A/N: Almost four weeks since my last update, though I do have a bit of an excuse; I went on holiday for a week and a half. Still, it's been a long time in coming. Thanks to all who reviewed:
D: Good to hear. And ever since learning about the existence of Vonnegut's rules I've done my best to follow most of them; hopefully, that shows.
Underpaid Critic: Big head? Narp, not me. I haven't had much of an ego since I was about twelve. I would NEVER even contemplate thinking about using lines already attempted by other authors. Before you mentioned them, I'd never even heard of Fitzgerald or the Great Gatsby, so clearly I'd had no idea I was using his words. Those two lines have since been changed.
Hmm... well, there's not much I can do about my good writing putting my more average writing in the shadow. I do try to make it all good, but there are always going to be some parts better than others.
Random Reader: Very true, though I doubt a Blade would sleep with such a weapon under her pillow. Well, she might; who knows? Either way, I never thought about those being examples of their races before... though when I look at them like that, it does seem that way sometimes. One thing: Not all Bosmer follow the Green Pact. Aerin doesn't, as mentioned in Chapter 13. Most Valenwood Bosmer do, but certainly not all Bosmer in every part of Tamriel. And rest assured, there are several out there who can challenge/defeat Gorgoth. You'll be seeing them.
One last thing: Should any of you readers of mine wish to read a good fic with a lot of originality, try Enakaz's 'Knights'. You won't regret it. Anyhow, that's enough from me, here's your long-awaited chapter:
Chapter Thirty-three: Malevolence
Gorgoth rose with the sun. The dawn itself was not visible from his room, which had no east-facing windows, but the warrior-shaman woke promptly nonetheless. As always, he was instantly alert within seconds of waking; long years of training had ingrained that into him. He swung his legs onto the floor and pushed himself out of bed, padding over to the window and leaning on the sill for a few seconds, looking out at the shadow of the night retreating down the mountainsides as the sun lit up the Jeralls. Snow had fallen last night and was thick on the ground, save for patches of wet stone surrounding the braziers; footprints were already pockmarking the fine white blanket on the fort's battlements.
The Orc turned from the window and started donning clothes and armour. By the time he had pulled on his gauntlets and fastened his belt, the sun's rays were beating down on the edges of the fortress. There was a knock on the door. He grunted, indicating that they should enter, and stood with his back to the window as Callia entered his room, letting the door swing shut behind her. Unlike last night's escapade, she was dressed in full plate armour, excluding the helmet that was currently tucked under her arm. Gorgoth folded his arms and waited.
Staring at his chest, the Breton appeared to struggle for words before clearing her throat and speaking. "I was thinking about what happened last night," she began, eyes darting momentarily to the Orc's still-unmade bed. Clearly, she had been thinking about it the entire night; there were shadows under her eyes from lack of sleep, but those grey eyes were sharp as they momentarily focused on Gorgoth's face before dropping once more to his chest. "It was a mistake. A mistake to try to kill you, that is. My reasoning behind it was fully justified." Anger flashed across her face and it was clear that she still hated him. He hadn't expected anything less from her; she would despise him until one of them died.
"You have your right to vengeance," responded her fellow Knight Brother. "However, you clearly let it cloud your judgement. You do not seem the type to willingly doom everyone you have ever known and loved for personal reasons."
Callia shook her head. "You're right, I'm not. I'd never have survived that Oblivion Gate while thinking of you, so I just pushed you to the back of my mind and ignored you. I can manage that normally. But with you waltzing in here like you have a right to be here, and everyone treating you like a hero..." she sighed angrily. "Sometimes it's like I'm the only person in this damned fortress who sees you for what you are!" The Blade gripped a clump of her brown hair in frustration, for lack of a better thing to grab on to. "But you're right," she grated, speaking as though the words were being forcefully torn from her chest. "We do need you. You're the Hero of Kvatch. I can't kill you, not yet."
"That is correct," confirmed Gorgoth, folding his arms as he studied her extensively. She was short – shorter than most Bretons – and young, but she had survived an Oblivion Gate, had taken the fight to the daedra and won. That said something. "It would help if you gave me your word that you would not try to kill me before the war is over," he continued. "That way, I could be sure. That way, I might be able to trust you as a Knight Brother should trust his Knight Sister."
Callia's lip curled. "You do not deserve that rank. But..." Her voice trailed off, and she sighed again. Clearly, she had come to the realisation that trust between comrades in these dark times was more important than feuds, no matter how deep or justified. Resting her hand on the hilt of her katana, she met his stony gaze. "I swear on my life and the lives of all whom I love that I will not attempt to kill you, nor work to allow harm to come to you, until the Emperor is crowned and the Oblivion Crisis is over." The Breton fell silent, glaring at him as though daring him to dismiss her lightly.
"And now the question is of whether I can trust your word or not," observed Gorgoth. Callia bristled with indignation but kept silent as the warrior-shaman considered her, idly tapping his canine. She had attempted to kill him mere hours ago, but she had clearly been blinded by revenge. And he had the advantage of knowing exactly where she stood, not something he could say for many people in Cloud Ruler Temple. The look in her eyes when she had given her oath was one of anger, but also one of complete sincerity. If she was lying, then she was a true master of concealment. "I trust you," he concluded. "Slightly."
She grunted, as though his trust was a viper to be treated with caution and hostility. "I'll see you around, Gorgoth," she told him icily. It was the first time she'd used his name. The Orc saluted her in response, causing her to angrily turn, wrench the door open, and stalk from his chambers. He simply turned and continued donning his equipment, sliding Blood King and his dai-katana through the strap running across his back and chest. His plate armour was getting increasingly battered and vulnerable in a few places, but it would do for now. It would have to; the warrior-shaman had no time to get another suit forged. He checked the row of potions lining his belt one last time before heading for the door.
The courtyard was near-deserted, only those on duty braving the cold dawn. Gorgoth made his way over to the stables, which were similarly empty apart from the horses, most of whom were asleep. He woke Vorguz, ignoring the stallion's irritable snorts, and was in the process of saddling him when the sound of heavy boots crunching across the stable brought his head round. Lurog, fully armed and armoured, was slowly waking Astakh, soothing the sleepy warhorse with muttered words in Orcish. "I never did ask what you were doing in Cyrodiil," observed Gorgoth.
