A/N: Yes, this is a very quick update for me, mainly because I actually wrote something every night. Also, actually liking the act of writing large parts of this chapter helped. Also note that there should be a dash between the 'twenty' and the 'three' for this chapter, but FF doesn't like dashes in chapter titles for some reason. Chapter 22 got 11 reviews... hmm, I think my constant nagging might have paid off. Huge thanks to those who reviewed:
Rain's Hand: I wouldn't have called it 'boring' to write exactly, I just didn't feel as good about it. But, you're right, this chapter was better to write. That was one bad typo, fixed it immediately. And I never claimed to be good at writing romance, did I? I'd go as far to call myself utterly horrendous at writing romance, to be honest. But I think 'emerald/sapphire' eyes and the like is just good description.
Elder: Yes, it's come a long way. I'm also curious as to where it goes; I'm not even sure if either of them will survive.
DarkShadowDweller: Your compliment would be even better received if you hadn't said exactly the same thing, word for word, for Midnight and Brothers in Arms. Yes, they're great fics and deserve praise, but try to be more original.
Random Reader: It's been years since I did Boethia's quest, so I'm probably wrong, but I thought the master archer would be the Bosmer. As Aerin's a Bosmer, that automatically means that Boethia's Chosen Bosmer won't appear. And as for Gorgoth's previous crimes... well, you'll find out, but let's just say he won't be going on any pilgrimage. He'd refuse point-blank, unless Martin ordered him to, and I suspect that Martin won't. Gorgoth's word is unbreakable. As for Saliith... read on. :)
Kommandant Grim: That's high praise, thanks. And if by 'favourite false god' you mean Vivec... well, in one of my more insane plans, I had him showing up for the Battle of Bruma, but that won't be happening. Still, I do like references...
Underpaid Critic: I love most of the Daedric quests as well... shame I can't insert more of them, but that'd get ludicrous eventually. As for the plot-lines... well, much has yet to be revealed. ;)
Negative Infinity: That won't happen, for a number of reasons: Dagon is much taller than Gorgoth, so Gorgoth can't reach; Dagon is immortal, so Gorgoth's decapitation would be utterly useless anyway; if Gorgoth DID attempt to kill Dagon, he would use magic; and, finally, Gorgoth isn't stupid enough to assume that he can take on a Daedric Prince in a stand-up fight and live. He's not THAT powerful. And it would be utterly idiotic if he did pull it off.
Enough from me. Thanks again to all those who reviewed. On with the chapter:
Chapter Twenty-three: Risk and Reward
Aerin, who had never maintained more than a passing interest in Daedric Princes, had no idea what Boethia's realm was meant to look like. But, upon first entering his realm, still embarrassed over her deception of Ilend, she'd been struck by the similarity of the place around her to the Deadlands of Mehrunes Dagon, with a red sky sundered with black cracks, lava stretching as far as the eye could see, and scorched, parched, dry earth crumbling beneath her feet. However, she wasn't about to question the interior decoration of a Daedric Prince, particularly one who would take possession of her soul if she failed his challenge.
The fourth enemy she'd come up against, a Khajiit, was breathing his last, his life ebbing away, draining out of the wound caused by Aerin's arrow. His light mail armour, covering most of his body, had been of no use, as had the longsword lying a few feet away from his outstretched hand. The Wood Elf had shot him down before he'd come within twenty paces. Lying back the way she had come were three other bodies – an Argonian, a Breton, and an Imperial – who had died in much the same way. She didn't want to get complacent, but this challenge of Boethia's seemed almost too easy. Then again, she doubted that Boethia had known of Trueshot before she'd entered his realm.
"I wanted some more... entertainment," boomed Boethia, his voice resounding within her head. Aerin still winced slightly at the sheer overpowering nature of the voice, but had learnt to not let it affect her. "I took the liberty of informing those you are about to face of that bow of yours." Aerin grunted. It would be just like the Daedric Prince to want to spice things up. "I believe you might even make a good disciple," continued Boethia. "I was watching, back at the shrine. That was a devious trick you pulled. Worthy of my acknowledgement." Aerin stopped dead in her tracks and glared at the massive statue of Boethia, standing on its own island, dominating the realm. It was still facing her, just as it had done when she'd entered the realm, despite her moving around it constantly as she passed from island to island.
"Keep moving," instructed Boethia. Aerin felt a flick on her right ear, and she started forward, walking towards the next gate that separated her from the next opponent and his or her own private island. It was much like the Arena. "I will admit to appreciating the Dunmer more than any other race in Tamriel, but this will be a fair fight. I will not interfere." As Aerin approached it, the towering, massive obsidian gates swung open, grinding on the stone of the bridge leading over the lava to the next island, which was identical to the last four; rocky, with sparse, blood-coloured vegetation and little cover for those up against a skilled archer.
Unfortunately for Aerin, it would appear that the lightly-armoured Dunmer was also an archer, whipping his composite bow off his back and swiftly drawing an arrow as Aerin sprinted across the bridge. The only previous ranged combatant Aerin had been forced to face was a Breton mage, who had arrogantly assumed that his shield spell would keep out her arrow. But this Dunmer would be forewarned, and he was giving Aerin no time to nock an arrow; she had to dive for cover behind a nearby rock that was barely enough to conceal her body. The arrow glancing off the rock mere inches from her head brought a grimace to her face; this Dark Elf was a good shot.
"Come out, little Bosmer," he taunted, his voice floating to Aerin, carried by the winds that occasionally gusted across the plane. "I promise I won't make it hurt too much..." as far as Aerin could tell, his voice was staying still. He probably had an arrow half-drawn, ready to loose at any movement. The Wood Elf risked a look around the rock. Her head jerked back as an arrow flashed through the air that her head had just vacated, but she'd located his position; just in front of a large, grey rock that had less red cracks in it than most of the rock in this plane. Hoping to not give him any time to reposition, Aerin spun and darted out behind cover on the other side of the rock, leaping into a forward roll as another arrow grazed her heel. She came up with Trueshot ready, drawing an arrow, as the Dunmer frantically dove for cover.
Hissing in frustration as her shot just missed his head, Aerin moved quickly forward as her adversary took cover behind his rock. Now the tables were turned. The Dark Elf put his head around the corner of the rock, saw Aerin aiming at him, and swiftly withdrew back behind cover. Aerin didn't loose. By her estimation, she would be able to close the distance sufficiently to bypass his cover within five seconds.
He had other ideas. Roaring a war cry, the Dark Elf leapt out from cover, drew, and fired, with amazing rapidity. However, Aerin had been prepared for such a move and ducked into a crouch, darting towards a rock, while letting her arrow fly. It took the Dunmer squarely in the throat, and he fell back, his blood spurting out around the arrow, writhing as he desperately attempted to cling to life. His arrow fared better than its user; it glanced off a rock and flew into Aerin's left shoulder.
