He called it 'Paradise'," he rumbled. "He opened a portal to it and went through. His magic was too powerful for me to do anything but delay him." Gorgoth tapped the cover of the Xarxes. "I suspect that he used this to get there."
Martin nodded, scratching his chin, deep in thought. "Then, maybe – just maybe – we could use this to work out how to open a portal to Paradise," he mused, speaking half to himself. "I have some knowledge of this daedric script; I might be able to attempt to translate some of it, given time."
"And what use would that be?" barked Gnaeus, brushing past Gorgoth on his way to the fire. "You go to Paradise, Camoran will kill you. Simple. It's a fool's hope."
"I don't see any other path," retorted Selene, walking over to look at the Xarxes, casting a glare at the old Imperial's retreating back.
"How long until it's translated?" asked Gorgoth. He could speak four languages, but daedric script was far beyond his reading ability.
Instead of answering, Martin picked up a nearby dagger in its scabbard and cautiously opened the Xarxes with it, making sure his flesh never came into contact with the crisp pages. The daedric symbols were written in a dark red ink that was almost certainly blood. "With the correct books, I can make a start," he muttered, running his tongue over his teeth. "It will take time, but it's best to be sure."
Selene looked closer at the script, leaning so close that her golden hair almost brushed the page. Martin winced. "I think I read a few books back on Whiterock about daedric scripts of this kind," she observed, running her eyes over the crimson letterings. "I might be able to help you," she told Martin, looking up at him. "Two translators has to be better than one; I'm guessing we can't work on this for long periods of time."
"Most assuredly not," hissed Martin. "Even after reading it for mere seconds, I can feel its evil starting to cast tendrils over me. Reading it for more than an hour at a time would be suicide."
"I'll leave that with you, then," grunted Gorgoth, turning and looking for the door that would take him in the general direction of the armoury. "I need a new gauntlet." Jauffre followed him, leaving Martin and Selene to frown over their new book.
"I've been meaning to give you a warning, Gorgoth," muttered the Breton, keeping his voice low, forced to make long strides to keep up with the Orc. "Several of the Bretons here are High Rock born-and-bred, and I think a few of them come from regions that have a bad history with Orcs."
"That's understandable," grunted Gorgoth. "Our peoples have had our share of disagreements in the past. I trust professionalism will mute such feelings?"
"Mostly, it will, but some hatreds run deep. You of all people must understand that."
"I do." Gorgoth paused. "Are there any Bretons here from the Sharoth region?"
Jauffre furrowed his brow, thinking. "One that I can think of without consulting the roll," he replied. "Callia Petit. Fairly young, a good soldier. I believe she grew up in a village in the Sharoth region." The Breton frowned. "I think she was affected by the troubles in that region..." He suddenly looked up at Gorgoth sharply.
"I will say no more, Jauffre," rumbled Gorgoth. "But it would be wise if you kept her away from me. Old memories die hard." He turned and walked off in the direction of the armoury, leaving Jauffre to wonder at this new - and troubling - insight into Gorgoth's past. He'd have to tell Renault to investigate.
"Why do bloodstains always have ta take ages ta come out?" asked Aerin rhetorically, holding up her boiled leather cuirass and frowning at the dried blood staining the area around the slash across the stomach area. The wound itself had hurt, but had been quickly healed by Selene. She and Ilend had the East Barracks to themselves, and were taking the time to finally see how much their equipment had suffered.
"Maybe it's an incentive for you to fight harder, so that you don't have to clean your armour?" replied Ilend absent-mindedly, as he removed the last of his chainmail. He sincerely hoped that the armourers at Cloud Ruler wouldn't charge too much to repair it; the damage wasn't too bad, and the armour could still be worn, but sizeable dents and tears would render him vulnerable to skilled enemies. A thought occurred to him, and he looked over at the Bosmer.
"Aerin, why do you carry two blades around? I've only ever seen you fight with both of them once, and I think that was just you attempting to show off."
"Ever heard of a spare, guardsman?" asked Aerin, patting the pair of elven blades that crossed each other as they ran across her stomach, held there by her sword belt. "I mostly use one, but... ya never know when you need more."
Ilend snorted. "Using two swords at once is hard to master," he informed her. "Judging from what I saw in the caverns, you're average at best with one. I sincerely doubt using two blades at once would do you any good."
An angry flush appeared on Aerin's cheeks, and she immediately whipped both swords free from their scabbard. "You want to see what I can do with two?" she asked him, glaring down at him.
The Imperial rolled his eyes and stood, slightly crouched, ready to move in any direction. He kept his sword in his scabbard; he could immediately tell that he had no need for it. "Surprise me," he told the Bosmer. "Land a hit on me, and I'll take it back." While he wasn't wearing armour, and Aerin's blades were sharp, he was quietly confident of not having to deal with any wounds.
Aerin needed no further encouragement, and leapt in, aiming a blow at the Imperial's midsection and another at his head. Ilend smoothly ducked to avoid one, batted the other aside, darted in, and grabbed Aerin by the throat, throwing her to the ground, making her grunt, but she held on to both blades and got back up.
"Sloppy," taunted Ilend. "If I'd had a weapon, and was meaning to use it, you'd be dead by now." He sent Aerin what he knew was his most infuriating smirk. She growled something unintelligible and charged him again, this time slashing down across his body. Fortunately for Ilend, her arms and most of her torso were bare, so he could tell by the state of her muscles that she was putting too much into the blow. Ilend backpedalled quickly, in time to dodge the falling blades, his lack of armour meaning he could move a lot quicker than normal. Charging forward before Aerin could recover and raise her swords again, he brought both fists down on her exposed back, smashing her to the ground. He immediately planted a boot on her back, pinning her there despite how much she squirmed.
"You're far more balanced with one sword," he observed, ignoring the Bosmer's outraged snarling and demands to be released. "Keep the other one as a spare, or learn how to use both at once. At the moment, when using two, you're more of a danger to yourself, unless your enemy is a slack-jawed green recruit not out of basic." Ilend moved back, keeping ready for whatever the Wood Elf would throw at him as she slowly got to her feet.
"Nice way to boost my confidence, guardsman," she growled, sheathing both blades and checking over her hair, though he had been careful not to touch it.
"If possible, keep the enemy at a distance," continued Ilend, relaxing when he was confident that she wasn't about to launch herself at him. "You're probably the best archer I've had the good fortune to fight beside, and Trueshot compliments that. Use what you've got, and use it well."
"Yeah, well, that is the general idea, Ilend," sighed Aerin, walking back over to where her boiled leathers lay. "If I never had ta swing a blade again in my life, I'd be ecstatic."