Lurog glanced across at his companion. "No, you never did," he replied. He said no more and continued to get Astakh ready for travel. Gorgoth was content to leave it at that; if his comrade sought privacy, then the warrior-shaman was more than willing to let him. "I'm going to Leyawiin," he offered eventually as he led his Wrothgarian stallion out of his stall. "You are going to Bravil?" Gorgoth nodded; no words were needed to ascertain whether they would now be travelling together.
Leading their horses out of the stables, both were stopped by Jauffre. "The work on translation is proceeding quickly," the Breton briskly informed them. "You might be informed soon to return to Cloud Ruler Temple." The Grandmaster's eyes flickered over to Lurog. "Would you be requiring such a message?" he asked.
"I stand with Gorgoth until this is over," confirmed the warrior. Jauffre nodded and stood aside to let them past. The two Orcs led their horses down the multitude of steps and though the narrow passage through the slightly-opened gates, which soon swung shut behind them. Sunlight had evaporated most of the mist in the valley below them, and the snow-laden walls and towers of Bruma were clearly visible. They mounted and spurred their horses down the path in the direction of the city.
Bruma's North Gate was open to them, the guards looking fresh despite their bleary eyes. Clearly, a new shift had just started. The City Guards and Watches throughout Cyrodiil were getting increasingly watchful in light of the escalation of the Oblivion Crisis. Increased patrols in greater strength had also been ordered by the Legion to try to reassure the people that the roads remained safe. There had been reports of numerous Oblivion Gates in the wilderness, but only a few had been confirmed. Of those, all had been closed by the Legion. But there was no hiding from the fact that the people were still afraid.
Both Orcs dismounted and led their horses through the city, giving them some respite from carrying their heavily-armoured riders. Bruma was largely awake, with the streets bustling with activity. The intimidating air of the two warriors and their black horses, however, was enough to give them a clear space to move through. They didn't have any interactions to deal with until a shriek of joy rent the air behind them. Exchanging glances – Lurog wore a look of pleased exasperation – the Orcs turned as one.
"I knew I'd find you here!" squealed Dralasa Helas as she jumped into Gorgoth's barely-prepared arms. The sheer power of the Dunmer's leap was enough to force the warrior-shaman to take a step back. Typically, the dark blue dress she was wearing was made of thin silk despite the cold, but she always had been good at warming spells. Gorgoth had barely started to return the hug before she wriggled out of his arms and launched herself at Lurog. The Orcish warrior grinned, fully exposing his full set of powerful teeth.
"Yeah, good to see you as well, Dral," replied Lurog, strain absent from his voice despite the pressure being applied to his chest by the Dark Elf. That pressure abruptly ceased as Dralasa hopped back from him and beamed at them alternately, brushing her flame-red hair out of her eyes. The entire scene was drawing a few second glances from passers-by, but nothing more than that; on a cold winter's morning, no-one wanted to start an argument with two heavily-armoured Orcs who were clearly friends of the apparently insane Dunmer.
"Knew you'd get the big bruiser back," giggled Dralasa as she tapped the haft of Blood King. "And from what I heard, you didn't even use Phillida to paint the walls of his own barracks. Nice of you." She changed subjects before Gorgoth could respond. "So what are the pair of you doing in Cyrodiil? You've kept me wondering long enough."
"I'm known as the Hero of Kvatch by many," responded Gorgoth, folding his arms while keeping Vorguz's reins clenched in one fist. The stallion was gazing down at the snow, disinterested, whereas Astakh was eyeing Dralasa keenly, hoping for an apple. "I'm in the Blades, oathsworn to serve the uncrowned heir to Uriel Septim. I'm in the thick of this war, Dralasa."
"As you'd expect," snorted Lurog, noting that Dralasa's eyes were nearly popping out of her head. "Have you ever missed the opportunity to leap in as soon as a war erupts near you?"
"Coincidentally, they've all had causes worth fighting for, these wars," retorted Gorgoth.
"Always knew you'd become famous, Gorgoth," smiled Dralasa, patting his elbow vigourously. "So I take it you two are passing through Bruma on the way to more heroic deeds?" She pouted, folding her arms. "But I haven't seen you for so long... at least you'll be coming back, though." She had perked up again within seconds. Such was her nature.
"I get the sense that you'll see us again soon, Dral," Lurog reassured her. "But for now, I'm off to Leyawiin. I'll come back and fill you in on what you've missed, though. I promise."
A sparkle appeared in the Dark Elf's eye. "I'll hold you to that," she claimed, poking the warrior in the chest. A nuzzling at her elbow caught her attention and she adopted a sad expression as she ruffled Astakh's mane. "Sorry, Assy, but I don't have any apples," she told the massive horse. He snorted but half-closed his eyes, relaxing under the Dunmer's touch.
Gorgoth, however, was not relaxed. He was glancing into the city centre, his brow slightly furrowed. "I sense strong Illusion magic," he muttered. "Very strong." His suspicions were instantly aroused.
"Well, it's not the Mage's Guild," observed Dralasa, falling in beside the warrior-shaman as he turned Vorguz and started walking in the direction of the source of the magic. "Their leader can't cast a candle alight." She sniffed in disgust.
"That's where it's coming from," grunted Gorgoth, tying Vorguz to a nearby post and moving onto the narrow pavement that led to the guildhalls. Lurog and Dralasa followed, the former loosening his mace in his belt. The warrior-shaman stopped in front of the Mage's Guild, looking it up and down. Nothing seemed to be amiss, yet he knew that the two competent mages in the Bruma branch didn't often expend that much magicka on a single spell. He shoved the doors open and walked in.
Flames starting to lick at the walls of the guildhall made their intense heat known the instant the trio walked through the boundary of the illusion. Their eyes were instantly drawn to the mutilated body of one of the mages, recognisable only as a Breton by the head neatly placed on the desk that was splattered with her blood. The fire had only recently been started; evidence of that was made clear by the fact that the perpetrators were still standing in the middle of the hall. Both black-cloaked figures turned to look at the intruders with conflicting expressions; one, an Imperial wore an expression of angry surprise, while her High Elf companion kept his face expressionless.
Gorgoth and his two companions stepped closer to the necromancers – that was clearly what they were, with the red skull on their robes – but something gave Gorgoth pause. He stopped; Lurog wisely emulated him, and so did Dralasa, though she poked her tongue out at him as his raised hand stopped her from unleashing her devastating magic at what she saw as defilers.