The Wood Elf hissed a curse and dropped to one knee, glaring at the arrow. It had only taken a glancing blow, and had not even reached the other side of her body, but it was sufficient to partly disable her left arm –a death sentence in the realm of Boethia. Aerin could almost sense the Daedric Prince's bloodlust, eagerly leaning forward to study the wounds of his newest specimen. Gritting her teeth, Aerin grabbed the arrow shaft and yanked it out of her shoulder, barely suppressing a moan of agony as the head left her shoulder, taking flesh and leather with it. She fumbled at her belt, found a healing potion, and drank down the contents so quickly she almost choked.
Tension seeping out of her, Aerin smiled as the healing potion took hold of her body and bathed it in a blue light. She felt her wound seal up, her unmarked pale flesh returning to its original unblemished state. Only a ragged tear in her leather cuirass indicated that there had been any intrusion. Then the Bosmer looked down at her belt and frowned. Then cursed. Then got up and kicked a nearby rock in frustration, cursing once again as she painfully stubbed her toe.
She'd forgotten to stock up on healing potions. Ilend and Gnaeus had carried most of them, and she'd not expected to enter a portal to do Boethia's bidding, or with so little time to prepare. That potion had been her only one. She cursed again. No doubt Boethia was shaking with mirth, if Daedric Princes did such things.
"OK, Aerin, calm down," the Wood Elf told herself, attempting to make her voice less shaky. "You've fucked up, but as long as ya don't get hit, you'll be fine..." A tremulous sigh was ripped from her chest as she squared her shoulders and started off across the island in the direction of the gate in the near distance. "Idiot. IDIOT." Aerin punched herself angrily on the thigh. Even if she got over it, she doubted Ilend would.
"Having fun, mortal?" asked Boethia in what seemed to be a mocking tone. Aerin growled for him to shut up. "I hope you like fighting mages strong in destruction. This particular Altmer was a master of Destruction before his soul became mine." Aerin rolled her eyes as the gate started to slide open. Great. Just great. If Gorgoth was anything to go by, then this Altmer could probably casually turn her inside out, then explode her, whilst eating breakfast. She nocked an arrow and started scanning the slowly appearing horizon.
The fireball appeared out of nowhere; Boethia had neglected to inform her that the Altmer was also apparently quite skilled at Illusion. Screaming random obscenities, Aerin dashed forward as fast as her legs would move as the fireball, as large as a horse, impacted upon the bridge behind her. A wave of hot air pushed her in the back, making her stumble and almost fall, before she reached a rock formation and dove headfirst into them. A frost spell chilled her bones as it crackled over her. Shivering, Aerin crawled on her belly deeper into the formation, hoping to remain undetected. Her hopes were dashed when an alarmingly accurate lightning bolt cracked a rock not two feet from her face. Clearly the mage was using a Detect Life spell.
Leaping to her feet, Aerin ran, in no particular direction, with no particular strategy. She knew that the mage must be somewhere; with that in mind, she scanned the landscape relentlessly, and was rewarded when a fireball emerged from a certain spot between several shoots of bloodgrass and a sharp-looking rock. Diving forward to avoid the fireball, Aerin raised herself to a sitting position while still sliding, nocked, drew, and released. Her aiming was wild, and her target was barely visible – merely a shimmering in the air – but her arrow still forced the Altmer to dodge out of the way, betraying his position further. His chameleon spell was less effective on the move. Aerin flipped to her feet, raised Trueshot, and fired, just as the Altmer span to face her. His instincts told him that a shield spell was the best way to deal with the rapidly approaching arrow, and he finished the spell just before it hit.
Aerin's face broke into a triumphant grin as the Altmer appeared, an expression of shock etched into his face as he collapsed, dead, the shaft of Aerin's arrow protruding from his chest, his Illusion and Alteration doing nothing to prevent his downfall. "Not a bad job, if I say so myself," proclaimed Aerin, bending and retrieving her arrow, cleaning it on a cloth she kept for the purpose and slotting it back into her quiver. She'd been unlucky so far; most of her arrows used in this realm lay where she'd left them, unsuitable for further use after sustaining damage.
"Get on with it," reminded Boethia.
Ignoring the Daedric Prince, Aerin was struck by a thought and started rummaging around in the Altmer's filthy robe. After several minutes of fruitless searching, she sighed and threw up her arms in defeat. No healing potions. Boethia's voice once again invaded her skull, insistently urging her to increase her pace, or he'd increase it for her. Not wanting to provoke him, Aerin obediently moved off in the direction of the next gate, the earth crunching under her boots.
"Be wary of my Nord, mortal. She is quicker than she looks." Aerin wasn't sure what sound was worse; the Prince's voice reverberating inside her head, or the screech of the gates slowly swinging open. She wondered if the obsidian structures were a universal design in some planes of Oblivion. Angrily, she forced herself to focus on the task at hand. She was alone, in a daedric plane, with no healing potions and her very soul at stake: there was no time to be getting distracted by menial things.
Boethia's Nord was nowhere in sight. Wary, Aerin advanced slowly, arrow nocked, eyes darting from rock to rock, constantly on the alert for movement. A few pebbles tumbled down a rock, and she spun and faced it, staring at the offending stones for a full five seconds before shaking herself back to reality. "Calm down, Aerin," she whispered to herself. "Don't get too jumpy..." The sound of her own voice in this hostile realm soothed the Wood Elf.
The Nord appeared suddenly, from behind a tall rock. Clad from head to toe in steel plate armour, and wielding a large, two-handed mace, she seemed physically imposing, and her face was contorted into a snarl as she started sprinting towards Aerin. Boethia had been truthful; she was far faster than her bulky frame and her heavy armour implied. Aerin smirked as she drew her arrow to her cheek. The Nord would die the same way the Imperial had, shot down in mid-charge.
Aerin's smirk slid from her face as the Nord dodged her first arrow. It became an expression of real concern when, closing the distance rapidly, the Nord swung her mace and knocked Aerin's arrow out from the air in front of her. The Bosmer began backpedalling, hoping and praying to any god that would listen - Aedric or Daedric - that her feet would find solid ground every time she moved them. Evidently, having forewarning of the Wood Elf's secret power lent tactical wisdom to Boethia's Chosen. Attempting to steady her aim the best she could while moving backwards, Aerin fired at the part of the Nord she was least likely to miss, the centre of the torso. Her opponent ducked and swerved, but now the range was too short, and a pained grunt erupted from her chest as Aerin's arrow embedded itself in her shoulder.
However, Aerin's victory was short lived, as her back hit a rough stone wall with enough force to bruise her, and she had her leathers to thank that her skin wasn't torn off her back. She slumped sideways to avoid the mace of the Nord, which, despite the weakened swing of its wielder, slammed into the wall with enough force to shower Aerin with rubble. She gritted her teeth as loose rocks slammed into her collarbone, severely jarring her, but she managed to leap away from the wall and turn.
