A/N: I think apologies are in order for the slow uploading of this chapter. While I could blame January exams (FOUR of them) and a weekend away from home, I won't; I could have had this chapter up long before this had I been motivated enough. I'm just too lazy. Anyhow, at the time of writing, Chapter 20 has seven reviews. More are always welcome...
Random reader: While I've never heard of most of the mods on your list, I do run Mighty Magick and Oscuro's Oblivion Overhaul (OOO) 1.33, which is one of the best mods ever made, in my opinion. And it's also the reason why I'm getting an entire new PC for Skyrim instead of turning to my PS3; the Elder Scrolls were made for PCs, not some crappy consule exports. Also, about those series of small chapters: I'd prefer to do all that in ONE chapter. My personal style.
Underpaid Critic: Well, it's logical that Camoran would 'make Gorgoth bleed'. He's a character that has to be fought, and happens to be pretty damn powerful. Needless to say, Gorgoth will spend quite a lot of time thinking up a strategy for the rematch.
Elder: Thanks for the review, though I'll admit to not having heard of Kurt Vonnegut before you mentioned him. Upon reading his wikipedia article, I find myself nodding and agreeing with most of his eight rules.
Dragonborn: Original daedra? I doubt I'd be as good as making enemies as Bethesda, so I'll leave that to them. I have, however, incorporated some enemies found only in mods (See Seducers).
Right, that's it from me. REMEMBER TO LEAVE A REVIEW!
Chapter Twenty-one: Death and Undeath
The citizens of Bruma woke to find the morning sun shining down upon the snow covering their city. The snows had come early this year, and clouds on the horizon to the north threatened more. But, for now, the wind had dropped and the sun was bright. The snow was already being trampled into mud and ice by the population. Snow-covered, shivering guards on the night watch were being relieved by their comrades, and were eager to retreat to the barracks to warm up. Business as usual for Bruma.
It was the sunlight filtering through the room's tiny window that woke Aerin. She blinked several times, her eyes adjusting to the light, then swept her unbound hair – she never slept with it in a ponytail – out of her face. Her right cheek was lying on something furry, and she somewhat sheepishly edged away from Ilend's bare torso, the thick, curled brown hair creeping over his chest like patchy moss on a boulder. Rammed up against the wall due to the tiny space available, he was evidently still asleep, and didn't wake when Aerin slowly extricated herself from the blankets they'd shared.
Ignoring the cold attempting to cool her warm, exposed skin – it had been too hot under those blankets to wear anything more than her underwear – Aerin settled back on her heels, unwilling to pass up the chance to watch Ilend unobserved. It wasn't something she got to do often; he was normally awake and armoured. When she'd first met him, it had been in the planes of Oblivion, and he'd been battered, bruised, tired, and scarred by relentless battle. Now, with his black hair spilling over his face, his breathing deep and steady, he looked at peace. The scars marring his muscled torso and thick arms, picked up over the years, were a constant reminder of his occupation, but they looked right on him, somehow.
"You've been staring at me for two minutes, so there must be something you like," grunted Ilend. He'd had his eyes open as soon as Aerin woke, but had kept them almost shut. Now he opened them fully, an insufferable smirk creeping onto his face as she blushed.
"Hey, you must have been looking me over as well," she defended, standing straight as he rose to his feet. To her regret, he'd kept his trousers on.
Ilend shook his head. "Nope, I was watching you watching me. You started it." He stretched, bones creaking, and walked over to the window, looking out. "Looks like the weather's cleared up," he observed.
Aerin sighed and started rummaging around in the pile of clothes for her trousers. "You know, if my father knew that I'd shared a bed with an Imperial without marrying him, he'd kill me, then drag me back from Oblivion just to kill me again." She shook her head and smirked.
Ilend grunted. "Seems a bit harsh," he said. "It's not like we had-"
"I know, I know, but he's conservative like that." Aerin snorted. "Control freak," she muttered under her breath, squeezing into her tight trousers.
Ilend turned from the window and yawned before dropping to one knee and searching for his shirt. It reeked of sweat, but it was better than going naked under his armour. He'd tried that once, long ago, and it had taken several days for his skin to heal. That was before he'd been introduced to magic. He shuddered at the mere memory.
Fiddling with her cuirass straps, Aerin stepped over to the window, looked out, and recoiled. "I've never seen so much snow in my life," she murmured, eyes wide. Ilend snorted.
"Imagine what it's like when winter actually gets here," he grunted, tightening the straps on his cuirass until he was sure it was on properly. "Then again, I've never been in Bruma for the winter. Should be fun." He started looking for his gauntlets, ignoring Aerin's incredulous look. "Are you going to get dressed or stand there gawking at some frozen rain?" His words spurred her back into action.
Within minutes, they were walking down the stairs and entering the common room, which was almost empty. They hadn't exactly risen early. The Nord innkeeper nodded to Ilend and leered at Aerin, who was still tying most of her hair up in its usual ponytail. Ilend paused to don his cloak and swung open the door, stepping out into the snow that was lying thick on the cobblestones. He waited for Aerin to join him, stepping somewhat cautiously, and started off towards the North Gate. "The sooner we get this letter to Jauffre, the better," he said.
"About that... I never finished reading it."
Ilend's mouth drew down, his expression grim. "It's orders. The Mythic Dawn plan to open a Great Gate outside Bruma and make it another Kvatch."
Aerin stumbled and would have fallen if Ilend hadn't caught her arm. "You mean ta say ya knew this city is going ta get assaulted... and ya didn't tell Burd? Are you crazy?"
"I'm not used to this Blades business lark, believe it or not," growled Ilend. "I'm working for Jauffre, not Burd. Besides, Burd will know soon enough." He didn't look all that comfortable with his decision; confidential Blades business was one thing, but he felt that he was betraying his old values as a guard. Shaking his head, he stepped up the pace. "Come on. There'll be a warm fire in Cloud Ruler. We might even get paid."
Modryn Oreyn was in a foul mood. That was happening more than usual recently, and he didn't like it. The Dunmer was currently occupied with outfitting his stocky frame in a suit of custom-made ebony armour, made in Morrowind nearly five years ago. It had cost a small fortune, but over his twelve decades of life, Modryn had accumulated vast amounts of gold, and the armour was more than worth it if it kept him alive for another twelve decades. The mace swinging from his sword belt was of daedric origin, and the wicked spikes and deadly flanges were just as battle-ready after eight years of use as they had been when he first came into possession of the weapon. The dark red of the daedric steel always seemed eager to be splattered with blood, and at the moment, Modryn was more than willing to satisfy it.