"You are not what I expected," intoned Mannimarco smoothly. The lich had kept all emotion from his face in a display that Gorgoth might have been proud of, and the same was true of his voice, which was cultured. He'd retained a hint of an accent despite his long years of undeath. However, the King of Worms could not be said to be any other lich. Even his appearance was unchanged, apart from his black eyes, which had no likeness among the living.
"Mannimarco," acknowledged Gorgoth, inclining his head respectfully. Beside him, Dralasa shot him a sidelong glare, one that told him that she'd be berating him later for not attacking one of the most powerful mages to ever walk Nirn. She always had suffered from a startling lack of self-preservation. Lurog merely folded his arms and waited; he knew that he was essentially useless in this situation. For a few seconds, the only sound in the building was the crackling of flames. Smoke started to fill the air, but it was ignored.
"You are not with the Mages," stated the King of Worms. It had the air of a question about it.
"No, we are not," confirmed Gorgoth. "This is clearly a declaration of war," he continued, sweeping an arm around the Guildhall. "That is, if it has not been declared already. I will stay out of it. I have no interest either way."
Mannimarco considered the warrior-shaman for a moment, then gave a brief nod. "Camilla, you have your orders," he told the Imperial necromancer. She barely had time to nod before the King of Worms raised his right hand. A flash of pink teleportation magic and he was gone, leaving smoke swirling into the space his body had occupied.
The Imperial folded her arms and affixed them all with a piercing brown gaze. "You have no interest here," she told them. "Leave."
An angry retort froze on Dralasa's tongue as Gorgoth turned and motioned them out ahead of him. When she attempted to protest, he shot her an icy glare. He got a fiery gaze in return, but at least she obeyed. She knew exactly how far he could be pushed, and right now that gaze was threatening severe retribution if she made any attempt at fighting, no matter how justified she was. He hustled her out of the door behind Lurog then closed the door behind them.
The illusion was still in place, and the cold of Bruma hit them all after the growing warmth of the burning Guildhall. Ignoring the biting, freezing wind – she'd dropped her heating spell – Dralasa rounded on Gorgoth, fury contorting her normally pretty face. "What in Azura's name are you playing at, Gorgoth?" she snarled, poking his breastplate with a finger. "That was Mannimarco in there! How many do you think he's defiled? Thousands? Come on, you know you can-" The warrior-shaman cut her off with a raised hand.
"Do not overestimate my abilities, Dralasa," he told her, turning and walking back down the pavement to their horses. Fuming, the Dark Elf had little choice but to follow. "I may be powerful, but Mannimarco is more so, and his companion was not inconsiderable. Had we fought, it is likely that we would be dead by now. And then he could have used your body, your spirit. I am not prepared to die in a battle I have no interest in."
Dralasa's mouth opened and closed several times before she finally contented herself with a glare. Realising that she was shivering, she cast her heating spell again as they reached the horses. As the two Orcs untied their mounts, a blue-robed Altmer brushed past them, seeming distracted as she walked briskly over to the Mage's Guild. Gorgoth kept half an eye on her; she was a member of the Guild for sure. "The guards will probably be around here soon, when that illusion fades," he remarked, easing Vorguz away from the post. "A delay we can do without. We're not involved in any of this."
By the time they had reached Bruma's South Gate, the illusion had been shattered and smoke from the Guildhall was staining the skyline. Dralasa had calmed enough to start asking them several different questions at once. "Bravil? You're going to Bravil?" The elf instantly wrinkled her nose in disgust. "I haven't been so turned off by a smell since I stumbled into that guar pit when I was fourteen." Gorgoth gave no response as he waited for the guards to open the gate enough for them to leave. "And if I knew you were going to Leyawiin, I'd have stayed there!" she exclaimed, turning to Lurog. "Remind me why you're going back to that forever-wet shithouse?"
Lurog glanced at Gorgoth before lowering his voice and bending over to murmur in Dralasa's ear. The warrior-shaman instantly walked a few more paces away; if his comrade wanted privacy, then he would have privacy. He could not, however, ignore Dralasa's loud gasp. "Really? I thought-" Lurog made frantic hushing motions. "All right. But I'm coming with you. Wait while I get my horse." The Dark Elf strode out of the South Gate ahead of the two Orcs. The gates swung shut behind them as they led their horses out.
After a few minutes, Dralasa joined them astride her rather sleepy white horse. Quicksilver was aptly named, for he was far faster than either of his opposite numbers, partly due to the fact that his rider weighed far less. Gorgoth, now astride Vorguz, started to lead off, but the Dunmer was beside him in a flash. "It's a long way until we part," she told the Orc, smirking up at him. "Why don't you start from the beginning? I'm sure you've got so much to tell me..." Gorgoth kicked Vorguz into a trot and began to speak.
As would be expected for a military fortress, the training areas in Cloud Ruler Temple were well-equipped. In this particular room, the edges were lined with practise dummies of varying shapes and sizes as well as boards and punchbags. One such punchbag was being ferociously pummelled by one of the few inhabitants of the room. Another inhabitant was watching her closely. "You seem to be coming down here a lot recently," observed Lathar, scratching his chin.
"I like keeping in shape. So what?" Callia asked the Redguard drillmaster in a somewhat defensive manner, pausing for a break. Her bare torso glistened with sweat.
"You're on watch in twenty minutes," pointed out Lather, rasing a curious eyebrow.
"I asked Grandfather to commute it. He agreed," replied Callia simply, sweeping her somewhat bedraggled hair out of her face and resuming her exertions.
The older Blade chuckled. "You know the Grandmaster hates that nickname," he reminded her. After a few minutes, having received no response, the drillmaster turned and left. The Breton was left alone for a while until footsteps -different from the normal footsteps of steel boots – resounded over the stone floor. She ignored them until their source spoke.
"You're not training," grunted Saliith, folding his arms and fixing the young Blade with a curious stare. She slowly turned to face him, cocking an eyebrow. The Grand Champion appeared to be gearing up for some training of his own – he was wearing nothing but a pair of dirtied cloth trousers and a sword belt – but for now he appeared to have diverted his attentions. "You're not moving enough, and I can't see how that's improving your technique," elaborated the Argonian. "You're putting effort into intensity to take your mind off something. I've seen it before. I've done it before."
"Even if that was true, it's none of your business," growled Callia, turning and launching another attack on the battered punchbag.
