A/N: It's been too long, again... blame the writer's block that crippled me for over a week. Also, I seem to getting less reviews than average these days... seven reviews for a chapter is still a lot in this fandom, but if you're reading and not reviewing... well, get reviewing.
Nameless: Gah. I mention Malacath so much, and Boethia so little, that I do that sometimes. Fixed that... Anyhow, it's a bit like a black hole in that the wind forces everything in its radius into a vortex, I guess. As for Mannimarco, he won't get much screen time, I can assure you.
Underpaid Critic: Disappointed? No, no, every review is valued. Anyhow, that's good to hear; Martin's easy to make ordinary in fanfiction, so it's good to hear that I'm at least making him remotely interesting.
Scytherian Poetry: Good to see another review from you. That said, I always keep my promises: major characters WILL die. In fact, I've worked out that less major characters survive than die. They just haven't started dying yet (Also, Haesmar was a Blade, not a Bruma guardsman). There WILL be deaths in future.
Random Reader: In war, people die. That goes for the exceptionally skilled people as well as the rank and file. Without character deaths, there'd be little realism. As for the Blades, they'll definitely have a part to play in future; after all, Martin does have two major battles to fight, and they'll be there for him.
Also, many thanks to Arty Thrip, who beta-ed this chapter (and the last two beforehand) after I posted it. You might not be able to review on FF, but you're still making a valued difference.
Thanks to all who reviewed, and for those who didn't, try it sometime. I need constructive criticism in order to give you a better read. Now, the chapter...
Chapter Thirty-five: Perseverance
Gentle was not a word commonly associated with Gorgoth gro-Kharz, yet that was the only way to describe his treatment of the stallion in the miraculously untouched Five Riders Stables. The Orc had removed his gauntlets and was softly stroking the horse's nose and flanks, listening attentively to his breathing. Vorguz's breath, though recovered slightly, was still pained; a harsh wheeze would occasionally rack his lungs. His head hung limply; his eyes were dull, that once-dominant spirit all but gone. In covering the distance from Bravil to Leyawiin in just a few hours, his rider had broken him. Magic could only do so much.
The warrior-shaman patted him one last time and walked out of the stall. Vorguz had served his purpose. "See to it the he gets a good retirement," he told the ostler, thrusting a bag of gold into the surprised Khajiit's hands. "He's not likely to be any good to anyone, not now. But he deserves some good years of peace." Peace. That would always be a foreign concept to Gorgoth. Deep down, he knew he would never truly be at peace. Too much had happened. He shook his head and brushed past Atahba, leaning on the doorway of the stable, looking out at the midafternoon sun shining on the remnants of the second Oblivion Gate. His own dried blood, thick on his armour, was a constant reminder of how hard closing it had been. Dagon was improving.
With the Leyawiin City Watch now reduced to just over fifty men, the protection of Leyawiin had been supplemented by both the Blackwood Company and the local Fighter's Guild. Such a circumstance was only temporary – mercenaries would never normally be hired to uphold the law – but the tension was already evident, shown on the grim faces of two Guildsmen as they walked through the gateway, which was protected by a group of about six Company members with an equal number of guardsmen. Each group had lost men in the fighting, but some animosities went too deep to be entirely forgotten even in times of crisis.
A nearby footstep reached Gorgoth's ear, and he turned his head slightly. "You've been avoiding me," he observed as Mazoga stepped out of the shadows.
She walked up and stood in front of him, folding her arms and staring into his eyes with a challenging air about her. "I seem to recall you ordering me to avoid you," she retorted.
The warrior-shaman snorted. "That was ten months ago," he countered, keeping his face expressionless. "The circumstances have changed somewhat. I never expected to end up in Cyrodiil, the champion of the people, fighting against Dagon..." He started putting his gauntlets back on. One was slightly dented, rubbing harshly against the back of his hand. He dismissed the sensation; to him, pain was a buzzing fly, easily brushed away and ignored. "Even now, I never sought you out. But I did what I had to, in the past."