The sound of the door to the guildhall swinging shut with a loud crash brought a frown to Modryn's face. The Guard had already been in five minutes ago telling him to hurry up, as if the threat of a Daedric invasion wasn't enough to hurry the Dunmer. Apparently, the Guard was containing the daedric assault for now, but more fighters were always helpful, and the Chorrol branch of the Fighter's Guild, as the headquarters of the Cyrodiil branch, was well-manned.
A hammering sound came at the Champion's door, and he bit back a sharp retort. Instead, ramming his helmet onto his head, he strode over to the door and swung it open. "Tell that bloody impatient guardsman that we're ready," he growled at Lum gro-Baroth. The large Orc had donned his massive suit of steel plate armour, and his warhammer was ready for use, but he seemed disappointed. Odd; Modryn assumed that he and his brother Kurz would be eager to leap into the fray.
"Oreyn, the Gate is closed," he reported, in a tone of voice that sounded very close to whining. Whining did not suit any Orc, let alone one as bloodthirsty and brutal as Lum. "The Guard says an Orc appeared, went in, and closed it. Said he didn't even want help." The Swordsman turned and traipsed back down the stairs.
Modryn scratched his cheek, then tore his helmet off, angrily considering throwing it against the wall before carefully placing it back on its stand. The Guard had roused him from his sleep early, had forced him to don his full suit of armour, only for him to not be needed? The Dunmer snorted and strode out of the small room he had been allotted in the Guildhall. He used it sometimes when he was too tired from sparring –which wasn't often – to walk back to his house near the walls.
The Dark Elf reached the hallway just as the double doors swung open again. A huge Orc walked in, ducking under the doorway then straightening, looking down at Modryn with a cold, calculating gaze. Judging from the way he moved, he knew how to use the massive silver-capped mace at his hip, and his battered plate armour spoke of valuable battle experience, some of it recent. The pair of black war braids hanging to his waist suggested that he was from Orsinium, though the fashion was not unique to the home of the Orcs. What surprised Modryn most, however, was the stiff salute: a fist to the heart and a nod of the head. Those cold amber eyes never changed, but the massive warrior spoke respectfully. "Journeyman Gorgoth gro-Kharz reporting. I was told to report to Chorrol for duties." His voice was deep enough to make some of the floorboards vibrate. Lum, from where he was sitting at the table eating breakfast, gave Gorgoth a nod in greeting.
Modryn raised his eyebrows and peered up at the Orc, studying him. He looked young – thirty at most – but those eyes held the weight of years of wisdom. A stray smear of blood was just visible below a pointed green ear. It was not his. "It was you who just closed the bloody Oblivion Gate, wasn't it?" grated Oreyn.
Gorgoth returned Modryn's studying of him with a level gaze. "Yes," he confirmed.
Modryn looked him up and down. "How the fuck are you still only a Journeyman?" he asked.
"I have only been in the Guild for a week. I am only a recent arrival in Cyrodiil."
Modryn jerked his head up the stairs. "Guildmaster Donton awaits you in her office. Top floor." Gorgoth nodded and moved past the Dunmer, who turned to watch the Orc ascend the stairs, which creaked under his passage. "I'll be damned if that's not the Hero of Kvatch," he muttered under his breath as he turned to join Lum in eating breakfast.
"Well, if he is, isn't that a good thing?" asked Sabine Laul brightly as she joined them at the table. The Breton had evidently been up for hours, judging by the burn marks on her smith's apron. She always was up early; the large Guild population in Chorrol gave her a lot of work. "Having an effective warrior in the Guild is always a good thing, in my opinion." Sabine always did have a refreshingly simple, idealistic view on life. Then again, she didn't do much fighting.
"As long as he doesn't have a swelled cranium and follows orders well enough, then I don't have a problem, no," grunted Modryn. Over the years, his natural impatience meant that he had mastered talking while chewing a full mouthful of bacon. Upstairs, Gorgoth's deep voice was reverberating around the building, though Modryn could only make out a low rumble; the words were indistinct. No doubt Vilena Donton was giving the Orc her usual lecture for new up-and-coming Guildsmen.
"He looked like he could handle himself, at least," rumbled Lum, rising from the table and heading towards the basement, no doubt ready to begin training two of the newest recruits how to use a shield without dropping it on their foot.
Minutes later, the staircase started creaking and groaning once again as Gorgoth descended. He looked around and approached Modryn, who sighed and stood slowly. He knew what was coming. "I was told to report to you for duties, Champion Oreyn," announced the Orc, stopping and standing with his back stiff. Modryn was unsure if he was standing to attention, or whether that was just how he normally stood.
"First of all, drop the rank, we're not that formal in the Guild," growled Oreyn, finishing his sausage and throwing down his knife. Gorgoth's face might as well have been hewn from granite for all the emotion it was showing. Odd for an Orc. Normally, Modryn could read Lum and Kurz, and most other Orcs, easily. "Now, you might be the Hero of Kvatch and all, but that doesn't give you the right to go gallivanting off and do whatever you bloody well want when the mood takes you. I give you orders, you follow them, understood?"
"I am a Knight Brother of the Blades," responded Gorgoth. Modryn had already suspected that since noticing the Akaviri dai-katana on his back. "My duties for the Emperor will take precedence over contract work." He paused. "Otherwise, I would never even think of shirking my duties. It would be shameful to leave a task unfinished when it would be within my power to finish it."
Modryn snorted. "Words, Orc. Give me results, and I'll believe you. And, as there is no Emperor right now, your services should be available most of the time." Gorgoth's eyebrow twitched, but he remained silent. "For now, I have an assignment. A nice, simple one." The Dunmer's mouth twisted. "A new recruit – a worthless one, by the looks of it – has defaulted on a contract in Skingrad." Modryn spat, his saliva spreading over the worn floorboards of the hall. Sabine frowned, but held her tongue. Wise.
Gorgoth's lip had curled slightly, exposing even more of his impressive teeth. Modryn continued. "His name is Maglir, a Bosmer. Find him, resolve the situation, and get back to me." Gorgoth nodded, but didn't move, apparently awaiting further instructions. Modryn frowned. "Well, get moving, then," he barked. "Don't stand there staring at me like a brainless ogre when there's work to be done. Piss off, Journeyman!" The Dunmer turned on his heel and headed for the stairs.