"Of course," agreed Saliith, walking over and leaning against the wall just beyond the punchbag. "But I find that it's often best to work out a problem rather than just attempting to bury it. No matter what, it'll worm it's way up again."
The Knight Sister shot him a glance without stopping her exertions. "You don't know the nature of this problem."
"Then maybe you should enlighten me." Callia stopped moving and raised an incredulous eyebrow. "Hey, we're all in this together. We've got to help each other, right?" Saliith spread his arms wide.
"Do you have the first clue about soldiering, gladiator?" sneered Callia.
The Argonian leaned his head back against the wall and said nothing for a moment. "If you want to have any chance at killing Gorgoth, you'll want to be training properly, not just burying your thoughts about him under sweat," he told the Breton.
Callia was speechless for a few seconds. Her arms dropped to her sides. "How do you know about that?" she asked angrily.
The Green Tornado smirked, clearly amused by her. "People often don't credit gladiators with a lot of intelligence, but I am very observant when I have to be," he recounted. "How do you think I survived all those fights in the Arena? I had to be observant." He eased himself away from the wall and started pacing around the Knight Sister. "Do you really think you'll have any hope against Gorgoth?" he asked. "The odds are stacked in his favour, you've got to admit. Taking him on alone is suicide."
"I know the risks," snapped Callia. "This business is between me and him. Stay out of this."
"At least do something more constructive with your free time than pummelling away at that. It's not like you're improving at anything." Saliith beckoned to her. "Come on, let's spar. At least then you might offer more in battle against the real enemy here."
Callia grunted. The Argonian had a point. She had less natural ability than some Blades in the Temple, but Lathar had always told her that vigorous training could always improve anything. "Fine," she growled, picking up her sword belt and unsheathing her katana before moving into the centre of the room. Saliith took one of his shortswords and idly tossed it from hand to hand, his tail twitching. "How many potions do you have?" asked Callia.
Saliith shrugged. "A few in my bag back in the barracks. Don't worry, we'll be fine. I won't be going for killing blows."
The Knight Sister narrowed her eyes before giving a short nod and advancing. She darted forward, swinging low towards the Argonian's legs, but he jumped over her blade and kicked her in the shoulder, throwing her off-balance. He landed and spun, only for his blade to meet the edge of her katana as she recovered. "So, how did you get caught up in all this?" inquired Callia as she took a step back to prevent Saliith using his superior strength to brush her defence aside.
"Mainly because my friend Aerin was caught up in it," confessed Saliith, sidestepping around her, trying to find an opening. "Then I met Gorgoth and... well, I know you hate him, but when I fought alongside him I got the idea that what I was doing was actually making a difference. That's something I rarely feel at the Arena." He dashed in and attempted to get under her guard, but Callia's swing forced him back. She followed, forcing him to dodge two slashes before forcing her arm to the side and slashing at her ribcage. The Breton pirouetted away, tearing her arm from his grasp.
"A gladiator wanting to do some good? That's pretty rare," she remarked. Parrying a limited attack, she suddenly found Saliith's webbed foot in her stomach and she was forced back, barely managing to block a flurry of strikes before straightening again. "Normally all you care about is money and fame."
"Yeah, well, I learnt that it's not all that matters," grated Saliith, swapping sword hands. "I've done all there is to do there. What now? More fights? See out my career? I'll get fame – I've got it already – but what does that get me? I'll get gratitude from the masses who've made big money on me, but that's not real gratitude. I'm not a money pot. I'm a warrior and I can make a difference."
"Well, we can make use of anyone who can chuck a sword around," grunted Callia, attacking her opponent's sword and forcing it out wide as her fist sought his throat. Saliith backpedalled then moved forwards, his own fist finding her lower ribcage. He struck again then knocked her weakened defence aside before placing his blade against her throat. The Grand Champion flashed her a quick toothy grin before drawing back.
"Let me be honest with you," sighed Saliith, sheathing his sword. He wasn't even breathing heavily. "You don't stand a chance against Gorgoth. If you fight him, you will die. Going after him is committing suicide."
"And what would you do in my place?" snarled Callia, roughly grabbing his shoulder and forcing her face to within inches of his. "Forget about it? Walk away from that bastard has done? Let him get away with it?"
"Yes," responded Saliith simply. "What's your death going to solve? Nothing. You won't avenge anyone, you'll just end up as another corpse. That won't help anyone. Think of what you could do if you were still alive."
Callia glared at for a few seconds. "Don't be so sure of my failure," she whispered, before backing away and snatching up her sword belt. Ramming her katana back into its sheath, she turned and left the training room. Saliith remained where he was, with his arms folded. He hadn't told anyone about his now-confirmed suspicions, but he was pretty sure others in the Blades knew. And it was definite that Gorgoth knew, so he wouldn't be trusting her an inch. She wouldn't be much of a danger to that warrior-shaman. He shrugged and turned towards a training dummy.
"Hey, Twitch-tail, you wanna go ransack some Ayleid ruin?" asked Aerin as she strolled in, fully armoured with Trueshot on her back.
"Maybe, if you start using my name," snorted Saliith, sheathing his shortsword.
The archer smirked and folded her arms. "Come on, Saliith. Ya know training is boring. And we're gonna be here for a while, that's for sure. Might as well get some action in. Ilend's hanging out with his new drinking buddies but I know he's game."
The Grand Champion was tempted. Very tempted. But he shook his head. "One of Ysabel's conditions for allowing my absence was that I kept up my training regime," he told her. "You know that woman. She'll be able to tell I haven't trained. Besides..." He leaned in closer, a smirk plucking at his mouth. "I'm pretty sure you an Ilend would appreciate it if it was just you two and the ruin." He winked.
Aerin blushed. "All right, Saliith," she grunted, taking a few steps backward and trying to hide her own smirk. "I'll bring back a few knives for ya." She turned and left the training room.
Saliith snorted and turned to regard the practise dummy in front of him, collecting his thoughts. He put Callia out of his mind; Gorgoth could deal with whatever she could throw at him, and he trusted her to wait until the Crisis was over. Drawing his twin shortswords, the Argonian focused solely on the dummy in front of him and got to work.