The Nord's own strength was her downfall; her mace had stuck fast in the wall, and her damaged shoulder prevented her from using all her might to dislodge it. Aerin took several steps back while raising her bow, then loosed. The Nord finally ripped her mace free and turned, just in time to see an arrow slam into her temple. She slumped back against the wall, in the same spot where Aerin had almost met her end mere seconds ago.
Aerin lowered Trueshot and winced. She hadn't escaped unscathed; her back hurt every time she moved, and she could tell that her right shoulder was badly bruised. Her collarbone might even have shifted slightly. Due to the lack of healing potions, the Bosmer just had to grit her teeth and continue on towards the next gate. There was no triumphant grin this time. She was hurting too much, and using her right arm to draw an arrow would no doubt be agonising. Only two to go, but she was sure that Boethia had saved his best until last.
"Why didn't I let Ilend go through?" she asked herself, sighing. A twinge of guilt gnawed at her, but she angrily shook it off. There would be time for moping and feeling guilty later; no doubt Ilend wouldn't let her forget this for a long time to come. If she survived. Sighing once again, she realised that she'd have to admit to Ilend that she'd been wrong and he'd been right; he was far better qualified for this than she was. Fighting in the Arena didn't compare. Aerin sincerely hoped that the Imperial wasn't too angry. He had effectively stopped her sporadic nightmares, after all. And he... Aerin angrily forced herself back to the present as Boethia's voiced once again barged into her head.
"My Orc is a strong one, little mortal," he boomed. "You will struggle to contain him. Nothing as trivial as an arrow will slow him down." Aerin gulped and hoped that Boethia was just bragging as the gates screeched open.
Scanning the island for danger, Aerin detected several large rock formations that looked like they could be hiding an Orc. Nocking an arrow, ignoring the pain in her shoulder and back, she advanced cautiously, half-crouching, eyes darting. She stayed well away from the larger rock formations; if the Orc suddenly appeared, she wanted some range between them. No matter what Boethia claimed, the Orc would stop pretty sharply if an arrow found his heart. At the very least, he would be easy to avoid as he stumbled around dying. A forceful charge was probably the most likely outcome, given the fact that Orcs were not known for their tactical nous. Something told her that Gorgoth, had he been around, would happily refute that argument.
As it happened, Gorgoth did not need to argue the corner of the Orc. He did it for himself. At the sound of a rock rolling across the dry, cracked earth, Aerin spun to stare at the rock, and immediately looked around for likely places that it could have been thrown from, completely ignorant that the Orc had thrown it far up, over, and above her head, and was emerging from behind his hiding place as silently as he could.
It was his heavy armour that gave him away, clanking as he moved. Aerin spun to regard the leviathan not fifteen paces from her; a mountain of steel plate, he was wielding an enormous battleaxe with a head as large as her torso. No green skin showed under the thick metal, and only his beady yellow eyes were visible, fixed on her with an expression of longing. He wanted nothing more than to bathe in her blood, and it showed. Aerin repressed a shudder as she raised Trueshot. The Orc, his attempt at stealth a failure, roared a tremendous battle cry and launched himself at Aerin, sprinting towards her with axe raised.
In the time it took for Aerin to release her arrow, he had halved the distance. By the time it had pierced his heart, he was just about to bring his battleaxe down upon her. As the life left his eyes, his dying body surged forward, leaving Aerin no room to dodge. His corpse collapsed on top of her, and, acting by instinct, she raised her arms to protect her face as she toppled over. For an instant, the combined weight of Orc and Bosmer rested solely on Aerin's right leg.
Her ankle snapped like a twig.
Aerin's scream would have echoes throughout the realm if the Orc's crushing weight on top of her had not forced the air out of her lungs. She could only croak feebly and flop around as the sheer agony overwhelmed her senses. Somehow managing to wriggle out from under the Orc, she collapsed, cheek pressed against the dirt. Chest heaving, she forced herself to flip over onto her back and hesitantly looked down at her right leg, and immediately wished she hadn't.
The ankle had been cleanly snapped halfway from her knee to her heel, and as a result her lower leg was bent at a sickening right angle. Aerin squeezed her eyes shut, then turned and vomited the contents of her stomach onto the earth. Boethia's voice forced itself upon her, mocking her: "Is that the best you can do, little Bosmer? I expected better... should I take your soul?" Aerin felt an unsettling feeling groping at her, and snapped her eyes open. Through a haze of tears and a mind clouded with pain, she saw the next gate, only a short distance from her. "No," she choked, and the terrible fingers touching her soul departed.
"I won't give up," she growled to Boethia, determinedly dragging herself up onto her hands and good knee, starting a slow crawl towards the next gate. Sweat, which had been her constant companion in the realm, was pouring down her neck, her back, her arms in rivers, congealing in places, gluing her leathers to her skin. A weak sob was ripped from her lungs as she realised that she'd probably never see Nirn again. She'd die here, her soul consumed by Boethia. Ilend, Saliith, Gorgoth, Gnaeus, Selene... would they miss her? Or would they merely regard her as just another casualty and move on?
Aerin screamed in frustration and forced herself to stand, hobbling forward awkwardly, using Trueshot as a somewhat unsuitable walking staff, right foot hanging limply inches above the ground. Every step, every movement, was agony, but she was determined not to give up and become Boethia's slave, not when she could escape back to her home. A low moan escaped from her throat at every pained step, but she was moving steadily towards the next pair of gates.
"My Redguard awaits you. He is skilled and strong." Boethia paused. "I doubt he will lose."
Aerin wasn't in a position to argue. She knew that really all she was doing was prolonging the inevitable, but she refused to admit defeat. Not when there was hope. Gorgoth might say all he wanted about the futility of hope, but she clung to it like a drowning man clinging to a piece of driftwood. Fumbling an arrow out of her quiver, she wiped a shaking hand across her eyes, attempting to clear them as she crossed the bridge.
The Redguard had clearly been informed of her predicament, and, clad in chainmail with broadsword drawn, was waiting for her at the end of the bridge. No emotion showed on his sun-darkened, battle-scarred face as he started slowly walking towards her, swinging his blade lazily. This would probably be one of his easier kills. Aerin stopped, raised Trueshot, and attempted to draw an arrow while standing on one leg. She overbalanced and threw herself to her left to avoid landing on her broken leg. The Redguard kept slowly coming, not reducing or increasing his pace as Aerin attempted to rise from where she'd fallen.
Deciding that Trueshot was, for once, useless, Aerin threw it aside and drew one of her shortswords, rolling onto her back and struggling up into a sitting position. The Redguard darted forward and planted a boot on her right shoulder, pinning her to the ground, forcing her blade down. Gritting her teeth to stop her from groaning at the pain in her already-battered shoulder, Aerin could do nothing but stare up at the man about to kill her. The point of his blade tickled her throat. Sighing, Aerin slowly resigned herself to the fact that she'd doomed herself to eternal death. She'd never see Nirn again. She'd never see the Arena again. She'd never see her comrades again. Ilend's face in particular stood out for some reason; now she'd never get the chance to apologise. A flicker of fire appeared in her eyes. The Redguard drew back his blade, ready to end it.