Vilena had been watching, her arms folded, head tilted to one side. Her age was starting to tell through her iron-grey hair and wrinkled skin, but the Guildmaster's deep brown eyes were alert and thoughtful as she watched the doors close behind Gorgoth. "What do you think?" she asked Modryn.
The Dark Elf rubbed his chin. "He's a good warrior if he can close an Oblivion Gate by himself," he muttered. "But we both know that prowess is nothing if he's too stupid to back it up. But I think he's got potential." The memory of those cold, watchful eyes and the experience they hinted at refused to dislodge itself from Modryn's mind. "He's seen battle, that one, and lots of it."
Vilena nodded and walked back up the stairs to her office, leaving Modryn with nothing to do. He shook himself and went off to find a new recruit to shout at.
It took Saliith two days to reach the Imperial City, and the sun was halfway through its descent to the horizon when he walked into the Arena District. The mere sight of the massive Arena was enough to halt him. Looking towards the training area where he and Branwen had once sparred so much, he sighed, shoulders lumping. A determined expression appeared on his face, and he straightened and loosened his shortswords in their scabbards. On the way to the Arena, he'd made sure to restock with throwing knives, which made a row long the top of his back, within easy reach. Ignoring Agronak's fan lurking in a nearby bush, the Argonian walked over to the entrance.
A sharp intake of breath indicated that Hundolin had never expected to see him again; his opinion would likely be shared by most of the gladiators down below in the Bloodworks. Ignoring the Bosmer, Saliith took one last look around the Arena grounds, then pushed open the door to the Bloodworks and entered.
He walked quickly, and he was halfway to Owyn when the first gladiators noticed him and stopped sparring. Apparently, his fight with Branwen had been big news for the gladiators. Most eyes turned to the Argonian as he approached Owyn, who took one look at Saliith and drew himself to his full height, one hand resting casually on his scimitar. Activity in the area immediately surrounding the Blademaster ceased entirely as Saliith stopped, his face inches from Owyn's. Neither spoke.
Saliith's mind was racing as all his thinking over the past week dissolved into nothing as he finally faced the man responsible for the death of Branwen. Sheer, animal rage attempted to overpower him, but he forced it down. If he was ever going to attack Owyn, it would be in the Arena, in a duel to the death. He thought about throwing down the gauntlet to avenge Branwen there and then, but stopped himself; despite his meteoric rise through the ranks, he was still young – only twenty-two – and still had lessons to learn, whereas Owyn had decades of experience while still being in his prime. While joining Branwen in Aetherius didn't seem so bad, Saliith didn't want to throw away his life needlessly. Not while there was so much to do in the world.
"Get me a battle," he snarled, his voice so quiet that anyone other than Owyn would have problems hearing.
The Redguard gave a short nod. "Get yourself into a raiment," he responded, not moving or looking away from Saliith. They both knew what to do, but neither moved, none willing to be the first to look away. After a minute's standoff, Owyn growled something about fading light and moved off to find a Blue Team gladiator. Saliith turned and walked over to the raiment locker.
Minutes later, the Argonian was walking down the long tunnel to the Arena. The bloodied sands of the Arena cooled his webbed feet. He'd left his armour on a pile on one of the bedrolls, and given a trusted Argonian Bloodletter five drakes to guard it. Images of Branwen flickered before his eyes, but he banished them; Owyn would have found him a challenging battle, and he needed to stay focused. He loosened his shortswords in their scabbards and ran a hand over his throwing knives.
Reaching the Yellow Team cage, Saliith stared across the Arena at his opponent. It was a large, battle-scarred Orc, clad in a heavy raiment and wielding one of the more outlandish weapons seen in the Bloodworks: a massive steel double axe. A deadly double-crescent axe head at each end of a six-foot steel pole made a deadly weapon that was equally at home hewing down enemies by the dozen or focusing on separating a single opponent from his limbs. The announcer was bellowing out his usual speech, apparently not noticed that no-one was listening; everyone in the substantial crowd was eagerly anticipating the moment the gates slammed down into their sheathes.
The announcer finished and flopped down in his chair, calling for water to soothe his throat. As the gates rattled down into the earth, both Saliith and his opponent rushed out of their respective cages, charging towards each other. The audience held its breath in anticipation of the clash in the centre of the Arena. Saliith started feinting left and right, twitching his tail, hoping to throw the Orc off balance or confuse him. His opponent, however, was clearly an experienced gladiator, and was focused only on the movements that mattered.
Saliith drew one of his shortswords, the other hand groping for a throwing knife. It flashed in the sunlight as it streaked towards the Orc's throat. He barely slowed down as he twisted slightly, the knife glancing off his heavy raiment. Saliith cursed and went in low, putting all his momentum into a sliding tackle, his feet aimed at the Blue team gladiator's ankles. Not expecting such a radical move, the Orc collapsed. As Saliith flipped to his feet, wincing at the pain in his feet, the crowd roared their approval.
His opponent moved with a speed that belied his bulk. As Saliith swung both his blades at his neck, the Orc rolled out of danger and got to his feet quickly, just in time to parry another attack. Moving onto the offensive, he roared a wordless cry of rage as his double axe met empty air, Saliith dancing out of danger. The Orc continued onward, the sheer reach of his deadly weapon keeping Saliith on the retreat. Attempting to sidestep around the Orc meant exposing himself to the far axe head. He went for another unexpected move and threw both his shortswords at his opponent.
The shortswords were not perfectly weighted for throwing like his knives, but they did the job well enough. Saliith had aimed well; the Orc managed to dodge one, but put himself in the path of another, grimacing in agony as it pierced his right forearm. He removed his left hand from his axe to dislodge the blade, and Saliith struck, a knife in each hand. Cursing, the Orc fell back, ignoring the blade sticking out of his forearm and swinging his axe. The pole knocked Saliith off balance, but one of his knives found its target and embedded itself in the Orc's left leg. He skipped back and drew two more knives.
"Stop being a crowd-pleaser and fight me properly," growled the Orc, desperation evident in his gruff voice. Sweat was dripping down his face and chest, mixing with the blood running from the steel of Saliith's weapons. The gladiator was crippled; his left leg couldn't take his full weight, and his right arm was hampered. However, he wasn't about to roll over and meekly accept death; Saliith had never met a placid Orc who was willing to die easily. The Blue team gladiator planted his feet and waited.