Lurog and Dralasa had taken their leave from Gorgoth just outside the gates of Bravil. Burz hadn't known where the fugitives were hiding, so it was down to the warrior-shaman to find out. The Bay Roan Stables were still nothing but a pile of charred timbers, so Gorgoth brought Vorguz across the bridge into the city before tying him to a nearby post just inside the walls. Ignoring the suspicious glances of the gate guards – clearly, they still remembered the incident with the Blackwood Company – Gorgoth headed deeper into the city. It didn't take him long to find who he was looking for.
As soon as the Orc entered her field of vision, Viera Lerus started watching him suspiciously. She drew herself up to stand straight as he walked up to her. "Do you know anything about the fugitives I've been hired to deal with?" asked Gorgoth, noting her stiff posture and weather-beaten face. Mid-thirties, tied-back brown hair that showed signs of constant helmet use, and experienced grey eyes all spoke of a devoted Guard Captain. Most of her suspicion melted away as she heard his question.
"Apart from the fact that they killed three of my men getting out of prison?" She sighed wearily. "If we knew their location, you wouldn't be here right now. Some of the citizens know, but naturally they're scared. They won't say a thing."
"Why have you not tortured them?"
Viera's eyes narrowed. "I guard and protect these people, Guildsman," she told him, an angry edge to her voice. "I do not hold inquisitions over the matter of a few escaped prisoners. I could ask probing questions, but that would take time; time I do not have if I want to shake up this Guard and actually make some progress in turning it into a competent fighting force." The Imperial muttered something unintelligible and put a hand to her forehead. "Was there anything else you needed, Guildsman?" she asked. Gorgoth shook his head. "Good. I have a City Guard to run." She fixed him with one last stare. "Let me know when the problem has been dealt with."
"Naturally," replied Gorgoth, nodding and walking away. It was only natural that the Captain of the Guard was not wiling to use extreme techniques, but he had no such reservations.
He found his mark a few minutes later. A tall Imperial, wearing nondescript clothing with a shortsword through his belt, found himself grabbed by the neck and thrown into an alley. Coughing, he rose to his knees and grabbed for his weapon, found found himself grabbed from behind, an armour-plated thick arm closing around his neck. "What do you want?" he managed to gasp, clearly thinking he was being mugged, or attacked by a junkie suffering from withdrawal symptoms.
"Do you know where the escaped prisoners are?" asked Gorgoth, his tone cold.
"What?" panted the Imperial. In response, Gorgoth released him then kicked him onto his face, pinning his lower back with a boot on his spine while forcing the man's head up, eliciting a cry of pain. "They'll kill me if I say anything," he managed to grunt, voice strained by his unenviable position.
"I'll kill you if you don't say anything," replied Gorgoth. "And I will make it a lot more painful than they ever could." His spare foot slammed into the Imperial's ribcage. "Where are they?"
"I'll... tell you..." groaned the hapless victim, coughing violently, his entire body shuddering. "Just... get off me."
Gorgoth relented and stepped back as the Imperial slowly dragged himself to his feet. By the time he had steadied himself with his hand against the wall, Gorgoth had taken out his map and was waiting expectantly.
The Imperial's quivering hand pointed to a spot to the north-west of Bravil. "Bloodmayne Cave," he stammered. "The rock is the tallest for miles. You can't miss it." Gorgoth marked the position and returned his map to his belt bag, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. His victim hesitated before breaking into a run, stumbling and almost falling twice before reaching the end of the alley and dashing out of sight. The warrior-shaman was already walking briskly towards the other end, his boots beating a swift rhythm on the stone.
After untying Vorguz, he mounted as soon as he was across the bridge and set out for Bloodmayne Cave. It was some way off the beaten path, but the Imperial's directions were accurate, and before the sun had descended far from its zenith Vorguz was once again being tied, this time to a tree. Gorgoth checked over his weapons and potions then entered the cave.
Gorgoth's summoned light banished the darkness. The sound of water dripping came from several directions. Moss crept up the high walls of the cavern, and stalactites reached down to head height in some places. The stones beneath Gorgoth's boots were damp, and the air was moist and humid. As the Orc moved forward, his armour was occasionally soiled by a drop of water from above. The cavern was a sprawling mass, with holes and passageways of various sizes leading everywhere; the perfect place for those who did not want to be found. Gorgoth regarded his options coldly before choosing one passage and squeezing his way down it. He had to duck for most sections, and his armour sometimes scraped off the walls. The harsh grinding sound reverberated throughout the otherwise near-silent cave.
That amount of noise could not fail to attract attention, and as he emerged from a passage into a larger cavern, Gorgoth felt steel at his throat. Acting on instinct, he smashed his head backwards, getting a pained grunt as payment. He rammed his elbow into his assailant's ribs and tore the sword from their grasp. Turning, the Orc rapidly backed away from a Redguard, dressed in ragged leather armour, who was squeezing her bloodied, broken nose and glaring at him. "What is your name?" asked Gorgoth.
The fugitive spat at him and fumbled for her dagger. Gorgoth moved forward and took both her hands in one of his, ramming them up above her head against the cavern wall and digging her own sword into her lower ribs, just short of drawing blood. "What is your name?" he repeated, in exactly the same tone.
"Ashanta," snarled the Redguard. Her brown eyes spoke volumes about both her hatred and her desperation; she wouldn't want to be going back to prison any time soon. Gorgoth backed away, releasing her, before spinning the longsword and holding it out to her, hilt first. She looked at him incredulously before snatching it back.
"You will go and you will inform your three comrades that I wish to speak to all four of you at once," he instructed. "I will be advancing through the caverns a few minutes behind you. Go." The last word was delivered with so much malevolence that Ashanta forgot all about her desired vengeance and slowly walked backwards towards a different passage, keeping her eyes on him until she was out of sight. Gorgoth stayed where he was until her running footsteps had stopped echoing. He loosened his dai-katana in its scabbard and followed.
Once again, the silence of the cavern returned, apart from the ringing of his boots on the stone. Occasionally he would accidentally kick one of the stalagmites that dotted the cave, but he never heard any response to the noise. Maybe there was an alternative exit that the prisoners had escaped from. But from the look in Ashanta's eyes, she wasn't about to pass up an opportunity for revenge that easily.