With a roar, Aerin forced her own blade forward with all the strength she possessed. It sliced through the Redguard's chainmail and tore through his groin, exiting at the base of his spine. Eyes widening at the exquisite pain, Aerin's opponent wavered, giving her time to draw her other shortsword, reach up, and slice off his sword hand, which was unprotected, presumably for better grip. His hand, still gripping the broadsword, dropped onto the bare earth. Aerin swept the stunned Redguard's legs from under him with her good leg, then screeched as she seemed to drown in a lake of agony. The Redguard and his heavy chainmail armour had fallen on her right ankle. Frantic with pain, Aerin withdrew her left blade from his groin and drove both blades into his skull.
Panting, chest heaving, Aerin shoved him unceremoniously off her and sheathed her blades, uncaring about the blood they would be smearing on the insides of their scabbards. She snatched Trueshot from the ground, slowly levered herself up to a standing position, and stood staring at the statue of Boethia through eyes increasingly blurred by sweat and tears, which ran rivers through the dust caking her face. "Well, I won," she whispered. "Now get me the fuck out of here."
"Go through the gate you will find across this island." Aerin groaned. More walking. "A portal there will return you to your realm." Boethia paused. "You have done well, mortal." The words sounded grudging, but they seemed to be genuine.
"Damn right," panted Aerin, bent over like an old woman as she made her slow, agonising way across the island. Back to Nirn.
Gnaeus had swiftly grown tired of Ilend's repetitive ranting and started to doze, so the younger Imperial was left to restlessly stamp around the clearing, occasionally turning to glare angrily at Boethia's portal. As soon as the Lover's Kiss had worn off, he'd attempted to follow Aerin through, only to fall straight through the swirling blue mist. Only one could enter. His sense of time wasn't at its best at night in the middle of nowhere, but it felt like hours had past. Every time Ilend tried to settle down to eat or sleep, his agitation increased and he was forced to start pacing again, slamming his gauntleted fist into his left palm over and over again.
A decaying branch snapping under Ilend's boot finally brought Gnaeus out of his on-off slumber. "For the love of the Divines, Ilend!" he roared. "You can't change anything by stomping around like a deranged Orc, so sit down and shut up!"
Ilend looked like he was about to respond, then grunted and crossed over to the other side of the clearing, ignoring Gnaeus, and started walking around in a small circle. The old hermit grimaced and rose, stretching, wincing at the crick in his neck. He'd been dozing against a tree, and his head had fallen at an awkward angle.
"I have to admit, I have never seen something so funny in my life," continued Gnaeus, swinging his arms vigorously as he walked up to the statue and casually leaned on its base, staring up at Boethia. "You know, I think this Prince would be proud of her. A nice bit of deceit, there."
"You wouldn't find it funny if you were on the receiving end, old man," growled Ilend, punching a nearby tree in frustration. There was an indignant hoot and a rustling of wings as a disturbed owl took flight. Ilend ignored it.
"Of course not," agreed Gnaeus. "But the fact remains that I was a witness, not a participant, so I can find it as funny as I damn well please." Gnaeus turned, leaning his back against the statue, and gave Ilend a critical look. "You're on edge, and I can see three reasons for that: one, you got utterly outdone by a bloody treehugger; two, you're angry with her; or three: you're worried sick about her." Gnaeus cocked an eyebrow. "Personally, I think it's option three more than the other two I see at work here."
Ilend stomped over to the statue and imitated Gnaeus in leaning on it with his back. "And what makes you an expert on my present emotional state?" he asked icily.
Gnaeus stroked his short grey beard. "Age and wisdom, boy," he said, smiling. "Don't you think I know-"
He was cut off as the blue mists shimmering between the rock arches seemed to darken to solidify. Ilend jerked forward, slowly approaching the arch. Gnaeus stayed where he was, but his right hand strayed to his sword hilt. As a murky shape started making its way through the mist back onto Nirn, anger battled concern on Ilend's face and won easily. Aerin emerged fully from the portal, which vanished behind her, and Ilend stopped dead in his tracks.
The Bosmer standing before him, leaning heavily on Trueshot, could not have been more different than the bright, flighty creature that had entered the portal. Her eyes were dim and exhausted; her face, and indeed her entire body, was covered in a thick crust of dust and dirt. Streaks through the caked grime and blood on her face showed where sweat and tears had cleansed a path. Her armour was ragged and torn in several places, and her right ankle was bent at a right angle, her foot drooping towards the grass. Semi-glazed eyes seemed to stare through Ilend as she attempted to move towards him. Aerin's body failed her and Trueshot slid from her grasp as she toppled towards the ground.
"Gnaeus! Potions!" roared Ilend as he barely caught Aerin in time, rolling her onto her back as gently as he could. "The strongest one, the one with four white bands around the neck!" The Imperial knew that his healing skills, while improving, could not hope to heal such a devastating wound. Gnaeus moved quickly to obey, scrambling over to his saddlebags and hurriedly searching through them.
"Aerin?" The Bosmer merely groaned in response to his voice, in a near-catatonic state. Ilend gripped her right shoulder and repeated her name. This time, her eyes widened and she lurched upward before his restraining hand forced her back down. "Take it easy, Aerin," he told her, hoping his voice was soothing her; it was more likely that he sounded anxious. He certainly felt anxious. His eyes travelled down her right leg, and he winced. "I'm going to have to re-break your leg, Aerin, or it'll fuse like that," he told her, as gently as he could manage.
Aerin groaned. "Just do it," she panted. "I've been through... enough pain... in that realm. A bit more... wouldn't hurt." A wry laugh at her own words quickly turned into a shudder as Gnaeus arrived with the requested potion. Falanu had charged a huge price for it, but apparently the four-band potion would heal even the most deadly of wounds.
Ilend sighed and repositioned himself next to her right foot, kneeling on her left leg to keep it pinned. He nodded to Gnaeus, who shifted the potion to his left hand and knelt on Aerin's arms with his legs. "Scream all you want, Aerin," Ilend told her as he placed his hands just above her right foot. "There's no one else to hear except me, Gnaeus, and Boethia."
"Screw Boethia..." muttered Aerin, sweat once again trickling down her face.
Ilend took a deep breath and wrenched her foot back into place. The sheer agony of her scream and the heaving of her body in response to the operation almost made him drop her leg in shock, but he grimly held on until he was sure it was as close to its original position as possible. Gnaeus removed the cork and shoved the potion into Aerin's mouth. Swallowing instinctively, the rabid look in her eyes faded, and she collapsed, panting, chest heaving. Ilend ran a hand over her ankle and grunted in relief. It felt fine. He'd have to get a few more of those potions from Falanu.
Gnaeus slowly got up and backed away from them, muttering something about not leaving litter at a shrine as he took the empty bottle back to his saddlebags. Aerin raised herself to lean on her elbows, wiping her face and looking surprised when it came away even dirtier than before. She raised her eyes to the Imperial kneeling before her, and before she could speak, he had his arm around her waist, helping her up to a standing position. "How's your leg?" he asked, giving her right ankle an experimental poke with his boot. Aerin walked a few paces.