"No," growled Mazoga angrily, poking his chest with a meaty finger. "You can think that all you want, but you didn't have to send me away, no matter what your weird logic or your honour or even your stone heart told you. I could have stayed." Her voice grew slightly softer. "I wanted to stay."
Gorgoth shook his head. "You know my reasons," he told her. "When I respect someone, like someone as much as I like and respect you, I will not willingly hurt them. And you would have been hurt had you stayed."
"Utter bollocks," snarled the warrior, taking a step closer and pushing her face to within inches from his. "I figured it out, Gorgoth. When have you ever cared for anyone but yourself? That is, when have you cared about someone who doesn't further your own self-enhancement, that doesn't make you stronger, give you more power?" The Orc growled and shoved both arms into his chest. Strong as she was, his feet stayed firmly planted to the ground, his body only swaying slightly. "You cared about your sodding horses more than me!" In the stables, Vorguz gave a tired snort.
"They got me where I needed to go quickly," replied Gorgoth, meeting her eyes, keeping his own emotions tightly guarded. As usual. "But if you believe that, then you never truly knew me."
Hot anger flashed in her amber eyes and she briefly caressed her sword hilt before thinking better of it. Opening and closing her mouth a few times, she finally managed to splutter some words. "This isn't over. Wherever you're going, I'm going." Not giving him a chance to reply, she turned and stalked off, angrily kicking away a stray dog that had been hunting for scraps.
Her fellow Orc watched her go with folded arms, aware of Lurog walking back from the Gate to stand behind him, following his eyes. "Emotions can be very confusing sometimes," mused Gorgoth. His comrade quirked an eyebrow. "After all that time, I can tell she still loves me. Odd."
"Love is an odd thing," agreed his old friend, falling silent for a few seconds before changing the subject. "When are you planning to leave? I know you said you wanted to get back to Cheydinhal quickly."
"As soon as I see the Count and inform him that my saving his city is worth the best horse in his stables," replied Gorgoth, rolling his shoulders and walking off in the direction of Leyawiin. Lurog grunted his assent and walked into the stables, giving Vorguz a soothing pat before checking on Astakh. At the first signs of danger, his horse had got loose and it had taken his rider a while to find him; he'd been about two miles away from the Gate, blood dripping from a deep wound to his flank. Crimson was also splattered around his mouth and on his shoes; it was clear that the warhorse hadn't been easy prey for the daedra. After healing and rest, the stallion was as ready as ever, only his discipline preventing him from stamping impatiently as the Orc stroked his mane.
"Mazoga's pissed," commented Dralasa as she strolled in, the hay crackling under her bare feet. In contrast to most people in Leyawiin, the Dark Elf was both clean and cheerful. "I wonder if their tale will have a happy, romantic ending?" She chuckled at the absurdity; happiness was regarded by Gorgoth as something enjoyed by others, not by himself.
"The words 'Gorgoth' and 'romance' should not even be thought about within minutes of each other, let alone mentioned in the same sentence together," snorted Lurog, smirking. "Are you packed and ready to go? We're leaving as soon as our unromantic comrade can intimidate a good horse out of Count Caro. Given that he saved Leyawiin single-handedly, you'd think that the Count would bend over backwards to accommodate him."
Dralasa's piercing laugh resounded around the stable, jerking a few equine heads up. "I don't think I'll ever hear of a count doing that," she cackled, leaning on Astakh for support. Used to her nature, the warhorse didn't react. Lurog smiled in response and looked up as their mutual friend returned to the stables, walking over to a powerful-looking bay horse. Mazoga trailed a short distance behind him, looking sullen and resentful, going over to her own horse as the warrior-shaman checked over his new acquisition.
"Not bad," he conceded, attaching his saddlebags to his steed's saddle after he'd transferred it from Vorguz. "Not sure how he'll stand up to my weight at a gallop, but we'll see." The Orc turned and looked all of them in the eye in turn. "I'm going to Cheydinhal. My business there is my own. Go to Cloud Ruler Temple and stay there. That way, you'll be in the thick of it when the real battle starts."