"That's the thing, Aerin," muttered Ilend, returning to where he'd been sitting on a bedroll to continue the analysis of his armour. "Even if you do shoot down most opponents before they reach you, there's still times when you're going to have to leap into melee, and that's where you're vulnerable." He turned and shot Aerin an unreadable glance. "I don't want you to be vulnerable." His voice was completely flat.
"Your concern is touching. Now act on it instead of preaching," retorted Aerin, throwing her armour into a disordered pile atop her claimed bedroll. "Instead of laughing at my antics and pinning me to a dusty floor, some training would be greatly appreciated, ya know." She folded her arms and glared at the Imperial, who was rubbing at stubborn patch of blood on his pauldron.
"Is that your way of kindly asking me to generously donate some of my valuable time, for free, to teach you how to not accidentally chop off your own toes?" asked Ilend, standing and stretching, wincing as some of his joints cracked. His muscles were getting that familiar tight feeling. They'd be badly knotted after his next rest, he could tell.
"Given the way that you have leered at me consistently in the past, I don't think you spending some time alone with me while I'm not wearing all that much would be particularly taxing for you, guardsman," she told him coolly, looking up at him with eyebrow arched.
"Bloody persuasive bitch," muttered Ilend, but a slow smile was relentlessly making its way onto his face. "At least you know how to train," he admitted. "But, then, you are a gladiator, that'd be expected." He sighed and shook his head, spreading his arms wide. "To be honest, Aerin, I'd teach you if you were wearing layers of winter clothing. I've got nothing else to do right now; I doubt Gorgoth would appreciate me sneaking off back to Skingrad without him forming a clear plan of action." At that moment, his stomach let forth a mighty rumble. "Right, I'm starving. Let's see what swill they're passing off as lunch."
"It will take some time for them to decipher the Mysterium Xarxes; too long for you to stay here for the duration with nothing to occupy you," Jauffre was explaining to Gorgoth as they walked along the outer wall of Cloud Ruler Temple, ignoring the falling snow and the freezing wind buffeting at them. "There could be, however, work to keep you occupied other than your Fighter's Guild commitments."
Gorgoth stopped and put a hand on the wall, peering out into the snow. "I was planning to leave for Chorrol today, just after lunch," he rumbled. "What did you have in mind?"
"There have been reports of spies seen in the area. We believe that they are based in Bruma." Jauffre leaned on the wall beside Gorgoth, shivering despite his best efforts to stop. He really needed a thicker cloak now that he was back in the north. "Captain Steffan has the full details; it is important that the Mythic Dawn and Dagon know as little as possible."
Gorgoth tapped his canine, mulling over the task. "I think Ilend and Aerin would be better suited to this," he observed, surprising Jauffre. The Breton hadn't expected anything other than acceptance. "From what I hear, there would be very little work to occupy them in Skingrad; Saliith has told me he intends to return to the Arena, leaving today, and Gnaeus, I know for a fact, will not leave the fireside until winter is over."
"What about yourself?" asked Jauffre, still shocked that his newest Blade was turning down a seemingly important assignment. "You seem to be the best qualified for the assignment."
"That is where you are wrong, Grandmaster," replied Gorgoth. "Back in Orsinium, I had no need for spies and rarely had to deal with them. Ilend and Aerin have all the skills needed for the job and will attract far less attention than me; my face is well-known to these people. They are slightly more anonymous." He paused. "Besides, they have fewer reasons to avoid this than I do."
Jauffre was slowly nodding. "I see," he muttered. "I suppose they could suffice. I'll inform them immediately. I'll send a messenger to you, wherever you are, when Martin and Selene have translated the Mysterium Xarxes." With that, the aging Grandmaster turned on his heel and walked back to the great hall, his unruly cloak torn by the wind. Gorgoth turned back to observe the snow; the north wind was blowing hard. If it kept up like this, the snow would be lying thick on the ground. Between his magical ability and the fact that parts of Orsinium saw thick snow all year round, Gorgoth was not one to be slowed by snow, which could often be used to his advantage. After standing still for another few seconds, the Orc turned and headed for the canteen.
Earlier, he'd managed to secure a gauntlet that was actually big enough to cover his entire forearm, meaning that once again, there was no exposed flesh beneath his neck. The steel gauntlet, brand new, seemed somewhat incongruous against the rest of the Orc's battle-worn plate armour, but it was better than having any unarmoured section. He had no desire to be vulnerable. There was no benefit to be had from weakness. Malacath frowned upon it.
Reaching the canteen's exterior door, he was about to open it when it opened and Saliith stepped out, wiping a trail of gravy from his jaw. "It was good fighting by your side, Gorgoth," said the Argonian. "If you need me, you know where to find me. Count me in if anything comes up." The lizard paused, seeming to search for words. "At the very least, when I work with you, I'm making a difference. At the Arena, I'm only lining the wallets of gamblers." It seemed that the gladiator had undergone a transformation from when Gorgoth had first met him; he had gone from glory-hunting Arena hopeful to bitter warrior looking to make a difference in a matter of weeks. There was no doubt that his killing of Branwen had changed his view on life.
"It's good to know that there are people I can count on," replied Gorgoth, placing a hand on his shoulder. "I'll make sure Jauffre sends you a message if anything comes up. Fight well." Saliith nodded in response and left for the stables, rolling his shoulders, looking determined, ignoring the cold despite only wearing a single thin cloak over his scale armour. Gorgoth looked after him with a slightly appraising look on his rugged face. That Argonian would be Yellow Team Champion before long if he played his cards right. Gorgoth turned and entered the canteen, the smell of roasting meat washing over him. He breathed in deeply. The smells reminded him of how little he'd eaten over the past few days.
Lathar, Drillmaster of Cloud Ruler Temple, a grizzled veteran of sixty years, was not easily distracted. A deep scar, standing out against his dark skin, marred his face, running from his jawline, touching his ear, and ending at his temple, just brushing his close-cropped iron-grey hair. It was four decades old, but the lessons it had taught him were kept forever fresh by his passing them down to the new Blades he trained. Distraction was a huge danger, to be feared and reviled; distraction could kill quicker than the scorpions in the Alik'r desert. But Lathar, at that moment, was finding it rather hard to concentrate on sharpening his dai-katana. He shook his head and focused on his whetstone, turning his head so that he didn't have to look at the other two occupants of Cloud Ruler Temple's smaller training room. Out of sight, out of mind.