"Good as new," she said, grinning in delight. "And my shoulder and back are fine, too. How-"
"I don't think Boethia likes to be kept waiting, girl," barked Gnaeus from across the clearing. "Especially when he has to reward you."
Aerin sighed and turned towards the statue, walking slowly towards it. Ilend watched her, unmoving, arms folded. As she reached out a hand to touch Boethia, his voice once again boomed into her head, almost splitting it in two: "I greet you, Chosen One!" Boethia seemed genuinely pleased, or at the very least, enthusiastic. Maybe she had given him a good spectacle after all. "A victory in my Tournament of Ten Bloods brings great honour, no matter how the close the victor comes to dying." There was a touch of wryness about that statement. "Take Goldbrand, sheathe it in your enemies, and offer their souls as praise to me." Aerin raised an eyebrow as a katana appeared at Boethia's feet, the hilt pointed towards her.
She reached out a hand and took it. The dark hilt, made from a hide of some kind for good grip, was pleasingly warm to the touch. The scabbard was also plain, made from simple black leather. Drawing two inches of the blade, Aerin gasped, then drew it fully. Goldbrand flared in her hand, bright as the sun, lighting up the clearing. Flames leapt from the blade, flickering from the guard upwards, the fine golden blade burnished and sharp. Aerin was tempted to give it a few practise swings despite it being too heavy for her, but instead she sheathed it smoothly. The light in the clearing faded, leaving her to blink several times until her eyes had readjusted back to the darkness of night.
Aerin turned slowly and walked back to the centre of the clearing. Ilend hadn't moved, eyes fixed on her, his face as emotionless as rock. Taking a deep breath, Aerin walked up to him and held up Goldbrand. "Take it," she told him. His only reaction was a slight twitch of the eyebrow. "It should have been you emerging from that portal triumphantly, not me," she explained. Gnaeus snorted at her use of 'triumphant'. "I should never have stopped ya going in, Ilend, I... I was an idiot." The words left her in a rush, and she shoved Goldbrand at Ilend.
"Is that your way of apologising?" asked Ilend, his voice flat.
"For the love of the Divines, Ilend, I knew ya had far better chances than me of surviving in there!" snapped Aerin. "I almost died in there, and it was my own sodding fault! It should have been you going through there, winning easily and getting something that might save the Empire. I nearly failed!" Aerin sighed and shook her head in disgust. "Just... take it," she muttered.
Ilend reached out and plucked Goldbrand from her grasp, slotting it through his sword belt with barely a glance. "It's not mine," he told her. "It's Martin's. We won't be seeing this for much longer." He folded his arms once again. "You seem to regret your decision."
"Ilend, I had my leg broken, half the skin on my back ripped off, my shoulder almost dislocated. I was taunted by a Daedric Prince, I took an arrow to the shoulder, and I had a blade at my throat." Aerin almost rolled her eyes, then thought better of it. "All my pain could have been avoided if I'd just done the sensible thing. Of course I regret letting my foolish pride get the better of me."
Ilend raised an eyebrow. "Boethia seems to have knocked some self-awareness into you, at least," he observed. "It's good that you regret it. It was just about the most idiotic thing I've ever seen. Not only did you put yourself in danger, you might have endangered the very fate of Nirn." His words seemed to be cutting deep. Good. "You went in there and needlessly risked not only your life, but your soul as well. Risking that when you don't need to is something only a fool would do. And if you'd died in there, I-" He cut himself off. Best not to go down that route. Aerin was already hanging her dirty head in shame. Putting a comforting arm around her shoulders was tempting. Very tempting. A light snore drifted over from where Gnaeus had laid out his bedroll.
Sighing, Ilend shook his head. "And to think that you prevented me from carrying out the same task with much less risk... well, I should be very angry with you, Aerin, and I should be making you feel the recriminations for this for weeks to come." Describing the Bosmer's expression as mournful would not do it justice. "But..." Ilend growled, starting to hate himself. A Watch Sergeant couldn't afford to be soft like this. "You obviously know how badly you failed and, despite myself, I. Just. Can't. Stay. Angry. With. You." The words were forced out between gritted teeth. In his years in the Watch, such weakness would have been severely punished by Savlian Matius.
"Don't worry, Ilend. I doubt you could make me feel much worse that I already do," mumbled Aerin, still downcast. He'd never seen her this dispirited before. It almost made him feel guilty.
Ilend raised both eyebrows. "Oh, I reckon I could," he told her. His anger was abating now. He'd given her the requisite bollocking, however limited it might have been. "I do have one question." She raised her head fully to look at him questioningly. "Did you have to kiss me that deeply?" Her stunned expression made keeping a straight face difficult.
"Uh... I..." Ilend could tell that Aerin was blushing even under the grime coating her face as she awkwardly toed a line in the grass with her foot. "Well..."
"I ask only because whenever my ex-lover kissed me like that, it was almost certain that some vigorous action would take place in the bedroom." It was now impossible for Ilend to hide his smirk.
"No," grunted Aerin, attempting a glare, her the few streaks of untouched pale skin on her face radiating heat like the sun. Ilend was surprised that the entire clearing didn't light up like it had for Goldbrand. "A light brush on the lips would have been enough. Should we get some rest? I think it'll be a hard journey back."
"So, you were just trying to find out how I tasted?" probed Ilend, accompanying her back to their bedrolls. "You could have just asked, you know."
"You're not going to drop this, are you?" asked Aerin, exasperated.
"No," confirmed Ilend. "It will be brought up at the most inopportune moments you can think of for the next year or so. Think of it as punishment." Aerin groaned and flopped down onto her bedroll. "If you're thinking of sleep, look in a mirror first," advised Ilend. "You look like a Redguard." It wasn't much of an exaggeration.
Aerin frowned and looked down at herself, apparently noticing for the first time that she was covered in dust, dirt, and congealed, dried blood. A look of disgust came across her face as she started removing her armour. "Gnaeus said earlier that there was a small spring in that direction," said Ilend, pointing off into the forest. "Wash there. I'll stay awake until you come back." Aerin grunted her thanks and hurried off in the indicated direction.
Ilend let out a long, slow, relaxed sigh and laid back on his bedroll, hands behind his head. The hilt of Goldbrand poked him in the ribs, but he ignored it. He smiled. Savlian Matius had always told him to prepare for the worst. Aerin was still alive. The worst had not happened. That was good enough for Ilend Vonius.
The morning was bright in the Imperial City. Clouds loomed on the horizon, but the sun was surrounded by clear sky, and the wind was warm for mid-autumn. Normally, Saliith would have been up an hour ago, but, as it was, he had just completed his routine stretches that he always did upon waking. His room at the Merchants Inn was not fancy, but it had everything he needed; a fair-size single bed, a few large windows, a carpet, a bedside table, and a small, plain wardrobe. The cost per night was negligible, given that he was now earning for one fight what most average citizens earned in weeks. His armour lay on the bed, ready to be donned. The Argonian had a bloody day ahead of him. A date with destiny, some might call it.