A flicker of motion in the shadows caught Gorgoth's eye as a passage widened. He ducked as a throwing axe swished through the air where his head had been. A Nordic warrior roared in anger and charged at him, a battleaxe raised high above his head. Gorgoth grabbed one of his elbows and span round, pushing the Nord away from him. His opponent staggered forward and turned to glare back at Gorgoth. Three other figures appeared from the shadows around him. Ashanta's face was still a bloodied mask of hate, and the faces of the other two were no less hostile: an Argonian was displaying his rows of razor-sharp teeth in a snarl and had an arrow nocked to his bow, while a High Elf had the dull red of Destruction magicka pulsing at his fingertips, ready to be released.
Gorgoth held up his empty hands. "I did not come here wishing to kill you," he claimed. Their hostile looks now included some incredulity and suspicion. "I want to talk."
"Explain," growled the Nord, who still had his battleaxe in both hands. "Why aren't you here if not to kill us? There are prices on our heads."
"Because you are gutless worms who do not deserve an honourable death in battle," grunted Gorgoth in response. "I will haul your worthless carcasses back to prison alive so you can rot there until your days are spent rather than giving you all warrior's deaths."
"Kill him," instructed the Nord.
The Altmer unleashed two fireballs, and the Argonian loosed his arrow, but all three impacted uselessly on Gorgoth's magical shield. The Altmer barely had time to shout a warning before Gorgoth sent a green ball of magicka at him; Silenced, the mage fell back, drawing a dagger and growling in frustration. The Nord roared and charged at Gorgoth, swinging from the hip, but the Orc was ready. He caught the haft of the battleaxe in one hand and slammed his fist up into the Nord's chin. His assailant staggered back, stunned, and Gorgoth spun to plant his boot into his stomach with devastating force. The warrior was hurled back into Ashanta with enough force to take her to the ground, pinning her under him.
Having seen another arrow glance off Gorgoth's thick plate armour, the Argonian decided to make an attempt with a shortsword, springing over his grounded comrades and delivering a mid-air stab. The warrior-shaman evaded the inaccurate attack and swept the Argonian's feet away, ensuring a hard landing. He pounced on the lizard before he could recover and gave him a stunning blow on the temple, tearing some of his scales off and knocking him unconscious. The Altmer tried his luck, but in typical mage fashion he had never trained with weapons. Gorgoth found it easy to grasp his wrist and use his momentum to throw him into the wall behind the Orc with such force that the crack of the fragile elf's ribs breaking were audible.
Ashanta had since wriggled out from under her disabled comrade and stood facing Gorgoth, a snarl on her lips and death in her eyes. "I am not going back to that cesspit," she told him emphatically. The Orc merely beckoned to her. Snarling, she feinted left then struck for the weak point in his armour at the armpit. Her rapid movements meant Gorgoth barely dodged, and the blade, instead of glancing off his armour, made a considerable dent, adding to the many that already perforated the left pauldron and most of the breastplate. Stepping back to absorb the force, he chopped at her sword arm, forcing it forward, then grabbed her back and forced her down while wrenching her arm back up. She howled in pain as her shoulder popped from its socket, a howl that was cut short when Gorgoth's boot drove the breath out of her lungs.
Kicking her sword away, Gorgoth looked over the rest of her companions. The Argonian was out cold, the Altmer was struggling to pull himself to his feet, and the Nord was on his knees, blood and vomit staining his beard. There was no further resistance to be offered. Satisfied that the fugitives had taken their chance to fight back, he laid Illusion magic on all four of them before slapping the Argonian to wake him up. Slowly, ignoring the protests of their bodies, they all involuntarily rose to their feet and started following Gorgoth out of the cavern, with only their eyes free of his spell.
Some time later, the Orc and his reluctant party arrived back in Bravil. Recognising the escaped prisoners, the gate guards were quick to go for their weapons, but Gorgoth merely ordered them to send for Guard Captain Lerus. After a few minutes, she appeared, ignoring Gorgoth and looking into the desperate eyes of every individual. "A command spell?" she asked.
"Yes," confirmed Gorgoth. "I suggest you bind them quickly; my magicka reserves are large, but these are four separate, complex spells. They have been draining my magicka for some time."
Viera motioned to a complement of guards, and they quickly moved in to take the prisoners into custody, leaving the two of them alone just outside the gates. Vorguz had been left tied to one of the posts of the bridge. "I hadn't expected you to take them alive," observed the Imperial, crossing her arms.
"Those wretched scum did not deserve the honour of a warrior's death," explained Gorgoth.
She nodded, pursing her lips in succinct approval. "You didn't tell me you were the Hero of Kvatch," she pointed out.
"Was it relevant?" questioned the warrior-shaman, looking out over the Niben Bay. The dying sun was reflected In the sparkling waters. In the distance, a lonely island was just visible.
"Not to the task in hand, but it would have been good to know," replied Viera. "At the very least, it'd be good to have you in the barracks, giving advice on how to survive in Oblivion. And you could fill me in on the finer details, as well. This is my first war." She glanced at the sun's position. "At least stay here overnight," she pressured. "And I know for a fact you haven't eaten for a while."
Gorgoth nodded. Returning to Cheydinhal to report could wait until the morning. And his rumbling stomach reinforced Viera's point. If he was reading the look in her eyes correctly, she would be interrogating him for everything he knew over dinner. That was fine by him; it was good to meet another enterprising tactician. "Lead on," he invited, falling in beside her as she led him into her city.
In similar fashion to his comrade, Lurog had set a fast pace since leaving Bravil, and they arrived at Leyawiin just as the sun was setting. Swinging himself out of the saddle, he quickly tossed the reins to one of the ostlers at the Five Riders Stables and started off towards the city gate. Dralasa hurried out of her own saddle and ran to catch up with him. "What's the hurry, Lurog?" she asked him as they slipped in through the city gates.
"You know me. I don't like wasting time." The Orc grunted and looked around. His first impressions of Leyawiin were not impressive; dark clouds broiled overhead, threatening more rain in addition to the damp that already stained the cobbles and seemed to be ingrained in every house. The stench of the nearby swamps drifted over the walls with ease, and stench of a different kind came from several of the townspeople. Shaking his head, Lurog moved on. "I'll have to make inquiries. It might take time," he said.
"Try the castle," Dralasa told him. "The Count might know something. I'm going to check up on an old friend. He was out of town last time I was here."
Lurog smirked. "Have a good time," he chuckled, grinning at her snort and noting that she was blushing slightly. She always had blushed easily. He waved goodbye and set off towards the castle, his heavy chainmail clinking with every step. Beggars and other delinquents steered clear of the Orc; he didn't look particularly charitable, nor was he an easy mark. Lurog, however, was in the mood for breaking a few bones and his foot lashed out at a Khajiit beggar whose legs protruded slightly into Lurog's path. The cat whimpered and withdrew into himself, looking up at the passing warrior with fearful eyes.