Ilend was having no problem with concentrating on his current task, despite his proximity to the distraction that so plagued Lathar. At his insistence, Aerin had removed all her clothing save for her bra and a pair of tight shorts that barely reached mid-thigh. His reasoning was that he could see her muscles working and point out how to improve her posture. Despite some slight protests by Aerin, she was a gladiator, and hence knew the importance of training properly; besides, she always had enjoyed flaunting herself in front of a massive audience, and this wasn't so different.
They were sparring using their actual weapons, despite the dangers involved. Ilend maintained that it was better than using wooden practise blades, which felt too little like their actual weapons to be of much use. As he wasn't using either his shield or any other armour, they were both vulnerable to sparring injuries, but they had both potions and Ilend's magic on hand. Fortunately, the smaller practise room was empty apart from themselves and Lathar; at this time, most of the Blades were eating lunch, on duty, or practising in the larger, better-equipped training room, or braving the weather and training outside.
Aerin growled in frustration as, once again, her slender, elven-forged blade was pushed aside by Ilend's larger, rougher, daedric blade. Their weapons seemed to resemble their owners, Aerin had noticed: her own blades were both slender and delicate, but with an edge sharp enough to slice through light armour if used correctly. On the other hand, Ilend's daedric longsword, taken from a Dremora at the battle of Kvatch, both looked and was a brutal weapon that could cleave bone and plate with ease, if enough force was applied. At the moment, that blade was not being used for offensive purposes; Ilend had told her to see if she could break down his defence, which, even with his shield leaning against the wall, was formidable. Her steel had yet to touch his skin.
"Focus. Don't get frustrated." Ilend's voice was never changing from the instructive tone he'd adopted as soon as they'd entered the training room. Apparently, he'd done his fair few stints of helping out with the training of new recruits, and knew a thing or two about training. "Frustration just leads to you overextending and exposing yourself. I've already seen one gap I could have exploited." Aerin set her jaw and brushed the strands of hair out of her eyes, tucking them behind her ears before preparing to attack again.
She darted in, sword gripped firmly in both hands, swinging towards Ilend's lower ribs. The Imperial stepped back, planted his feet, and smashed her blade aside; in his defensive posture, he had no need to look for an opening, so he created none. Aerin recovered quickly, earning a grunt from Ilend – apparently, that was praise – and moved in closer, blade darting up her opponent's body, streaking for his chin. Ilend ducked and sidestepped away, sighing and gesturing at the momentary opening Aerin had left on her flank before she recovered.
"Try remembering something I've taught you," he sighed. "Never over-commit like that, though a strike like that could catch a slow-witted opponent off-guard. I won't work with me." The swordsman rammed his blade into his scabbard and crouched slightly. Aerin raised an eyebrow. "This time, I'll take any openings. Let's see if you can hit me when I'm dodging." Ilend clenched his fists, tightening the scarred knuckles until they cracked.
Deciding to attempt to multitask, Aerin attempted conversation. "How do ya think Gorgoth expects us ta fare dealing with those spies Jauffre told us to hunt down?" she asked, chopping at Ilend's right arm. He backpedalled rapidly to avoid the blow. Aerin advanced again, slashing across his midsection, then thrusting at his leg. Ilend kicked her blade aside and moved to the left, darting into the centre of the practise room. He could move quickly when not weighed down by his chainmail.
"It's something to do," observed Ilend, wrenching her sword arm up. Before he could launch his knuckles at her bare midriff, Aerin had twisted out of his grasp and aimed a backwards stab at his stomach, which Ilend sidestepped with ease. "I don't fancy going all the way back to Skingrad just to hang around doing nothing. Making a few thousand betting on Saliith might be attractive, but I'd see no action myself." The swordsman knocked her attacking arm aside, but then his left jab brushed past her stomach as she twisted out of his range again. "Flexible," noted Ilend, nodding slightly. Then his eyebrows drew down again. "But if I was a Khajiit, your stomach would be ripped open."
"So, when do ya plan ta go ta Captain Steffan for the info?" asked Aerin, ignoring his observation and launching a major attack, blade dividing the air in front of Ilend as he was forced back to the wall. "The way I see it, the Blades don't like being kept wa-" She was cut off by Ilend forcing her sword arm aside and smashing his fist into her stomach, followed by a scything kick to the back of her legs that sent her sprawling to the ground.
"Your last swing was too wide," observed Ilend, offering her his hand. She accepted it, and he hauled her to her feet. "You're lucky I pulled my punches."
"Lucky?" muttered Aerin. Her stomach would hurt in the morning, that was certain. "Anyhow, my question, guardsman?" She moved back onto the balls of her feet, sword ready.
"We'll pay him a visit whenever you're done training," Ilend told her, dropping back into his defensive crouch, fists clenched and half-raised. "Just say the word."
"I think I've got some left in me yet," growled Aerin, ducking low and charging upwards at Ilend, blade aimed at carving his chest open. Ilend grabbed her sword arm, lifted her bodily off the ground, and threw her to the floor, Aerin crumpled upon landing, swiftly jumped to her feet, and stabbed at Ilend before he was fully recovered. The swordsman barely moved in time, and Aerin's blade grazed his ribcage, drawing a line of blood. However, the Bosmer had overextended herself, and, next thing she knew, she was flat on her back, dazed, looking up at the ceiling, tasting blood in her mouth from Ilend's vicious backhand. She'd never suspected that he could hit so hard. Ilend himself had lifted his shirt and was tracing the scratch that Aerin's attack had left, looking impressed at the drops of blood smearing his thumb. Blue healing magic erased the wound, but the blood remained, staining Ilend's skin and shirt. The Imperial's eyes dropped to the floored Bosmer.
"Good hit, Aerin," he observed, offering her his hand again. She took it, wincing in pain as bruises on her back gained from being smashed to the floor flared up. "It's a start, at least, though I could have killed you many times over in that session." He attempted a grin. "That said, the same could be said for most of the new recruits I trained. Most of the Kvatch Guard, for that matter. They always said I was good with a blade."
Aerin attempted to reply, but a stabbing pain in her jaw stopped her short. "I think you broke a few of me teeth," she mumbled slowly through a mouthful of blood. Ilend's hand immediately closed over her jaw, and for an instant, tremendous pain seared through her mouth as her shattered teeth put themselves back together. Then the pain was gone, and she was left blinking away the afterimage that the bright blue healing light had burnt onto her eyes.
"No pain, no gain," reminded Ilend, still holding her face in one hand as he stared intently into her eyes. Brilliant blue met brilliant blue, mere inches apart. "I wasn't holding back. Maybe that'll make you think again before leaving yourself open so much."