Saliith darted in to the right, ducking under the upper axe head and slashing at the Orc's left hamstring. He felt the knife blade slice through the tendons and muscle, and heard the Orc groan in pain, stumbling, his leg buckling. Then the other axe head completed its arc and tore through Saliith's raiment, slicing his ribcage open, passing mere inches from his heart. The Argonian groaned and crawled backwards until he collapsed onto his back, the agony threatening to overwhelm him. His opponent attempted to finish the job, but his left leg collapsed and sent him to one knee.
Drawing quick, shuddering breaths, Saliith moved his hand to the massive gash along his left side. He'd been sliced open from armpit to thigh, like a gutted fish. His blood was leaking out onto the sands, a red stain slowly spreading over the ground. He could sense that audience holding its breath as the Orc dragged himself to his feet and started towards the downed Argonian, dragging his left leg behind him.
Anger bubbled up in Saliith's chest. The Arena had claimed many good lives over the years. He knew of several himself, their names floating into his hazy mind: Claudius Istel, a one-time paladin who had retired into the Arena; Rhesus, a Redguard warrior with an impeccable sense of honour; Branwen... his friend. His comrade. The woman who he would quite happily have shared his life with, their joint quest for glory having given them bonds that had run far deeper than their shallow objectives, now dead by his own hand. A snarl appeared on the Argonian's face. In time, I will join them, he told himself. But not yet. There is still work to be done. His promise of aid to Gorgoth would be worthless if he died. With a roar, he forced himself upright.
The Orc had been raising his double axe in preparation for a slow chop down at Saliith's torso; he had not expected the Argonian to flip to his feet, throwing knives flashing from his fingers. He barely had time to regret not moving faster before both blades buried themselves deep in his chest. The gladiator fell, axe rolling away from him, his impact sending up clouds of sand. Saliith staggered, struggling to hold himself upright. He could feel his strength draining out of him. With one hand desperately attempting to hold himself together, the Argonian quickly gathered his shortswords and left the Arena to the exultation of the crowd. He left his throwing knives where they lay. They were not worth his life.
Never before had the Basin of Renewal been so welcoming to Saliith. He gratefully submerged himself in the magical waters, sighing in relief as the gash in his side closed up, the blood washing away in the water. The Argonian was tempted to stay under for longer, but the brutal realities of the world outside would remain unchanged. He grunted and hauled himself out of the Basin, water dripping onto the blood. His raiment was scarred; he'd have to get a new one for his next battle.
Owyn walked up to him and threw him a heavy bag of gold. Without wasting another second, the Blademaster turned and stomped off in the opposite direction. Saliith grunted and walked over to where his armour was being guarded. Throwing a handful of gold to the helpful Argonian Bloodletter, Saliith proceeded to tear off his raiment and don his scale armour. It was too late in the day to fit in another battle, and his stomach demanded attention. The fight had drained him, and he was hungry. Threading his way through the Bloodworks, Saliith ascended from the pits and emerged into the dusk, turning in the direction of the Market District.
Gnaeus Magnus was bored.
He would rather fall on his own sword than admit it, but the action he'd seen ever since leaving Whiterock had awakened the adventurer in him, much to his despair. Upon his first coming to Cloud Ruler Temple, he'd wanted nothing more than to sit in a comfortable chair by the fire with a good book, or peace and quiet to think. Now, the old Imperial's feet were itching. He'd envied Ilend and Aerin as they'd told him of their exploits in bringing down the Mythic Dawn's spies, for which Jauffre had paid them fairly well. He grunted in frustration as he realised that he'd spent the last twenty minutes staring at a page of The Black Arts on Trial – a futile attempt to get up to speed on the events of the past thirty-five years – and not read a word. Gnaeus sighed and slowly stood, waiting to hear his knees creak. They didn't, and the seventy-eight year-old Imperial was satisfied that arthritis had yet to rear its ugly head.
Walking through from the Great Hall to Cloud Ruler's extensive library, Gnaeus slid the book back into position on the shelf he'd taken it from. He raised a grey eyebrow as Selene slipped in, grabbed a book on Daedric script, and scuttled out again in the direction of the royal chambers. If Gnaeus hadn't known that there was important translation work going on, he'd have suspected that Selene was trying very hard to trip Martin into his own bed. Maybe she was anyway. The old Imperial, since he'd left Whiterock, had sometimes come to regard Selene, the only other survivor, as a somewhat irritable, irreverent, undignified, disrespectful, illegitimate granddaughter that he grudgingly respected somewhat. Sometimes.
The Imperial turned and found his way outside. Ignoring the cold, biting wind and the snow crunching under his boots, he walked over to the outer wall and leaned on it. The sky was clear, the sun shining down on a countryside blanketed in white. Gnaeus could only recall two winters when it had snowed on Whiterock; during his stay there, it had probably received less snow than what had dropped on the Temple last night. The wind whipped at his face, chilling his bald head, but he ignored it. Twenty years of war, then thirty-five years clinging to a rock hardened a man, both visibly and under the surface.
A throat being cleared right behind him snapped Gnaeus's head round. A Breton of average height and build was staring up at him, arms folded, a searching expression on her pale, well-formed face. A few strands of dark brown hair escaped from under her helmet, and her cloak flapped freely, leaving the hilt of her katana free for use. "What?" snapped Gnaeus. He never liked having his thoughts interrupted.
"You are one of the companions of that Orc, yes?" asked the Breton, her voice quite low, and slightly accented. Gnaeus recognised a regional accent of High Rock, but couldn't place it. The amount of contempt and hatred she placed on the word 'Orc' confirmed his suspicion that she was High Rock born-and-bred. Gnaeus inwardly groaned. He hated politics, and Bretons could see it in soup.
"So what if I am?" he growled. "And who's asking?" It was hard to analyse her frame and muscle under her Blades armour, but every Blade had sufficient training to make themselves a weapon if need be. That face was young, however; she couldn't be more than twenty-two at the most. Gnaeus had been killing before her mother had been born. He was reassured by the knowledge that he could have his broadsword drawn within a second. His spry frame was fully up to the task of prancing around on a freezing fortress wall, crossing blades with one of the Emperor's sworn bodyguards.