As he was approaching the castle, intent on his destination, Lurog barely saw the fuming Argonian in time and they almost walked into each other. The lizard leapt backwards, cursing. "A pox on you and your kind!" he spat, glaring at the larger Orc without fear in his eyes. "First that other one treated me like a slave, and now you come blundering-" he cut off as Lurog grabbed his shoulder, his yellow eyes growing intense.
"What other one?" he growled, shaking the Argonian slightly. The lizard was well-built and had a composite bow slung over his back, but he also seemed intelligent; he knew when he'd met his match.
"That Orc that kept plaguing the castle, never told me her name," he muttered. "Came up to me and virtually forced me to take her up to Fisherman's Rock. Don't know why, and she told me to piss off when we were half a mile away. Didn't even pay me, that lice-ridden whore." The Argonian spat, his glob of saliva making no difference to the damp, trampled grass beneath their feet.
"Take me there," demanded Lurog.
"Who the fuck do you think I am?" snarled the hunter. "One Orc per day is more than enough for any sane man. I'm-" Lurog's fist in his stomach doubled him over, coughing.
"Take me to Fisherman's Rock, and I'll forget about those comments you made about my friend," he threatened, forcing the Argonian's head up.
"Fine. Fine. But I expect payment," grunted the lizard as he stepped back from Lurog. The warrior merely motioned for him to lead on. Muttering under his breath, the Argonian acquiesced, leading him out of the city, heading east.
Darkness had long since claimed the sky by the time Weebam-Na indicated that they were close to Fisherman's Rock. "It's just over there, between those two rock formations," he rasped, pointing. Dimly visible through the trees was the glow of a dying fire.
"Good. Get out of here," ordered Lurog, shoving a small bag of gold in the Argonian's direction. Weebam-Na took it and slunk off, grumbling to himself over the perfidy of Orcs. Lurog ignored him and moved closer to Fisherman's Rock, making as little noise as possible. The sound of snapping twigs under his feet and the rustle of the grass were the only things breaking the silence of the night, apart from the near-constant bird call and the occasional crack from the fire up ahead. It was unnatural. Lurog broke from his cover and walked into the camp with mace in hand.
Five figures were lying slumped on the ground. Blood from a mangled Khajiit splashed as Lurog stepped through the puddle, looking around. Two of the bodies were Khajiit, one was a Nord, one – with her body gone from the waist down – was a Dunmer, and the last body still showed some signs of life.
The warrior grunted and he knelt beside a wounded old friend. "What in Oblivion happened here, Mazoga?" he asked, rapping his knuckles on her bare head to force her out of her stupor. Sanguine liquid was pooling around her, leaking from her fine ebony armour from several deep wounds. The Orc coughed and blinked several times before her amber eyes focused on him.
"Finally got revenge... that's what," she rasped, her breath rattling in her throat. Lurog was already wrenching a cork out of one of his strongest healing potions. One hand was clenched around the hilt of her bloodied sword, but the other grasped the potion and brought it to her mouth, where she polished it off in one gulp. Her comrade was already twisting out the cork of another.
"Revenge? What for?" he asked, thrusting it into her hand. "Until Shagar told me different a few weeks ago, I thought you were in Skyrim."
"I was," grunted Mazoga, attempting to haul herself to her feet. Lurog put an arm around her shoulders and heaved her upwards; no mean feat, as she was just as big as him, wearing heavier armour. "Then Ra'vindra got killed. Killed by these bastards." The Orc spat at the Nordic corpse, who was sprawled on his back, his bright blue eyes wide with shock, clearly having not expected the delivery of the gaping wound in his stomach.
"Damn." Lurog had only met the Khajiit once or twice, but she had seemed like a good warrior. Honourable, unlike so many of her kind. "So you came all the way to Cyrodiil to hunt her killers down?"
"I swore an oath," she told him, wiping her sword clean on a fragment of cloth ripped from one of the Khajiits before sheathing it. "Now that I've fulfilled it, I can get back on with my life."
Lurog nodded in response, looking her over. Her ebony plate armour was battered and had a few holes in it, not to mention the blood splattered over it, but that could be fixed. The potions had done an admirable job of closing the wounds. Her face was just the same as ever, though her black hair was now longer, with the multitude of braids now reaching her shoulder-blades. She took a last look around the camp then kicked dirt over the fire. "So, what were you doing here?" she asked, as they started the long walk back to Leyawiin.
"It's a long story," he sighed, unable to stop a small smile spreading over his face. It was good to see Mazoga again.
"We've got time. Leyawiin is a few miles away. So tell me."
"Well..." Lurog rubbed his chin, glancing sideways at her. "You haven't had any news of Gorgoth, have you?"
Upon hearing the warrior-shamans name, the warrior stiffened, almost imperceptibly. "No. Why?"
"The King sent him on an assignment. Gorgoth ended up getting captured and sent to rot in the Imperial City jail." Mazoga looked at him, alarmed. "Relax. He's still alive. He got pardoned by the Emperor just before he was assassinated." Mazoga's mouth opened, but Lurog continued over her. "He ended up caught up in the entire Oblivion Crisis. He's the Hero of Kvatch now." Mazoga's jaw dropped open and stayed open, until a fly flew in and she started coughing.
"Where is he now?" she asked cautiously once she'd recovered.
"Bravil, last I heard. But- wait, Mazoga!" The Orc had sped up considerably upon hearing the city name, and Lurog was forced to jog to catch back up with her. "It's not that simple. He's just there on business. He's roaming throughout the province right now."
Mazoga stopped dead and whirled to face him. "Where is he based?" she asked him, her voice so emotionless that Gorgoth himself might have nodded in approval.
"Are you sure you want to know? He did-" Mazoga cut him off.
"Where?" she grated, eyes flashing with anger. Despite her hand resting on her sword hilt, Lurog doubted that she'd actually try to get the information by force, but she always had been... fiery.
"Cloud Ruler Temple," he muttered, turning and continuing down the road. Mazoga joined him after a few seconds. "It's near Bruma, just north of it. It's the stronghold of the Blades. But don't you think-"
"I know exactly what I'm doing, Lurog," she told him brusquely. "I know exactly what he said. But after Ra'vindra died, and now that my driving force – that oath – is gone, I feel too lonely. I need someone."