After heading downstairs and eating a small breakfast, Saliith started off towards the Arena. A handful of citizens in the throng of the Market District recognised him, calling out to him, using his Arena names. He acknowledged them with a short nod, never slowing his progress towards the Arena. His armour was gleaming in the sun, having been polished yesterday, as well as given a maintenance by Gin-Wulm. The shortswords swinging at the Argonian's hips had been given a similar treatment, and a fine array of the best throwing knives he could afford bristled from their belt on his upper back.
Upon reaching the Arena, Saliith slowed his pace, taking the time to look around the grounds before entering the Bloodworks. He heard one of his names being called, and he gave a short wave in response to Huzei and Neesha, waiting in the queue to get into the Arena. Agronak gro-Malog noticed Saliith, stared at him for a few seconds, then grunted to himself and hurried off down into the Bloodworks. Saliith took one last look around the grounds, at the gladiators training, the fans queuing, and the guards keeping some semblance of order. He affixed the sight in his mind, then turned and entered the Bloodworks.
The familiar atmosphere, heavy with blood and sweat, washed over him as he made his slow way down the steps and across the training area, absently ducking under swords and dodging arrows. Near the Blue Team ramp, Owyn was handing a gladiator his winnings. Saliith squared his shoulders and marched up to the Blademaster, who folded his arms and leaned back against the wall, regarding the Yellow Team Hero stonily.
Saliith stopped mere inches from the Redguard, fists clenching and unclenching at his side. Green eyes locked onto brown. "I challenge you to a duel to the death," rasped Saliith, his voice emotionless.
The Argonian hadn't been speaking quietly, and activity in the area immediately surrounding them ceased abruptly. Slowly, as word was passed around, all practising, sparring, and relaxing in the Bloodworks stopped, and all eyes turned to the Hero and the Blademaster. Agronak was nearby, leaning on a wall, arms folded.
Owyn's brown eyes hardened even further, if that was possible. He said nothing, but his eyes left Saliith's and travelled over the Bloodworks, over the watching gladiators, eventually falling upon Agronak. The half-Orc gave the slightest shrug of his shoulders. He would not influence any decision here. Owyn turned back to Saliith. "Throwing down the gauntlet to avenge that old friend of yours?" he asked, his lip curling into a sneer. "How pathetically sentimental of you. Give me ten minutes to prepare. Ysabel will inform the announcer and change the schedule." With that, the Redguard jerked away from the wall and walked off to his 'office'.
The silence hung over the Bloodworks for a few more seconds, then the activity resumed once again, though this time there was a lot more talk and a lot less sparring. Agronak walked over to Saliith. "Are you ready for this?" he asked. "Owyn might have retired long ago, but he was still an undefeated Grand Champion, and he's deadly with a blade."
"No time like the present," replied Saliith. "Now is just a good a time as any. Let's just hope I've prepared enough." The Argonian loosened his swords in their scabbard and ran his hands over the impressive array of throwing knives on his back for what felt like the hundredth time that morning.
Agronak turned to leave, then paused. "For what it's worth, I wasn't happy that he pitted you against Branwen," he grunted. "Making a public spectacle of that disgusted me." The half-Orc hesitated. "Good luck." He turned and walked off towards the steps leading to the gladiator viewing area.
Saliith sighed and settled back to wait. A handful of gladiators attempted conversation, but he wasn't in the mood for idle talk, and sent them back to their training. He guessed that the gladiator viewing area would be packed; it wasn't often a non-scheduled match happened, let alone one involving the Blademaster. It took a few minutes before Ysabel Andronicus, the formidable Battle Matron, appeared and ordered him up the Yellow Team ramp. Saliith took one last, lingering look around the Bloodworks before obeying, marching past the Basin of Renewal and up the blood-soaked ramp for what might be the last time.
The atmosphere in the amphitheatre of the Arena was tenser than normal; it was almost tangible, like a crowd holding its collective breath. Clearly, word had got out. Saliith slowly made his way to stand just behind the iron bars. As expected, the gladiator viewing area was crowded, with many gladiators jostling for a better position. Agronak held an uncontested position at the front, leaning on the railings. The Blue Team cage was empty; Owyn had yet to arrive. That didn't stop the announcer surging to his feet. Saliith actually listened with more than half an ear this time: the fat Imperial was going on about the 'throwing down of the gauntlet' and 'a match never seen before in a lifetime' and other poetic drivel.
Eventually, Owyn appeared across from Saliith. As expected, the Blademaster had removed his everyday light iron armour and donned a heavy suit of steel plate armour, complete with helmet. The sun reflected off the burnished metal, and it clearly had never been used before, but, despite that, it looked purposeful. It fitted Owyn like a glove. The Redguard had not held back with the weapons; on his left hip was a long steel mace, counterbalanced by the scimitar on his right hip. On his back was a massive claymore that looked like it had been forged by the Dwemer. The tension increased as the gladiators glared at each other from across the Arena.
After a few more seconds of speaking, the announcer flopped down into his chair. The gates screeched open. Saliith and Owyn slowly marched towards the centre of the Arena, eyes never leaving each other. They stopped ten paces apart. Saliith's eyes had been devoid of emotion ever since he entered the Arena, and, despite his habitual foul temper outside the Arena, Owyn's face was equally unreadable. He'd been a gladiator for far too long to let his emotions affect him on the sands.
"I'll admit, I never thought I'd be out here again," grunted Owyn, peering around the Arena. Large parts of his face were obscured by his helmet, but his eyes and mouth were easily visible. "Seems you took that fight all too personally. The first mistake I'd ever seen you make, pondscum." Owyn turned back to Saliith. "You made your second one a few minutes ago back in the Bloodworks. It might be your last one, but I like to think you'll make your last mistake out here." The Redguard's lip curled upwards slightly before he turned and walked five paces back. Saliith did the same.
The roars of the crowd intensified as Saliith's shortswords flew from their scabbards and he charged at Owyn, who had drawn both his scimitar and his mace, an unusual combination, but one that could easily be deadly. Saliith leapt at Owyn, swinging for his head and neck. Both swords were blocked, but Saliith used his momentum to flip over Owyn's head, spin, and stab at his exposed back. Owyn rolled forward to escape from the danger, no mean feat in heavy plate armour. It was as though the man had been born wearing it.