Ignoring his question and evasion, she took a step closer. He grey eyes, burning with a feverish intensity, bored into his skull. "You don't know who you're blindly following, do you?" she hissed, in a voice so low that he had to strain to catch the words. "Tell me, Imperial-" Gnaeus cut her off.
"I think you'll find both my eyes work very well, girl," he barked. "And if all you're prepared to do is to drop cryptic hints, piss off and leave an old man to his thoughts. Shoo!" He spun on his heel and folded his arms, resolutely staring into the wind until his eyes watered.
Snow crunched behind him, and Gnaeus tensed, but before the Breton could move a voice boomed through the air. "Callia! Get back to your bloody post, woman! This fortress won't watch itself!" Gnaeus could sense Callia snapping to attention and rigidly turning and stalking off to the watch tower, Captain Steffan's eyes attempting to burn a hole in her back. The Knight Captain turned his gaze to Gnaeus for a second, then shook his head, growled something under his breath, and stomped off to find a brazier.
Gnaeus stroked his close-trimmed grey beard, staring off into the distance. The Breton – Callia – had undoubtedly been referring to Gorgoth, and no doubt the warrior-shaman had a past worth talking about. Gnaeus didn't care two septims for a man's past, or an Orc's past – it was the present that mattered. Gorgoth could be a mass murderer and Listener of the Dark Brotherhood for all Gnaeus cared. In fact, that might actually help; the Listener would have access to valuable tools. Gnaeus snorted and shook his head. Imagining the Orc as an assassin was a ludicrous prospect. The wind was chilling his bones. He turned and headed over to the East Barracks. Maybe he could scrounge up a cloak that fit, then go and clear out a den of bandits. The exercise would be welcome.
"Another ale, Maglir?"
The Wood Elf in question looked up at the serving girl employed at the West Weald Inn. He was shorter than most Bosmer, and his stature meant he used the shortsword at his hip as though it was a foot longer than it actually was. His studded leather armour bore a few scars from combat, and he wanted to keep it that way; the scars hurt, and were costly to fix. Maglir never liked getting holes in him. Though a scar might give his otherwise average face something to boast about.
"Think I'll pass," he muttered, covering his empty tankard with his gauntleted palm. He rarely took them off. "I don't have all that much left, and I've got to keep some back so the kids can get their schooling." His dry voice brightened slightly at the mention of Danlar and Adarel; his two children, as well as his wife, Calagail, were what drove him to the extremes that he went to. And extremes they were; memories of barely escaping from a bandit-infested ruin in search of some cairn bolete for an alchemist still made him shudder. The serving girl nodded and moved on.
Maglir sighed. He was in a rut. Fallen Rocks Cave was far too dangerous – he didn't want to leave a widow and two fatherless children – but the anger of Modryn Oreyn was almost as deadly. 'Caught between a rock and a hard place' had never been more suited to a situation. He idly traced a pattern out on the table, dipping his finger into the dregs of his ale. The doors to the Inn opened, and heavy boots thumped onto the floorboards. Maglir did not look up.
He did look up when the owner of the boots deposited himself at the table, causing the chair to shriek in complaint. "Are you Maglir?" asked the massive Orc, who, standing, would overtop Maglir by at least two and a half feet.
"Yes," replied Maglir, trying and failing to keep his voice from slipping an octave higher. His eyes widened even further when he properly took in the Orc's thick plate armour, his massive mace, and the dai-katana on his back. This was a warrior who could roll up Maglir and use him as a football, and he knew it.
"Oreyn sent me." Those three words sent the Bosmer's stomach to the pit of his stomach, and he immediately started babbling the first explanations and excuses that came to mind. Throughout his squeaking, the Orc merely kept those cold amber eyes fixed on him, pinning the Wood Elf to his chair through sheer terror. The mere thought of what an enforcer sent by Oreyn would do to him prompted Maglir to get even more creative with his excuses. He was in the middle of describing a zombie as tall as a house and twice as wide when the Orc held up a hand as large as a goblins head. Maglir's babbling cut off mid-flow, and he snapped his mouth shut.
"Where is Fallen Rocks Cave?" he asked, pulling a map from a pouch hanging from his belt. Maglir's shaking finger pointed out the location, an hour's hard ride from Skingrad. The Orc nodded once and stood, putting the map back in his pouch. Maglir slumped back into his seat, sheer relief sapping his limbs of any strength. He almost didn't hear the Orc's next sentence. "I am Gorgoth gro-Kharz, Journeyman. On your feet, Apprentice." Maglir looked up at Gorgoth with a crushed expression, but an order was an order. With the utmost reluctance, he dragged himself upright.
"Should I tell-" A raised hand once again cut Maglir off mid-sentence.
"You're coming with me. To Fallen Rocks Cave."
Maglir whimpered. This wasn't going to end well.
Vorguz expressed his contempt more freely than his stoic master. As Gorgoth tied him to a tree, the massive stallion looked over at Maglir's small paint horse and snorted disdainfully. The Bosmer's horse turned its head away and ambled off in search of some grass within the reach of the reins tying it to a tree. At the lichen-covered entrance to Fallen Rocks Cave, Maglir was fervently wishing that he could solve his problems as easily as his horse did. He'd entered Fallen Rocks Cave – albeit briefly – and knew what to expect. He wasn't optimistic about his chances.
"I-is this really necessary, Journeyman? I mean, you could probably complete the contract yourself without m-" Gorgoth's flat, cold stare cut Maglir off.
"You took the contract. You will complete it. Anything else would be a dereliction of duty and utter cowardice." Gorgoth paused. "I don't know how it's done here, but in Orsinium I'd have killed you already." The warrior-shaman turned to face the entrance to the cave and drew his dai-katana, holding it in his left hand while he clutched the haft of his mace firmly in his right hand. "You signed up. You knew the risks. Why say you'll do something if you know you can't?" Gorgoth's icy voice allowed no argument, and he strode confidently into the cave, leaving Maglir no option but to draw his shortsword and follow.
A glowing ball of pale green light appeared, suspended two feet above Gorgoth's head, illuminating the cavern and banishing shadows to the deepest recesses. Pale lichen covered nearly every rock, and stalactites hung from the ceiling, almost brushing Gorgoth's hair. The sound of water dripping could be heard from the distance, as well as a sound that sent chills rushing down Maglir's spine: low moans and muted shrieks. He gripped the hilt of his shortsword until his hands hurt, but he could not keep the weapon from wavering in his grasp. Gorgoth was predictably unaffected, waving for Maglir to follow him as he advanced deeper into the cursed cave.