"There's me," grunted her comrade. "And Dralasa is in Leyawiin, probably setting the town alight."
Mazoga smirked but said nothing. For a while, the only sounds were the irrepressible noise of the Blackwood at night and the crunch of their boots on the road. A highwaymen looked out from behind some trees but thought better of attacking two well-equipped Orcs. The inky blackness of the night sky above was absolute; most of the stars, as well as Masser and Secunda, were blotted out by thick clouds. After some thinking, Mazoga broke the silence.
"How is Gorgoth?" she asked hesitantly.
"He lost his armour," recounted Lurog. "But apart from that, it's the same old Gorgoth, apart from the fact that most of the people in this country treat him like a hero." He snorted. "Of course, most of the people in this country have little idea of who he actually is."
"I guess these weak-minded people with their odious morals would exile him if they knew who he really was and what he'd done," sighed Mazoga. "I miss Orsinium. I never thought I would, but now that I've been away for so long – nearly a year now – I do find that I yearn to be home sometimes."
"Tell that to Gorgoth," responded Lurog, looking at her sympathetically. "He'll understand. I know he will."
"Really?" snorted Mazoga. "You know he cares nothing for anyone except himself and a few select others. I'm not one of them."
"You know that's not true," growled her comrade. "You know he meant well, doing what he did. He was trying to help you."
"Well, his perception was off," responded Mazoga angrily, smashing her fist into her palm. Above, a few birds, disturbed by the warrior's exclamation, roused themselves and fled. Both Orcs ignored them. Silence fell again, and slowly they drew closer to Leyawiin.
"Maybe Dralasa really is setting the city on fire," observed Lurog dryly, noting a red glow visible through the leafy canopy.
"Maybe. I'll never put anything past that elf," replied his companion, smirking. "What did she say she was doing?"
Lurog chuckled. "Going to check up on an old friend. Her words." He sighed. "So what happens next morning? We all go up to-" his words were cut off as a gap appeared in the canopy; the trees were thinning out as they approached Leyawiin. The sky was no longer the cold, silent blankness of a cloudy midnight; it was an angry, ravaged black, split by red and orange. Lowering his gaze, the Orc could see the flickering of fire from the Oblivion Gate. He drew his mace, taking comfort in the weight. Beside him, Mazoga's sword rattled from her scabbard. "Up for another fight?" asked Lurog.
"Need you ask?" snorted the other Orc, already striding towards the Gate with determination. Lurog joined her in pushing through the undergrowth, emerging on what could be called the edge of the Blackwood. The Gate was right in front of them. Daedra were pouring forth in a horde, charging towards the gates of Leyawiin. Already bells tolling in the city were raising the alarm.
"I'd say the odds are stacked in Dagon's favour," observed Lurog, hefting his shield as they walked towards the Gate. "We could go into Leyawiin and try to get some help from the Watch."
Mazoga snorted. "They've got their hands full," she pointed out. "Come on, we've faced down the odds before and won."
"Fair enough," grunted her companion. The streams of daedra pouring from the Gate were facing directly away from them, and were making so much noise that they would be unlikely to hear an entire company of Orcs approaching. They couldn't enter the Gate from the rear – Gorgoth had told Lurog that the only result was a painful burn – so they'd have to quickly curl around it when there was a gap in the outgoing assault. Moving up to just behind the portal – already beginning to sweat under their heavy armour – the two warriors settled down to wait.
Eventually, the activity died down, and sparing a glance for the Daedra now pounding on the gate and walls, the two Orcs walked swiftly into the Gate, preparing themselves for the unenviable transition from Nirn to Oblivion. Staggering out the other end, they quickly straightened and looked around them. Of immediate note was the squad of twenty Dremora a few hundred paces from them and approaching fast. Both Orcs adopted a look of grim determination and accepted that they were about to die. A few of the Kyn shouted insults as the squad split up to come at them from several different angles. Lurog and Mazoga moved apart slightly, each giving the other room to manoeuvre while still protecting the other's backs.
"Any last words?" enquired Lurog.
Mazoga shook her head. "I'll save all the breath I can for fighting," she responded, her left hand clenching, clearly wishing she had a shield. Her comrade nodded and turned back to the advancing Dremora. Neither of them needed any words.
The first Kynaz roared a challenge and advanced ahead of the others, his spear searching for a way past Lurog's shield. The Orc advanced, forcing it to the side, and knocked the Dremora's legs from under him with his mace. Swinging down, there was a crunch as the Kynaz's skull shattered. Withdrawing his weapon, the warrior barely blocked a powerful swing from a sword-wielding Dremora, and was forced back to recover. At his back, Mazoga had slashed one throat open, but found herself accosted by three Dremora at once, and even her fast swordwork was failing to keep her armour untouched. Lurog's mace lifted one of his assailants into the air with a compacted spine, but a mighty blow from a warhammer put a massive dent into his shield, sending him staggering back into Mazoga, putting both of them off-balance. Lurog drew air into his lungs for a final defiant battle cry.
There was a resounding, violent squelch as every remaining living Dremora exploded, armoured body parts bombarding the pair of Orcs. Lurog was cut over the eye by a flying hand but he ignored it, looking incredulously at the architect of such a devastating spell. "Come on, do you really think you two would be able to have an Oblivion Gate all to yourselves?" asked Dralasa, laughing delightedly and completely ignoring the blood staining her expensive dress, not to mention her bare skin and hair.
"Should've known you wouldn't stay placidly behind those walls," rasped Mazoga, casting an eye over her armour. It was dented in several places but still offered more than adequate protection.
"Damn right," chirped the cheerful Dunmer, walking past them and delicately stepping around the littered body parts to take a look around. "So these are the Deadlands..." She snorted. "Bit inhospitable. Shall we show Dagon what he gets in return if he treats his guests as shabbily as this?"
Lurog resisted the inclination to roll his eyes as he wiped the blood out of his eye. "Whatever you want, Dral," he muttered, hefting his weapon and striding out across the dead earth towards the Sigil Keep.
A/N: OK, hopefully, the next chapter won't be as long in coming as this one was. Just remember that reviews almost always motivate me, so if you want to help, click the blue link below and leave one. Just a few minutes of your time...