"In that case, you should have waited before healing her, you soft idiot." The gravelly voice of Lathar brought both heads around; they'd completely forgotten about the presence of the grizzled Redguard drillmaster. Aerin, suddenly feeling somewhat awkward, stepped back from Ilend and started focusing intently on making sure her blade was clean. "No pain teaches like lasting pain," continued Lathar, slowly rising from his stool and walking up to Ilend. The Imperial was a tall man, but Lathar topped him by at least an inch. His Blades armour looked as old and weathered as he did. The Redguard spat, revealing a row of crooked, yellowing teeth, before speaking again.
"That said, you ain't bad at tutoring, Imperial," he admitted. "Where'd you serve? Morrowind?"
"Kvatch Guard, six years," replied Ilend, pride evident in his voice as he drew himself up. "Watch Sergeant for three of those years. Resigned for personal reasons after the battle."
Lathar's eyebrow twitched; evidently, that was as much surprise as he ever showed. "A city guard, eh?" he pondered. "I had you down as a squad leader, myself, in one of the legions keeping peace in the provinces, not one of those pampered peacekeepers in the cities." Lathar spat again. "Still, I guess you do find diamonds in the rough. Keep a solid head on your shoulders, and you'll do good, boy." He left without another word, leaving Ilend's jaw working, attempting to form a response.
"'Diamond in the rough'," he finally growled, angered at the insult to his old, dead comrades. "He wasn't there, the bastard." For a moment, he toyed with the idea of catching up with the Redguard, but thought better of it. They had better things to do. He turned to Aerin, who was rocking on the heels of her feet, arms clasped behind her back. "To the barracks. We're grabbing our gear then finding the captain." The Imperial grabbed his shield from where it leaned against the wall and led the way back to the East Barracks, walking quickly, forcing Aerin to jog merely to keep up.
Within minutes, they were donning their armour and checking weapons. Aerin had been pleasantly surprised to find that the Cloud Ruler armoury had a bountiful stock of arrows. She hadn't actually asked anyone before helping herself, but she figured that if she was on Blades business, then she was entitled to helping herself to a full quiver. She noticed Ilend unsuccessfully attempting to suppress a smirk, but she couldn't be sure if the subject was her bristling quiver or the fact that, after a year of ownership, she still found it difficult to squeeze into her boiled leathers. The sweat that had collected on her body during the training didn't help matters. Still, he hadn't made a lewd comment in recent memory, so that put him on a moral level above most of the men she'd had dealings with in the past.
Locating Captain Steffan didn't take long; his armour stood out from among the standard armour of the Blades around him as he patrolled the front plaza, casting an eye over those training and shooting occasional glances at the sky. The snow had stopped, and the wind had died down a bit, but Aerin still shivered and pulled her cloak tighter around her. Steffan pulled his admiring gaze away from the temple's stonework as they approached, looking them up and down as though analysing them.
"The solid melee fighter and the flighty archer," he observed, indicating both of them in turn. "Yeah, you'll do fine. Gorgoth knows what he's on about." The Imperial removed his helmet, revealing close-cropped hair that was more grey than brown, and scratched the crown of his head, starting to walk along the battlements. Ilend and Aerin fell in beside him. "Right, these spies. Jauffre wants em cleared out fast, and it's pretty obvious why. If Dagon gets any knowledge about us, then that's not exactly desirable."
"Damn right," growled Ilend, his fist tightening on his sword hilt. "Point us in the direction of these bastards and we'll make sure they do no more spying. Or breathing."
"That's the spirit, Vonius," replied Steffan, slapping Ilend on the back, steel ringing on steel. He led them both to one of the watch towers. The Blade on duty stepped aside so that they could all stand at the very front of the tower, which gave an excellent view of Bruma and the forest beyond. The grey column of White Gold Tower was barely visible on the horizon, almost indistinguishable from the heavy grey clouds. Steffan pointed at something indistinct at the foot of the mountain.
"After dark, the sentries have sometimes seen two Mythic Dawn agents meeting at that runestone," he told them. Now that he'd identified it, they could see it for what it truly was; an engraved rock, surrounded by several smaller rocks, all black as the night sky, save for the light covering of snow. At this distance, it was impossible to make out the carvings, but it was certainly a landmark. "Never more than two, but we don't know if it's the same ones or not; the distance is too far, and we've never been able to get there in time before." The Knight Captain turned to them. "Make sure you wrap up warm," he said, his voice slightly wry as his gaze lingered on Aerin, who angrily jerked the hood of her cloak further forward. "Fighting wearing bulky clothes is one thing, fighting with frostbite quite another." He saluted and turned to leave. "Kill the bastards," he growled in farewell.
Ilend and Aerin looked down at the runestone for a few more moments, then exchanged glances. "Well, we've got hours before sunset," grunted Ilend as he led them out of the watch tower. "If there's anything I hate more than Dagon right now, it's sitting around and doing nothing. I hated the long night shifts."
Aerin nodded in sympathy. "So do something that's not boredom-inducing," she suggested. A sudden gust of wind ripped her hood back, and she snarled in frustration before dragging it back over her head. "Did ya have anything in mind?"
Ilend put a hand to the back of his neck and rotated his head stiffly. His muscles were getting slightly rigid again. "A massage would be good," he muttered, shooting a sidelong glance at the Bosmer. She rolled her eyes and sighed, muttering something under her breath. "Come on, Aerin. How am I meant to do the heavy killing work with knotted muscles?"
Aerin stopped, folded her arms, and looked up at him critically. "And where are we gonna find the table and privacy needed for that kind of stuff?" she asked him.
Ilend winced. "Bugger. OK, a light version, in the barracks. Come on, better sooner than later." A jerk of his head had her quickly following him, once gain muttering something under her breath. He was somewhat glad that he couldn't hear her.
Gorgoth kept an eye on the sun as he turned Vorguz off the orange road into a small hollow, mostly clear of trees. The dim ball of orange, partially obscured by clouds, was slowly sinking below the horizon. Masser and Secunda would be visible soon. The Orc intended to rest himself and Vorguz for several hours, then resume his journey to Chorrol well before dawn the next day. If he'd calculated the distance correctly, he'd be reporting at the Guildhall shortly before noon.
Vorguz gently nuzzled Gorgoth's armoured hand as he stripped the stallion of his saddle and loosely tied his reins to a tree. Gorgoth absently stroked the horse's nose in response. It was likely that Vorguz was starting to develop affection for the new Orcish master who seemed to drive him very hard, but treated him very well otherwise. Gorgoth himself felt little for his horse; Vorguz was neither as powerful nor as well-trained as Rauzkh, the warhorse that Gorgoth had ridden for years. For all he knew, Rauzkh was now owned by some other Orc, or languishing in his stable, denied the freedom that the massive stallion had always loved. Gorgoth shook his head; now was no time to be getting nostalgic over a horse. Some day, he would return to Orsinium and reclaim what was his. First, there were other things to consider.