The cavern narrowed into a thin passageway, with rocks threatening to break loose at every footfall. Every time a few pebbles slid down the cave wall, Maglir jumped and looked around wild-eyed for danger, only to be jerked back to his senses by a grunt from Gorgoth, who never slowed his progress. The shadows seemed to get more resistant to the Orc's magical light as they descended further into the depths of darkness, treading on rocks which had not seen sunlight for centuries. As the moans and screams from ahead and below got louder, Maglir hunched his shoulders, attempting to retreat into himself. He could hear voices in those screams, calling out to him.
A corner led them to an opening in the passageway. Standing in the centre of the small cavern was a zombie, decaying, rotted flesh hanging from an exposed skeleton. Gorgoth snorted and muttered something about shoddy craftsmanship. Maglir planted his feet and attempted to quiet his fears. It was only a single zombie.
Two more zombies, in even worse shape than the first one, shambled from the shadows. Maglir cursed and brought his blade up in front of him, attempting to stop shaking. Gorgoth slowly walked forward. Maglir felt no inclination to follow him. The warrior-shaman halted just as the first zombie forced itself into action and approached him at a lurching run. A single smooth attack by Gorgoth sent its rotten head falling to the rock floor, making a slight squelch as it landed, rolling towards the Bosmer, who jumped out of the way. Gorgoth sidestepped a clumsy lunge by a zombie with almost contemptuous ease and smashed his mace into its ribcage, resulting in the almost complete disintegration of its entire torso. The third zombie, possessing neither brains nor sense, swung its arms in a seemingly random pattern towards Gorgoth, who neatly chopped both arms off then decapitated the helpless reanimated corpse.
"I could raise better dead in my sleep," snorted Gorgoth, wiping rotting flesh from the blade of his katana. "The necromancer who raised these specimens should be ashamed." He waved for Maglir to follow him deeper into the cave. The Bosmer followed, eyes wide with shock.
After dispatching several more poorly-maintained zombies with pathetic ease, Gorgoth and Maglir entered a larger cavern. An ethereal green glow seemed to coalesce in front of them, and the ghost wasted no time in sending waves of magicka at the Guildsmen. The cold hand of the grave reached out for Gorgoth, who casually brushed the spell aside with reflection magic and sent fire curling at the ghost from five different angles. It didn't last two seconds, howling blasphemies before collapsing into a growing pool of ectoplasm.
"You make it seem so easy," stammered Maglir as Gorgoth, for reasons unknown to the Bosmer, put his mace back through its loop on his belt. "Could you... teach me how to, er... fight?" Gorgoth's contemptuous gaze scared Maglir almost as much as the ghosts.
"I have better things to do than look after mewling infants who should not be off their mother's apron strings," he growled, searching the cavern for signs of unlife. A daedric dai-katana, similar to the Akaviri weapon in his left hand, appeared in the Orc's right hand. Both of the weapons were less than a foot shorter than Maglir, yet Gorgoth handled one in each hand easily. "There are a lot of zombies in the next cavern. Be prepared to get your blade dirty." The Orc immediately started off for the passageway across the cavern. Maglir followed, cautiously stepping across the pool of ectoplasm.
Gorgoth was correct; as soon as they stepped into the next, high-ceilinged cavern, the moans of zombies filled the air. These specimens seemed to have been reanimated by a better necromancer, and were in better condition. Some were headless, and some few left a trail of misty, dark vapours whenever they moved. Gorgoth made note of these dangerous dread zombies as he moved to attack. Maglir could only whimper as he watched his fellow Guildsman slowly walk towards a pack of twenty zombies.
The first zombie to reach Gorgoth did not even have time to attack as his daedric blade sliced it in two, the otherworldly steel cutting through flesh and bone like paper. Dropping his right shoulder, Gorgoth barged past another zombie, putting himself in the midst of them, and swung his blades in a wide arc while spinning on the spot, one knee bent low. Maglir watched, awe overcoming his fear, as various body parts started flying across the cavern, the powerful slashes of the Orc ripping apart zombies quicker than they could attack. Stopping his spin, Gorgoth stepped back and pivoted, both blades cleaving into the chest of a single dread zombie, cutting its ribcage in two. As it fell, the warrior-shaman spun, kicking a zombie's legs from under it, and slashed in different directions, each blade decapitating a corpse.
Maglir was so enthralled by his companion's fighting that he barely noticed the approaching zombie in time. Putting on a grim expression, he dodged under the corpse's slow attack and stabbed it in the chest, a small smile of victory fluttering onto his face. This wasn't so hard after all. Wrenching his blade free, he turned back to his companion, only for the zombie – the one that he'd stabbed just a moment ago – to land a glancing blow on his back, staggering him. Gaping, the Bosmer turned to observe the zombie lurch towards him, ignoring the stab wound in its chest.
"Stabbing the heart of something that doesn't need it is highly likely to do nothing," observed Gorgoth, casually leaning on his dai-katanas amidst the pile of zombies that he'd laid to rest. "Try decapitation or dismemberment; that's the only way with zombies."
Maglir planted his feet and dodged another attack, using the opportunity to hack wildly at the zombie's outstretched arm. The rotting flesh and poorly-preserved bone parted under his steel blade, and the useless limb dropped to the floor, the hand grasping at Maglir's foot. Not stopping to contemplate the loss of half its offensive arsenal, the corpse swung again. Maglir ducked and chopped madly at its head, separating it from the rest of its body in three strokes. The head hit the floor just before the remains of the zombie collapsed. Panting, leaning on his shortsword, Maglir looked to Gorgoth for some kind of recognition.
"In Orsinium, a child could have done better," growled the Orc, jerking his head towards another passageway. Sagging in both disappointment and the realisation that there was more to do, Maglir dejectedly fell in behind Gorgoth, ignoring the flesh sticking stubbornly to his blade. The Orc continued with his semi-lecture, his voice echoing and rebounding off the rock walls: "I grew up in the city, so I did not see much combat apart from the near-constant brawls and fistfights that are a crucial part of any Orc's youth. But out in the country, young Orcs are taught to use weapons almost as soon as they can walk. It is rare that a boy has not killed a wolf or bear before his eighth birthday." Gorgoth turned his head slightly, regarding Maglir stonily. "You are a pathetic whelp who barely deserves the right to live. Grow up and make a man of yourself." He turned and walked on ahead, increasing the pace. Maglir started to simmer inside, but fear of both the Orc and the undead in the cave held his tongue.