Saliith launched another attack, using his greater mobility to his advantage. Shimmying left and right, he stabbed at Owyn's right leg and left arm. The Redguard was too experienced to fall for any feinting and blocked both, his mace forcing Saliith's shortsword aside and tearing through the air mere inches from the end of Saliith's snout. The Argonian swung up at his opponent's mace arm, but Owyn moved back, and the blade missed the joint and merely bounced off the steel. Owyn darted in, aiming a stab at Saliith's stomach, but the Argonian twisted to one side and ran his blade across Owyn's ribs, using the Redguard's momentum against him. He winced when the only result was a screech as the shortsword gouged a line across Owyn's cuirass, failing to penetrate. Kicking the Redguard in the back of the knee, Saliith attempted to stab him in the back of the neck, but Owyn managed to spin while still kneeling and smashed Saliith's blades aside before rolling backwards onto his feet.
The combatants eyed each other warily. Blood had yet to be drawn, but the crowd were on the edges of their seats nonetheless. Saliith once again went on the offensive, the speed of his attacks forcing Owyn back across the Arena. The Redguard's mace was slow to move to block, and Saliith spotted an opening on the right. He threw his blade point-first into the sands, whipped out a throwing knife, threw it, and had his blade back in his hand before it impacted. Owyn dodged in time, however; instead of piercing his eye, the knife merely slashed his cheek open. The Blademaster snarled and charged the Argonian, but Saliith merely dodged and danced out of the way, eluding the Redguard, wearing him down using his superior mobility. Owyn might be able to move quickly in the plate armour that afforded him excellent protection, but even he could not hope to catch an Argonian wearing light scale armour.
"One hit and you're dead, pondscum," growled Owyn, frustration not yet evident in his voice. "Just... stay... still..." His lip curled even further as Saliith ducked under a slash and slammed his blade into the side of Owyn's helmet, stunning him momentarily and allowing the Yellow Team Hero to exploit the tiny gap between his left pauldron and cuirass. The cut wasn't deep, but it meant that Owyn was bleeding from two places, whereas Saliith had not yet been touched. The crowd was in full voice, bellowing for more blood.
Owyn fell back, but Saliith gave him no time to rest, going on the offensive once more. The Redguard's long mace gave him greater reach, but he could not effectively block with it with one hand, and several times only his armour saved him from losing a limb. Growing tired of being pushed into a corner, the Blademaster stepped forward, locked blades, and trapped Saliith's right shortsword just below the head of his long mace. "I think it's time I stopped giving you false hope," he snarled. He planted a boot firmly into Saliith's chest, sending the Argonian staggering back, looking up just in time to dodge the mace the Owyn threw at him. He had to leap to the side to avoid the Redguard's scimitar, and turned back to him just in time to see him draw his claymore.
The ancient, mighty sword, forged millennia ago by the Dwemer, was a formidable weapon, with a thick, double-edged blade only slightly shorter than Owyn himself. A small smile flickered over the Redguard's face as he settled into a combat stance and beckoned to his opponent. Saliith took a step forward and sent two throwing knives flying at him. Owyn dodged one and the other deflected harmlessly off his cuirass. Charging forward, Saliith attempted to duck under the claymore, but he had to crouch so low that it was easy for Owyn to kick him on the chin, sending him sprawling backwards. Owyn moved in, and Saliith flipped to his feet and backpedalled rapidly in order to avoid an overhead slash.
Now it was Owyn's turn to force Saliith back, the sheer reach of the claymore meaning that the Argonian couldn't get close or get around the flanks of his opponent. Any throwing knives were dodged, deflected, or simply bounced off the Redguard's armour. The claymore was too heavy for Saliith to block, yet Owyn managed to wield it so precisely that he was never in any danger of overbalancing. He might not have stepped onto the sands for decades, he might have aged, but he was still the lethal swordsman who had retired undefeated. Saliith, with at least twenty years less experience, was an upstart in comparison.
It didn't take Owyn long to draw blood; he shifted his positioning in mid-swing and Saliith's dodge meant that the Dwemer blade only sliced the front of his thigh instead of cutting his right leg off. The crowd roared their approval as the Argonian's blood started dribbling onto the sands. Despite being eager for a counterattack, Saliith forced himself to stay calm; any rash movement would play right into Owyn's hands. Instead, the Argonian kept on the defensive, slowly moving back and dodging, ignoring the pain in his leg, exerting himself as little as possible. With his heavy armour and weapons, Owyn would be tiring more quickly, no matter how fanatically fit he was.
The Blademaster sensed this and pushed harder. The fury and force of his attacks increased until Saliith was bleeding not only from his thigh, but a slash across his ribs and a gash on his left calf. Owyn showed no signs of tiring. A smile flickered onto his lips as he sensed Saliith weakening. Snarling, Saliith threw himself to the ground, forcing himself under the swinging claymore, and spun as though break dancing. Owyn hadn't anticipated such a move, and his jump to dodge Saliith's flailing legs came a split-second too late; Saliith's feet caught his left foot and sent him tumbling face-first onto the sands. Despite his injuries, the Argonian quickly flipped to his feet.
Owyn, sensing that he wouldn't be able to drag his heavily-armoured body to its feet quickly enough, instead turned onto his back, just in time to parry Saliith's twin stabs. The Argonian launched into a flurry of attacks, each stretching Owyn's blocking capabilities to the limit. Being flat on his back, the Redguard was at a severe disadvantage. He couldn't get up, as Saliith would pounce upon any opening, and his efforts at kicking his opponent's legs from under him came to nothing; Saliith was too fast.
Eventually, ignoring all personal safety, Owyn lurched his torso upwards and swung with all his strength at Saliith's legs. He wasn't expecting the spry Argonian to flip over him and stab at the back of his neck. Falling to one side to avoid the blow, Owyn felt hot blood trickling down the back of his cuirass; snarling, he rolled on to his stomach and attempted to propel himself to his feet, but Saliith kicked his legs from under him and he collapsed, claymore trapped under him. Saliith tore the Redguard's helmet off and raised his right shortsword high, preparing to end it, but Owyn rolled to his left, then rolled again, and again, until he'd built up enough momentum to deposit himself n his feet. He overbalanced and staggered backwards. Saliith darted in and relentlessly struck at Owyn's claymore, eventually ripping it from his grasp.
Owyn bellowed with fury and launched himself at Saliith, ignoring the throwing knife embedding itself in his cheek and slicing his tongue in two. He crashed into the Argonian, bearing both of them to the ground, with Owyn's hands wrapped around Saliith's throat. Unable to speak, with a red mist descending over his eyes, Owyn threw all rational thought out of the window and squeezed as hard as he could, repeatedly kneeing Saliith in the ribs, and ignoring the Argonian frantically groping for his throwing knives.
With his vision narrowing and black specks floating in front of his eyes, partially obscuring Owyn's bloody, ruined face, his ribs creaking under the weight of the Redguard, Saliith finally managed to wrench a throwing knife from his back. He reached up and plunged it into Owyn's temple. The Redguard's grip on Saliith's throat loosened as he collapsed, like a puppet with its strings cut. Saliith groaned as his battered body bore the full weight of the heavily-armoured Redguard. A handful of roars erupted from the crowd, but most were unsure of who had actually won; both combatants were still, and at that distance, it was impossible to distinguish Argonian blood from human blood. The gladiators, however, knew the difference.