The snow had not reached this far south of Bruma, and Gorgoth had little trouble finding enough dry wood on the ground to start a small fire. Still armoured, he sat cross-legged on the ground, staring into the flames. Almost absent-mindedly, he cast three separate conjuration spells that he would keep constant until he no longer needed his summoned aid. A slight red glow flickered at his fingertips, then fled as two Dremora and a Xivilai stepped out of coalescing fields of dark red shimmering sparks. All three looked around for danger and, seeing none, took a seat without waiting for Gorgoth's greeting.
"What is it this time, Gorgoth?" asked Xilinkar, sliding down against a tree, his armour marking the trunk. "I was preparing for some well-deserved rest after discussing a plan of attack for hours." The Dremora's face showed no sign of fatigue; all Dremora quickly learnt to hide all signs of weakness. "I doubt you're here to gloat about the mess you made of our human allies, but if you are, I don't have the time."
"Camoran leaves a job half-finished and then retreats to his own realm, ignoring the destruction of his army," spat Chaxil, laying his naked claymore across his knees. His contempt for Camoran and the Mythic Dawn was evident. "I'm not one to question Lord Dagon, but I wouldn't trust any mortal with a task that important." The Dremora's eyes flickered to Gorgoth for a second before settling on the fire.
"Do you remember Whiterock?" asked Gorgoth, ignoring their condemning of the Mythic Dawn.
"How could we forget?" grated Medraka, the Xivilai's blue-grey fists clenching into fists. The two Dremora wore similar angry expressions.
"I happen to have fought by the side of the two survivors." That had their eyes focusing on him with undisguised interest. "I can see why you failed. Both are skilled in using their abilities in battle. They helped me carve up the Mythic Dawn." Gorgoth leaned back against the curve of the hollow, straightening his legs and peering up at the darkening sky. "It seems that Dagon has numerous thorns in his side. Do not get overconfident."
Xilinkar was the first to respond. "With you as the enemy's champion, Gorgoth, I will never be overconfident." The Markynaz fingered the hilt of his katana. "May our paths never cross on the field of battle," he muttered. "While it would be an honour to fight you, I doubt the ending would be pleasant for me. I have not fallen in combat for decades; I have no wish to repeat that experience." Xilinkar's lip curled into a snarl.
"Despite reading a lot about the nature of daedra, I find my knowledge lacking about the process of your resurrection," observed Gorgoth, making sure to add a questioning tone to his voice.
Chaxil shook his head. "It is not pleasant," he growled. "The pain of our death and rebirth is more than enough to discourage us from it, if the shame of losing an even fight was not enough." The Kynmarcher leaned back and said no more, watching the firelight flickering in the reflection from his claymore.
Medraka stood abruptly, looking down at Gorgoth and folding his arms. If the Xivilai and the Orc both stood next to each other, they would be of equal height, though Gorgoth was bulkier. "Gorgoth, our victory creeps ever closer. Would you ever be persuaded to serve Lord Dagon? I know he would find a place for you when he conquers Tamriel." Xilinkar shifting uncomfortably and Chaxil's intent study of his claymore spoke of their disapproval of the Xivilai's offer - none of them would use the word 'betrayal' - but Medraka kept his gaze steady, his brilliant yellow eyes meeting Gorgoth's dark amber eyes, neither blinking.
Gorgoth stood slowly. "I swore an oath to protect and to serve the Emperor of Tamriel," he said, his voice flat and emotionless.
Medraka nodded in understanding. The two Dremora got to their feet, Chaxil sheathing his claymore. "For what it's worth, Gorgoth, I'd rather have you on our side than Camoran," muttered Chaxil.
"May our paths never cross on the field of battle," grunted Gorgoth, echoing Xilinkar's earlier wish. He dispelled the magic tying them to Nirn and watched as they dissipated into multitudes of red sparks that floated on the wind for a few seconds before fading from existence. Gorgoth rolled out his bedroll and began removing his armour. Above, Masser and Secunda were visible through a gap in the clouds. Within minutes of the daedra leaving, Gorgoth was descending into sleep.
"Ilend?"
"What?"
"Why does it have to be so bloody... cold?"
A smirk appeared on the Imperial's face as he looked over at his companion. Aerin was wearing a very thick, heavy cloak, but that could not conceal the fact that Bosmer were born for warm, humid climates, not for the cold of Bruma. Ilend himself merely wore a single cloak over his chainmail armour, and while he felt the cold, the biting edge of it stinging his face, it did not bother him much; he'd had to spend many a winter's night on duty in Kvatch with nothing to warm him.
They had waited for sunset and headed down to the runestone that Captain Steffan had pointed out. The Mythic Dawn agents had not been present, so Ilend had decided that the best course of action would be to hide behind a nearby line of bushes and wait for them to show up. Undaunted by the snow lying on the ground, the Imperial had merely crouched, loosened his sword in its scabbard, and settled down to quietly wait for their prey, imitated by his smaller companion, who had Trueshot clutched in one fist with three arrows grounded in the hard earth in front of her, readily available to be used quickly.
"Cold? What cold? It's a bit chilly, sure, but I wouldn't call this bracing atmosphere cold." Sniggering quietly at the dirty look she shot him, Ilend returned to studying the area around the runestone. In the darkness, the sparse covering of the bushes would be more than enough to hide them from someone not using magic, and they gave both watchers a good field of view. Ilend continued, his voice low. "Maybe, one day, we'll be doing this same thing in the jungles of Valenwood or Elsweyr, and our situations can be reversed."
Aerin shook her head, her hood threatening to slide back until she yanked it back up to let only a thin shaft of moonlight illuminate her pale face. "I hope not. This waiting is boring. As well as cold." Though he could now only discern the bottom half of her face, Ilend could tell that she was truly uncomfortable, if her constant shivering hadn't been a big clue. With an overdramatic sigh, he loosened his cloak somewhat and drew her closer to him, putting his arm around her and covering her with most of the left side of his cloak. He'd rather not have the Bosmer's shivering alert the enemy.
Ten slow minutes passed. Dark clouds drifted along overhead, threatening more snow as the light of Masser and Secunda waxed and waned, disappearing and reappearing from behind cloud formations. Ilend was tempted to use his detect life spell, but he knew that he'd see anyone before they entered the range of the spell, and he didn't have the magical power to sustain it for long. Aerin, her head almost touching his ribcage, was breathing slowly and steadily, no longer shivering. The only indication that she was awake was the occasional shifting of her feet and the faint sign of her blue eyes visible under her hood.