The next cavern contained two ethereal, threatening shadows that coalesced and faded sporadically, each clutching a longsword in a bony hand that was beyond shrivelled. Gorgoth merely raised a hand and the wraiths simply died, long streams of ectoplasm spurting from their gaping black mouths as they shrieked their way back to the grave. "Not all Destruction magic is obvious," rumbled Gorgoth in response to Maglir's jaw dropping. "I combined that with a bit of Necromancy; nothing that you would understand. Move on." They continued down into the depths of Fallen Rocks Cave, the sound of running water reaching their ears.
Eventually they came to an underground steam running through a narrow passageway. Gorgoth splashed in without hesitation, the water barely reaching his ankles. Maglir winced as the freezing, dark waters rushed over his knees, soaking his leather armour and chilling him to the bone. A handful of zombies were dispatched with ease, and soon they found a cleft in the rock, which contained a worn sack and a mouldy, age-worn journal. The journal that Maglir was supposed to have returned to Oreyn three days ago. Gorgoth picked it up, flipped through a few pages, then stuffed it into a small bag on his belt, ignoring the damp that was causing the cover to deform. Maglir breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, they would escape this hell.
"I'll be making sure I describe your utter cowardice and uselessness in great detail when I make my report to Oreyn," growled Gorgoth, brushing his way past Maglir and back out of the water. The Bosmer started and jogged to catch up as it became evident that Gorgoth wasn't about to wait around for him. "Personally, I find useless cowards an embarrassment and would kick you out of the Guild if I had any say in the matter," continued Gorgoth, his voice booming around the caverns, sure to awaken any dead that he hadn't already re-laid to rest.
"Hey, we Bosmer aren't natural fighters," protested Maglir. "You can't expect us to-"
"Nonsense," snorted Gorgoth. "I know of two Bosmer who are very good at what they do. One could hamstring you without you even knowing he was there, and the other could shoot you down at two hundred paces, maybe more." Shaking his head in disgust, the Orc increased his pace, boots ringing on the rocks and occasionally squelching through the remains of zombies. Maglir broke into a run, desperately trying to keep within the circle of light provided by Gorgoth's glowing orb. The shadows were pressing in on him in a way that definitely seemed unnatural.
After what felt like the most tense hour of his life, but in fact was a short walk, Maglir almost fell out of Fallen Rocks cave into the dusk, doubling over with his hands on his knees and gasping for breath. Gorgoth didn't even spare him a glance as he untied Vorguz's reins and mounted the stallion, who tossed his head, eager to be off and away from the cursed cave. Maglir, intensely afraid of both the Orc and Oreyn, didn't even ask how he was going to be paid as Gorgoth rode off to the east, journal secure in his saddlebags.
The rooms assigned to the Emperor whenever he visited Cloud Ruler Temple –an uncommon occurrence in past years – were not as luxurious as the Emperor could expect in the Imperial Palace – this was a military fortress, after all – but they were certainly lacking for nothing. They were large, and divided into two rooms. The bedroom had a massive four-poster bed, wardrobes for extensive apparel, and thick carpets, as well as a window that faced east. Its only door led what Martin had started calling his study, a slightly smaller room, well-lit from the light from windows facing east and west, filled with comfortable chairs and a large, thick oak table and ringed with extensive bookshelves. Apart from the door leading to the bedroom, the only door was a reinforced oak affair guarded constantly on the outside by two Blades, who these days were almost invariably Baurus and Glenroy. The pair of Blades had assumed that guarding Martin in their every waking moment might go some way towards atoning for their failure to protect his father.
Martin sighed and rubbed his eyes. He was not used to such luxury, but that wasn't what was causing his fatigue. The Mysterium Xarxes lay open in front of him, and a short thin rod, held loosely in his right hand, served as a page-turner. After long hours of arduous translation, even with frequent breaks and Selene sharing some of the workload, the evil book had drained him, mentally and physically. The area on the table around Dagon's book was covered with books about daedric scripts, the nature of daedra, and just about anything referring to daedra that could be found in the fortress's library.
The door swung open to admit Selene, back from an apparently fruitless trip to the library. She'd long since shoved her armour and glaive under one of the chairs and got into her far more comfortable green cotton dress that she'd acquired in the Imperial City. It reminded Martin of the dress that the healer at the Chapel of Akatosh had worn on that fateful night. He leaned back and sighed, in both regret and exhaustion.
Selene was leaning over him in an instant, green eyes flashing angrily. "Martin, you've been pushing too hard again," she hissed. It was always somewhat refreshing to deal with someone who called him by his name; almost everyone else in Cloud Ruler Temple referred to him as 'Sire' or some other title. "You said yourself that you shouldn't push too hard, and now look at you!" The half-elf pulled Martin out of his chair with some difficulty – he was in good shape after his intense physical training, and his muscles were getting both bulky and heavy – and turned him towards the full-length mirror nailed to the wall.
Martin grunted as though he'd been punched in the stomach. His face, instead of the healthy complexion he'd acquired over the years, was pale grey, with dark cracks around his eyes. The eyes themselves had dulled; no longer were they as blue as sapphires, but rather the colour of murky rainwater. He immediately walked over to the chair by the west window and flopped down, looking out at the sun setting over the mountains. Selene pushed the Xarxes closed, and the feeling of evil in the room was reduced to almost nothing. "I'll be fine after a good night's sleep," he reassured her. The dark magic of the Xarxes might corrupt lesser men, but Martin knew that unless it got a good hold, the adverse affects would retreat relatively quickly.
"I don't even know how you sleep with that thing in the next room," grumbled Selene, walking over to sit in a chair opposite him, drawing her legs up. "I can almost feel it all the way over in the East barracks. Paranoid, I know." She sighed and shook her head, golden hair flashing in the dying sun. "What have you learnt since I left?"
"It's progress, at least," summarised Martin. "The Xarxes is the key to entering Paradise; I think it might describe some kind of reagent we need to open a portal to get there."
"What kind of reagent?"