Saliith was tempted to lie there for a few seconds, to get his breath back, to get some rest, but his discipline forced him into action. Slowly pushing Owyn's corpse off him, he rose on shaky legs to a tremendous roar. Wincing at the pain in large areas of his body, the Argonian collected his shortswords and limped off to the Yellow Team tunnel. Owyn's corpse lay still. The Blademaster would be remembered as an undefeated Grand Champion and a master swordsman. Saliith could not change that. Nor could he change the fact that Branwen would be forgotten. But now, at least, Saliith could rest easier knowing that he had done what he could. Branwen's indirect killer had shared her fate. And now he could get on with fulfilling their shared dream without distraction.
Gorgoth rode through the nights, barely stopping for food and rest, driving Vorguz to his limit, and managed to reach Chorrol in three days, just as the sun was starting to set. He planned to make his report to Oreyn, then be on his way to Anvil as quickly as possible. Stabling his exhausted stallion, the Orc made his way quickly to the Guildhall and threw the double doors open.
Oreyn looked up from where he was eating dinner with two Orcs and slowly rose to his feet, still gnawing on a chicken leg held in his hand. "Back so soon, Journeyman?" he observed. "You must have ridden hard. I like efficiency. Report."
Gorgoth resisted the urge to stand to attention and salute. Having been rigorously trained largely by military trainers in his early years, he had an innate sense of discipline that was hard to shake. "The three Guildsmen in question had been forced out of work by the Blackwood Company," he reported flatly. "I managed to find them work and push them back on the rails, but the Company could prove disadvantageous to our operations in southern Cyrodiil." Gorgoth paused. "I also spent a hundred drakes repairing the damage done to a lodge by the aforementioned Guildsmen."
Oreyn grunted and stuck the chicken leg into his mouth, using both hands to wrestle a bag of coins under his pocket and throw it to Gorgoth. "Your expenses, plus a bit," he grunted, removing the meat from between his teeth. "You're not doing badly, Orc," he continued, resting his leg on his chair and leaning on his knee. "You had any past experience at leadership, organised fighting, that sort of thing?"
Gorgoth resisted the urge to smile. "The only time I have truly left Orsinium in my past, before this, was on a military campaign under my father," he began. "I started off leading a company of horsemen. After a few months of fighting, the Battle of the Bjoulsae Delta was upon us. I ended up commanding half the cavalry of the entire army." Gorgoth's eyes softened slightly as he fondly recalled that bloodbath. "Five thousand Orcish heavy cavalry under my command, Oreyn," he said, leaning forward, his voice dropping in volume but increasing in intensity. "Together, each Orc and horse weighs over a ton. When we smashed into the rear of the Bretons, we didn't even have to use our lances at first. Their last three ranks were simply crushed, thrown aside like rag dolls, torn apart under our hooves." Gorgoth straightened, and the feverish light faded from his eyes. "So, yes, you could say I have experience," he finished.
Both of the Orcs at the table were gaping at Gorgoth, mouths hanging open, heedless of the food dribbling out. Modryn merely raised an eyebrow slightly. "Sod Swordsman," he grunted suddenly. "Gorgoth, I'm skipping a rung. You're now a Protector. And I've got another job for you."
Gorgoth tapped a canine. "I have Blades business to attend to," he rumbled. "I had planned to leave for Anvil after making my report."
"Well, the Emperor's dead, so you answer to me ahead of anyone else," growled Modryn, throwing the leg, now devoid of meat, back onto his plate and beckoning for the Orc to follow him up the stairs into his cramped office. The stairs creaked under the Dunmer's weight, and screeched under Gorgoth's. "We'll need privacy for this," explained Modryn as he slammed the door behind Gorgoth.
"This had better be good, Oreyn," growled Gorgoth. "The Emperor may be dead, but I still take other orders from a higher authority than you."
"Whatever. The fact is, I think you're perfect for this assignment." Modryn settled down in his seat behind his tiny desk. The only other features of the room were a small bed and an armour stand, currently hosting a high-quality suit of ebony armour. There was not even a window; the office was lit entirely by candlelight and the cracks of light appearing through the door to the rest of the guildhall. "The current Master is overprotective at times. Ever since her eldest son, Vitellus, died on a contract a month ago, she's been coddling her other son, Viranus, keeping him on barracks duty, not giving him any contracts, treating him like a boy and not a man." Modryn paused to spit. Gorgoth shared his sentiment, but kept his face unreadable.
"Anyhow, I'm going behind her back and getting him some action. It pains me to see that potential locked away." Modryn leaned his elbows on his desk and rested his chin on his interlocking fingers, studying Gorgoth. "I want you to accompany him to Nonwyll Cavern to search for Galtus Previa, an Imperial farmer who's gone missing. Keep Viranus alive and help his confidence some." Modryn slowly rose to his feet. "You'll find him in the Donton house ready and waiting tomorrow morning, just after sunrise. I'll fill him in." The Dunmer reached up to grip Gorgoth's pauldron. "Don't tell the Master about this," he reminded.
"I won't," responded Gorgoth. "I suppose a delay of one day will not hurt me too badly." He turned to leave, then a thought struck him. He turned back to Modryn. "Do you not have badges of rank?" he inquired. "At times, sometimes all we have to go on is our word."
The Dark Elf shrugged. "Word gets circulated pretty fast," he grunted in response. "I'll drop a line to Vilena, see what she thinks. Don't get your hopes up." He pointed at the door. Gorgoth took the hint and walked out.
There were beds on the second floor. Gorgoth removed his armour, shoved it under his chosen bed, and lay down. He'd pushed himself hard on the way here, and it didn't take long for sleep to claim him.
A/N: OK, firstly, apologies: Judging from many of your reviews, you wanted the full Tournament of Ten Bloods, which I didn't deliver. Mainly because that it would have pushed the chapter past 15,000 words, but also because Aerin easily mowing down four Chosen would get a tad tedious.
The later part of the Saliith/Owyn fight could have been written better, in my opinion, but I struggled to see how I could improve it. Also, there's a time jump, and a big one; three days from Saliith's fight to the next POV, of Gorgoth arriving in Chorrol. I try to avoid them as much as possible, but this one was hard to avoid if I wanted to stop the Arena claiming large parts of the upcoming chapters.
Yes, I had Gorgoth skip two Fighter's Guild quests. The reason behind this is that they would take too long: if I did them all, Gorgoth would have to find reasons to visit Anvil and Cheydinhal near-constantly in between Sancre Tor, Miscarand, etc. and he just doesn't have time for that. Hopefully I can still fit in the bulk of the quests.
Right, that's it from me. Hopefully I can get the next chapter up quickly as well, but don't expect any miracles, particularly as I have given it no thought and have no idea what happens next. And I can happily say that the milestone of 200,000 words has been breached, a word count far in excess of what I first expected. Thanks again for the vast amount of reviews; keep it up. And if you didn't review... well, now is always a good time to start.