It was Aerin, with her more sensitive hearing, who was alerted first to the presence of another person in the area. Her head snapped up, and she scanned the forest and nearby road. Beside her, Ilend grunted and pointed; a single silhouette was emerging from the forest, approaching the runestone. As they moved closer, it became apparent that she was a female Dunmer, with the hood of her dark green cloak thrown back, copper-coloured hair shining in the moonlight. She stopped and folded her arms, staring up at the runestone, an impatient expression evident on her face.
Aerin reached for an arrow, but was stopped by Ilend's hand on her arm. He brought his mouth close to her ear, his breath tickling her cheek before dissipating into the cold night air. "Wait until the other one arrives," he breathed. Aerin nodded and settled back on her heels. Ilend slowly took his shield from his back and strapped it to his left arm, removing his cloak. The cold immediately assaulted his head and cut through his armour better than the finest steel ever could, but he ignored it.
It took another five minutes of tense waiting before a second figure drew closer. A Redguard woman, cloakless but wearing thick linens with a sword belted to her waist, strode off the road as though she owned it and nodded in greeting to the Dunmer.
"You took your time, Jearl," grumbled the Dark Elf, mists of her breath climbing the runestone before fading.
"And we'll waste even more time arguing about it," retorted Jearl, looking up towards Cloud Ruler Temple. Neither woman heard the sound of a bowstring tightening. "Come on, let's go. Maybe we'll get luckier tonight. If we can see a way of getting at the Septim bastard..." her words trailed off, and she started off up the slope.
The Dunmer turned to follow, grumbling under her breath, but both her words and her life were cut short as an arrow slammed into her back with such force that she was thrown into a nearby rock. Jearl spun just in time to see Ilend rising out of the bush, drawing his sword, snow filling the air as he roared a wordless war cry and charged at her. Jearl, stumbling back, barely drew her steel broadsword in time to parry his strike. In response, Ilend bashed her around the face with his shield. The Redguard reeled back, jaw sliced open, teeth shattered, blood filling her mouth. Ilend moved forward and slashed her chest open, cutting her heart in two. Jearl's body collapsed to the ground, blood spreading out around the corpse, staining the snow red.
"All that waiting for less than a minute of action?" moaned Aerin, emerging from the bush, still clutching Trueshot with an arrow nocked. "At least now we can get back ta the fire in Cloud Ruler."
Ilend straightened from checking Jearl's body and headed over to search the Dunmer, his bloodied sword still in hand. "Not yet, Aerin. Never leave a job unfinished." He snorted at her crestfallen expression. "We'll be reporting this to Captain Burd; he knows Bruma better than us or the Blades, and there could be more agents that we don't know about." The Imperial straightened, having retrieved a volume of the Commentaries from the body of the Dunmer. Tossing the book up in the air, he neatly sliced it in two as it reached the zenith of its climb, leaving the two halves of the book, stained with blood, to fall to the ground near the runestone.
"Well, if we're going ta Bruma, let's not waste time," sighed Aerin, putting Trueshot on her back under her cloak and hugging herself to stop her shivering. "At least it'll be warmer where we're going." She looked pleadingly at Ilend, who was picking up his cloak from where he'd dropped it. "Please?"
Ilend swung his cloak around his shoulders and spread his arms wide. "Welcome to guard work, Aerin," he said, amusement evident in his voice. He brushed past her and found his way to the road, taking long, sure-footed strides down the road to Bruma. Aerin rolled her eyes and fell in beside him, cloak swirling and flapping behind her, legs aching with the effort of just keeping up with the long-limbed Imperial without breaking into a jog.
Without horses, it took at least twenty minutes to get to Bruma from the runestone. According to Ilend, horses would have made hiding a lot harder, and Aerin, despite her muted complaints, had been ready to defer to his experience. The gates had been closed at sunset, but the guards, with a little persuasion, opened them just enough for the Imperial and the Bosmer to slip through. They also informed Ilend that, at this time, Captain Burd was likely to be found in the barracks near the castle, talking with the men who'd just finished their shifts. Ilend nodded in thanks and left them to their monotonous night shifts.
The castle was easy to find; it was located at the highest point of the city, and was very close to the North Gate. Similarly, the barracks was easy to find, mainly due to Ilend spending six years of his life living in one. Once inside, Captain Burd was easy to identify; he had an aura of authority and reliability that the best guard captains had. He was a large Nord, taller and bulkier than Ilend, with a bluff, weathered face. Brown hair, cropped short in a military fashion, was going grey at the temples. He was dressed in the standard Bruma guard uniform; heavy chainmail similar to Ilend's with a yellow surcoat worn over it, with the black eagle, the symbol of Bruma, embroidered on the chest. A massive claymore was strapped to his back, and Burd moved with a grace that suggested that he was deadly with both the weapon on his back and just about anything else that he might find.
"Captain Burd, this is an honour," greeted Ilend. Savlian Matius had always spoken of his respect for the Nordic guard captain of Bruma, and the atmosphere in the barracks reflected that; it was a relaxed atmosphere, one of safety, where the guardsmen of Bruma, tired from a long shift, could relax and unwind without fear, even with their captain present. Since his promotion several years ago, Burd had tirelessly worked to improve the Bruma guard and bring crime rates down in his city. His success spoke volumes about the man's drive and determination.
"So it's you that Jauffre assigned to clear out that den of spies?" asked Burd, shaking Ilend's proffered hand. His voice was slow, deep, and calm. His blue eyes wandered over to Aerin, who was tossing back her hood, before settling on Ilend. "It is good that he sent someone competent. You were at Kvatch, I hear?"
Ilend nodded. "I would have stayed, but I couldn't stay still and rebuild while there was revenge to be had," he growled, fists clenching then unclenching.
Burd nodded sagely. "Understandable," he grunted. "Now, about those spies." He jerked his head towards the door, and Ilend and Aerin fell in behind him as he left the barracks, Aerin jerking her hood back up, her mouth twisting with annoyance that they wouldn't be staying in the warm barracks any longer. Fortunately for her, Burd had stopped near a brazier in the courtyard that separated the barracks and the entrance to Castle Bruma. "I don't have much information to go on right now, so I'll ask you to share what you have first."
"About half an hour ago, we found two spies by the runestone and executed them," reported Ilend in a manner-of-fact voice. "A Dunmer whose name we don't know and a Redguard named Jearl. Both women, both unarmoured."