"We'll find out tomorrow." Before Kvatch, Martin might well have added 'Divines willing' onto the end of that sentence, but he still felt let down by the Nine. If he was being punished by them for his earlier... indiscretions, then this was a bad time to do it. They lapsed into silence, both watching the sun creep beneath the horizon, the red ball of flame slowly sinking until all that was left was a pink glow valiantly holding out against the darkness of twilight.
It was Selene who eventually broke the silence, awkwardly twisting one of her golden tresses back and forth, a picture of anxiety painted on her beautiful face. "Martin... this might be a sensitive question, but how many people who you cared for were... lost at Kvatch?" She was decidedly avoiding meeting his eye, biting her lip.
Martin's eyebrows shot up. It was indeed a sensitive question , but remembering her own experiences, it was a valid one. "Many," he sighed, as images of that fateful night rose, unbidden, to his eyes. He'd thought that heavy drinking might blot out the memories, but he refused to go down that path; he had to live with what had happened. "Many of my companions at the Chapel were killed. Many of the friends I had were mercilessly butchered, some before my very eyes as I watched from the windows of the chapel, helpless." The Imperial pounded his fist into his palm. "It hurts me, Selene, but there's nothing more I can do to help them now; they're in Aetherius. " Martin paused. "Maybe they're the lucky ones."
Selene's eyes locked onto his. "How do you deal with... with the people you've lost?" Her teeth were firmly embedded in her bottom lip to keep it from trembling, and the shining in her eyes wasn't the result of reflected moonlight.
Martin leaned back in his seat, head back, thinking over all the friends he'd lost over the years. It was a long list, longer than anyone should ever have. He admitted that he deserved to carry the burden of some of those deaths; mistakes had been made, all in the stupidity of youth. He sighed. "It gets easier with time," he explained. "You just have to pick yourself back up and keep going, no matter how hard it gets. No matter what you have to endure, you have to get on with life." He leaned forward, hand shifting as it rested on his knee. "Sometimes, if the burden you carry gets too heavy... put it down for a bit. Let your emotions run loose. I had to deal with plenty of that at the Chapel, with widows and the like. They were better for it afterwards." He didn't include that fact that he himself had done that more than once.
Selene nodded and turned to look at the stars, fingers gripping the wide, soft arms of the chair in an attempt to maintain her composure. Then her shoulders started trembling, and the tears started flowing as she once again recalled the daedric invasion of Whiterock. Martin, having experienced this many a time in the chapel, closed the distance in under a second, perching somewhat uncomfortably on the arm of her hair and putting a comforting arm around her shoulders. Selene buried her face in his chest, shoulders now heaving with emotion. "I can... still see... their faces," she choked.
"Then you are blessed," murmured Martin, stroking her lustrous hair. "You can remember them, and dedicate your life to their memory." His eyes grew slightly duller. "I wish I could recall faces," he muttered softly, staring blankly out of the window as Masser and Secunda glimmered softly overhead in the cloudless night sky.
Ilend's eyes snapped open, interrupting a rather nice dream that slipped through his mind's probing fingers as he attempted to recall what it had been about. Judging by the sheer, almost unnatural, silence of the fortress, it was some time past midnight, and the East Barracks was almost pitch black, the few windows letting in a little moonlight. Gnaeus's form was gently snoring halfway across the barracks, but Ilend quickly identified the reason for his waking; Aerin was sitting bolt upright, blanket slipping down to her waist, breathing heavily, and even in the dim light Ilend could tell that her eyes were wide with terror.
"Nightmare?" he asked, slowly extracting himself from his blanket, which had wrapped around his legs.
Aerin jumped at the sound of his voice, unbound hair audibly cutting through the air as she spun to face him. Working some moisture into her mouth, she attempted to explain: "A bad one. I was in Oblivion, and Firebrand somehow got in and trampled me. She left me for the Dremora." The Bosmer shuddered violently and hugged herself. "Gorgoth was watching and did nothing." What might have been a whimper escaped her throat.
Ilend sighed. "It's just a dream, Aerin," he told her in what he hoped was a soothing tone. "It can't hurt you; you're back in the real world now."
The darkness failed to hide Aerin's withering glare. "It felt real enough, guardsman," she snapped, before wincing and looking around to see if she'd woken anyone. Gnaeus kept snoring peacefully. "It might not be real, but that didn't stop it scaring me." Her voice had dropped to a whisper.
Ilend grunted. "You think you're the only one to get nightmares?" he asked. "I had bad ones, during and after Kvatch." She looked at him quizzically. "Yes, Aerin, I do have nightmares, and I only remember the worst." He sighed. "I just never let on. It's what a soldier does. He stays on his feet and gets on with what needs done." Aerin was about to respond when the swordsman rolled off his bedroll and crawled onto the mattress directly next to Aerin's.
"A couple of years before I joined the Kvatch Guard, some bad shit happened," he explained. "A couple of young guards stumbled across the basement of a house belonging to a vampire." The Imperial winced at the memory. It hadn't been the best story to tell an idealistic young guard, fresh from basic training. "They had nightmares for weeks afterward. Captain Matius had them assigned to beds right next to their closest comrades. If they ever woke in a cold sweat, they could reach out and reassure themselves that their friends were alive, tangible, and there to help." Ilend wriggled down under the blankets. His body was a mere foot from Aerin's. He could almost feel her body heat. "It did them a world of good, so it should help you as well." He attempted an encouraging smile. "I'm here if you need me." With that, he leaned back into the pillow, closing his eyes and relaxing, hoping that the cold bedroll would warm up soon.
"Thanks, Ilend," came Aerin's voice from somewhere to his right. Her hand found his arm, and he squeezed it for a moment before it retreated back under her blanket. Ilend smiled as he heard her breathing steady, then slow into the measured, regular pattern of deep sleep. He rolled over and found a more comfortable position, and sleep took him once more.
A/N: And that's chapter twenty-one uploaded. I forgot to include this rant in the opening Author's Note, so here goes: WHY, please somebody tell me WHY did the idiots in charge of this site choose to MERGE the Morrowind and Oblivion fandoms? It's utterly incomprehensible and makes no sense whatsoever. Bleh. I predict much chaos and the burying of Oblivion fanfics under a deluge of Skyrim fanfics sometime this December.
Anyhow, as ever, reviews are ALWAYS appreciated, even if they're only one-liners telling me how much you like (or dislike) it. Every little helps.