Burd raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Jearl? She'd only come back to town recently, and some of my guards have noticed a stranger in and around her home." The Nord rubbed his chin. "She'd fit the bill, I suppose. And there could still be other cultists around." Ilend nodded in agreement. "Go ahead and search Jearl's house. The sooner the better. We have to make sure that there are no more of these bastards threatening Bruma." A hint of anger entered Burd's voice, as though the Mythic Dawn were insulting him personally by operating in his city. "You'll find her house just behind the chapel. There's a distinctive red lantern handing from the porch. Break the door down if you have to."
A grim smile appeared on Ilend's face as he drew himself up and slammed his fist into his chest in an inch-perfect salute. "These rats will have nowhere left to run, Captain," he intoned. Burd returned the smile and the salute before returning to the barracks.
"Never thought of you as an arse-kisser, Ilend," Aerin said coolly as they started off towards the chapel. Ilend frowned down at her.
"Aerin, it's called respect. Something you seem to lack quite often." Ilend shook his head and quickened his pace. "He's probably the most competent guard captain in Cyrodiil, despite the problems he's had simply by being a Nord. He deserves respect for what he's done." He glanced down at her again; she was almost jogging in order to keep up, but he saw no reason to slow down. "Besides, that back there cannot be defined as arse-kissing. If you ever stuck your nose out of your glorified sandpit and watched the guards in the City for a while, you'd get some experience of it."
"I've got respect, Ilend, I just-"
"Well, start showing it more often." Ilend sharp tone indicated that any further attempts by his Bosmeri companion to speak would be ignored. A stony silence fell as they meandered their way through Bruma towards the chapel, broken only by the crunch of snow under their boots and the boots of the occasional passing inhabitant. Night had long since fallen, and most of the population were at home or in taverns. The silence lasted until they were walking past the entrance to the chapel, the cobbles of the street hidden by the thin layer of snow.
"Ilend..." Aerin took a deep breath, and looked like she had swallowed something unpleasant. "I'm sorry, I spoke without thinking." The words seemed genuine, though she'd evidently had to force them out.
"You could have said that without screwing your face up so you resembled on ogre," replied Ilend, struggling to keep a smirk from appearing on his face as he looked down at the Bosmer from the corner of his eye. He slowed his pace slightly. "I'll bet what used to be a week's pay that an apology from you is rare," he continued. Aerin's mouth worked as she frantically attempted to come up with an answer. "Then again, no-one's ever got off with calling me an arse-kisser so lightly."
"I'm sure," muttered Aerin. Up ahead, a red lantern, unlit, was swinging gently from the porch of a small, thatch-roofed house just behind the chapel. "Guardsmen first," she told Ilend, drawing one of her shortswords.
Ilend drew his own sword, but kept his shield on his back under his cloak. After trying the door, he grunted in frustration: it was locked, as expected. The Imperial took several steps back, and, as Aerin looked on, wearing a smirk, he charged at the door, shoulder first. The flimsy lock shattered and Ilend's momentum carried him through the doorway as the door flew open. He dived into a forward roll, rose to his feet, and turned in all directions at once, scanning the single room of the house. It was empty, apart from Aerin following him, drawing the door shut behind her. Oddly, two lamps had been left on; Jearl probably hadn't intended to come back any time soon, and Ilend was at a loss as to why she'd risk a fire just to keep the place lit.
"Ransack the place," Ilend instructed. "Leave no stone unturned; there might be papers or orders telling us something. Anything like that is useful." Following his own advice, he started tearing out drawers with more far more force than necessary, tossing clothes onto the floor, hunting for something, anything. Aerin was less destructive but no less thorough, even crawling under the bed to look for small niches.
After several minutes, Ilend had singlehandedly managed to destroy most of the house, even upending the table, but they had found nothing. Then he ripped up the carpet. Underneath was a wooden trapdoor, incongruous against the stone slabs that made up the rest of the floor. "Looks like we might have a winner," muttered the Imperial, gesturing for Aerin to join him. He heaved the trapdoor up – it was unlocked – and they peered down into the darkness below.
"I can't see anything," frowned Aerin. "If there happens ta be an ambush down there, you're the best equipped ta deal with it, so..." Ilend was already climbing down the ladder. After a few seconds, his footsteps were ringing on what sounded like a stone floor, fading as he fumbled around in darkness. A period of silence followed, and Aerin was ready to call out, or to follow him, when light flared at the bottom of the ladder.
"It's clear," called Ilend, prompting Aerin to scuttle down the ladder. The Imperial was standing at a table in a small cavern, the light emanating from a small lantern that he'd found and lit. On the table were a handful of books, a dagger, and a note. Aerin hurried over to peer around his arm and read it.
"Well, this is what we came for," declared Ilend, folding up the note and slipping it under his armour before Aerin had a chance to finish it. "Grim reading, but at least we've got some warning." Frowning as he digested the contents of the letter, he turned to the ladder just in time to see a mace flashing towards his face. Finely honed reflexes kicked in, and he flung himself backwards. The mace, instead of hitting his temple, merely smashed into his jaw, sending him sprawling back across the table, dazed, with pain flaring in his jaw.
The Mythic Dawn agent, in full armour, then turned his attention to Aerin, who'd been knocked off balance by Ilend as he fell. Fumbling with her sword hilt, which had become entangled in her cloak, the Bosmer barely drew it in time to block the full-armed strike of the cultist. His strength and skill were evident; the blow tore the hilt out of Aerin's grasp and her sword went flying across the room into one of the cavern walls. Shaken by the force of the hit, she had no time to even put her hand to her spare blade; the cultist's hand was at her throat, picking her up and throwing her to the ground with enough force to stun her.
Bellowing a war cry, Ilend leapt at the cultist, sword darting for his armpit. The Nord – he had to be a Nord, or a Redguard, with that bulk – spun and deflected the blow with his mace, attempting to grab Ilend's broken jaw. Ilend stepped back and slashed at the cultist's shoulder. The Nord spun once again, the slash grazing his breastplate but not penetrating. The Imperial stepped forward and aimed a powerful left hook at his opponent's face. Fighting with nothing in his off hand was not a speciality of Ilend's, and the Nord batted his hand aside and aimed a mace slash at Ilend's leg. The Imperial backpedalled, and the Nord, moving to follow him, abruptly roared in agony, his powerful voice echoing throughout the cavern. He fell to the ground, still clutching his mace, fury evident in his eyes. His right hamstring had been neatly severed by Aerin, who was unsteadily rising to her feet, holding her bloodied blade ready for another attack.
Ilend healed his broken jaw and kicked the Nord's mace away, malice in his eyes as he glared down at the defeated cultist. "I never thought I'd get one of you bastards alive," he snarled. The eyes behind the mask glared back at him, fearless. "Nice cut, Aerin," Ilend said, sparing a glance for Aerin, who'd recovered her other blade from where it had fallen. "Going for the hamstrings is a good tactic."
With a bellow of anger, the Nord launched himself at Aerin's feet, only to be kicked in the face by the Bosmer, who stepped back cautiously. Ilend planted a boot on the Nord's back, pinning him in place. "Bastard," spat Aerin, kneeling and massaging her right foot. "Those masks are bloody hard. I hate stubbing my toe..."
"Live with it," grunted Ilend, attempting to recall exactly how to cast a Dispel spell. He gave up; Martin had said that it was complex magic, beyond Ilend's magical capabilities of the time, when he'd first asked how to cast it. A live cultist, however, was too good an opportunity to pass up; getting him to Cloud Ruler Temple would be the hardest part.
The Nord appeared to make his own decision. He twisted and sent a small, weak fireball directly at Ilend's face. That ball of fire was probably the extent of his magical ability – the summoning spell for their mace and armour seemed different, somehow – but it was enough to make Ilend stumble back. The cultist leapt to his feet, stumbling slightly, before raising his hand to summon a new mace. Before he could complete the spell, Aerin's blade neatly sliced his head in two. Sparks enveloped the crumpling agent's body, fading to reveal a Nord taller than Burd, and just as bulky.
Ilend cursed. "Fucker didn't want to give up," he growled, ignoring the fact that, if he were in the Nord's position, he'd do exactly the same thing. He aimed a savage kick at the cultist's ribs before moving back over to the ladder and peering up at the house above. "There could be others up there. Come up if I give the all-clear." Without waiting for a response, he scrambled up the ladder, hauling himself quickly into the room above with sword at the ready. There was no need; the door was closed, and the house was empty.
"It's clear," he called down to Aerin. He moved over to the door and swung it open as she joined him. The sudden gust of wind tearing into the room threatened to rip the door from his hands. Snow drifted through the doorway, settling on the stone floor. Aerin shivered and clutched her cloak tighter around her. "Comfort yourself with images of a roaring fire," advised Ilend as he pulled up the hood of his cloak and led the way out of Jearl's house.
They quickly hurried back to the Guard barracks and made their report to Captain Burd; his bushy eyebrows lifting in surprise as they reported the Nord cultist, but then nodded calmly and thanked them for clearing up what he called 'a bad headache'. Ilend was withholding the revelation of the letter in his pocket until he could deliver it to Jauffre; there was no need to panic the Bruma Guard yet. By that time, the snow was lying thick on the ground, and even Ilend saw the sense of staying in Bruma for the night; the walk back up to Cloud Ruler Temple would almost definitely be too much for Aerin. They found the nearest tavern and stumbled in.
Predictably, it was packed; travellers had most likely taken one look at the clouds and decided to stay in Bruma and start their journey in better conditions. The tavern wasn't a good one, that much was evident – the floor and tables were dirty, and the ale was of the cheapest kind – but it was warm and it had dry beds out of the cold. For many, that would be enough. Ignoring the various noisy patrons at almost every table in the small common room, Ilend and Aerin walked over to the bar, Ilend shrugging off his cloak.
The proprietor was a middle-aged Nord, slightly overweight, but with a weighing gaze, and he moved with a certainty that suggested that he could use the cudgel he almost definitely kept under the bar. Ilend leaned on the bar, subtly moving his sword hilt out of his ribs. "How much for two rooms?" he asked, pointedly not looking at Aerin. After his last Fighter's Guild contract, he had plenty of gold; no need to be stingy in not paying for an extra room.
"Two rooms?" snorted the innkeeper? "Well, if you pay a premium, I could kick the resident drunkard out of a cubbyhole upstairs. Otherwise, we're full." He grimaced. "Besides, it ain't like a posh swanky inn like you Imperials are used to," he continued, leaning heavily on the bar. "Best we got is bedrolls. Live with it."
Aerin turned to leave, but Ilend caught her arm and pointed out of the window. The falling snow had become a blizzard. Turning back to the proprietor, the Imperial managed to ignore his stale breath. "How much?" he asked, taking his wallet from where it hung from his belt. He'd paid good money for it, several years ago, but the enchantment was worth it.
"Twenty drakes."
Ilend raised an eyebrow at the high price, but shoved the coins over the bar without hesitation. The Nord gathered them up with rapidity – Ilend had yet to meet an innkeeper who didn't take their money quickly – and handed him a key. "Third door on the left, up the stairs," he grunted. "Might be a bit small for two, but you'll manage." The Nord directed a quick glance at Aerin, which swiftly became a leer, until Ilend gave him a pointed glance. Aerin rolled her eyes and started off towards the stairs near the back of the common room.
Ilend caught up with her, armour rattling slightly. "You don't want a beer?" he asked waving in the direction of the bar.
She grunted. "And share a crowded common room with burly, stinking Nords who look worse than your average pub patrons in the City? No way, Ilend. Besides, I'm tired."
Ilend smiled up at her back as she ascended the stairs and shook his head. The fight in Jearl's house hadn't been particularly exerting, but he hadn't been this cold for a while, and that made him eager for what would hopefully be a passable bedroll. Aerin had shrugged her cloak off and was standing by the third door on the left, foot tapping impatiently. Ilend rammed the key into the lock, twisted it, ignoring the squeal of tortured metal, and shoved the door open.
The innkeeper's description of the room as a 'cubbyhole' was generous. It was tiny enough for Ilend to touch both walls at once without stretching his arms too much. Most of the space was taken up by a bedroll that seemed large in proportion to the size of the room. The only other object present was a dim lantern burning low on the cold stone floor. Ilend stepped back to let Aerin walk in first, suppressing a smirk at her grimace.
"Well, Aerin, you have a choice," he commented. "You can try to walk up to Cloud Ruler Temple in a blizzard, or you can share a bedroll with a large, dirty, unshaven, smelly ex-guardsman who hasn't had a bath since before the Battle of Kvatch." There was no possibility of one of them sleeping on the floor; the bedroll filled most of the space. And Ilend doubted the innkeeper would appreciate one of them sleeping in the common room.
Aerin groaned. "Am I in Oblivion?" she asked sarcastically, tossing her cloak to the floor.
This time, Ilend didn't suppress his laugh. "Feels more like Aetherius to me," he replied, still laughing as his cloak joined hers on the floor.
A/N: Just in case you need a reminder, you writing a review will take a lot less time than it took me to write this chapter. Now get reviewing, they can only help me.