Burz gro-Khash had already been informed of the recapturing of the fugitives; Captain Lerus's dispatch rider had been faster than Gorgoth. However, that didn't stop him from asking for a blow-by-blow account of the Defender's exploits, somewhat amazed that he had sent them back to prison rather than just killing them. The hard-to-please Guardian gave a satisfied nod when he finished. "Impressive," he rumbled. "Killing them would have been simpler, and most boots would have gone for that. But not you." The Orc scratched his chin and handed his compatriot a sealed letter. "Seems you're Oreyn's new favourite. He sent me this to give to you."
Gorgoth took it and saluted to Burz's back as the Guardian turned and walked over to his bed. Stomping down the creaking stairs, he cracked the seal open before lowering himself cautiously into a chair to read Oreyn's missive:
Gorgoth,
I need you back in Chorrol. Now. Meet me in the Guildhall; I'm sleeping there right now. I can't stress how urgent this is. Seeing as you seem so military, I trust your green hide won't be slow in obeying this order.
Another thing: Acting on my own authority, I've promoted you to Warder. A lot of people – particularly Ah-Malz, the poor sod – are going to give me hell, but the fact is that right now I need higher-ranks I can trust. Normally you take years to reach that rank. Betray this trust and I'll put you down myself. Now get back here quickly.
Oreyn
The newly-appointed Warder crumpled the note in his fist, gazing contemplatively up at the ceiling. It was evening outside – it had been four full days of riding from Leyawiin to Cheydinhal, with his new horse solid but nowhere near as good as Vorguz – but Oreyn was right in saying that he would come to him as soon as possible. Across the room, Ohtimbar looked briefly up at him as the Orc stood up, before going back to sharpening his dagger. Gorgoth ignored the Altmer and entered the hallway, only to find the door bang open and an eager, excitable young Dunmer Apprentice by the name of Relen Sathis rush into the Guildhall, his words too fast and confused to be followed. As Ohtimbar walked out into the hall, the warrior-shaman grabbed the Dark Elf's shoulder and shook him. "Slow down," he commanded.
Sathis, his grey skin flushed, visibly collected himself. "An Oblivion Gate opened outside the West Gate," he claimed, words pouring swiftly from his mouth as his audience grew. An Associate dashed off to get Burz. "The Guard has held back the first assault, and the Knights of the Thorn have gone in. I'm getting a slice of the ac-" He turned before he'd even finished his sentence, clearly intending to sprint all the way to the front line, before he was hauled back by an irritated Burz.
"Calm yourself," snarled the Guardian. "We'll see action, boot, most of us, but you're not charging into battle until every one of us is good and ready. Hold your horses." Turning back to most of the Cheydinhal Guild – around thirty strong – he wasted no time in barking orders. "Arms and armour. Waste no time. Get your lazy arses into gear." Amid the mad scramble to equip themselves, the Orc turned to Gorgoth. "You go ahead," he ordered. "See what you can do." While Burz loved battle, he was wise enough to know that the longer the Gate stayed open, the more likely it was that Cheydinhal would end up like Kvatch. No man would want that fate for their home.
Cheydinhal was not quite in chaos, but panic was certainly evident on the streets. Columns of guardsmen raced about, generally heading towards the West Gate, but that was the only order visible. Several families were already fleeing towards the east side of town, or towards the Chapel; the portal to Oblivion visible over the top of the wall induced haste, as did the foreboding black-and-red sky overhead. Gorgoth walked down into the street, ignoring a near-hysteric Imperial man who ran straight into him. Picking himself up from the ground, the citizen ran off towards the Chapel, casting terrified glances towards the impending danger. Fear was thick in the air.
The West Gate was being barricaded with timbers, so Gorgoth instead climbed up onto the walls, looking down on the area below. Leaning on the outer wall, he observed that the Black Waterside Stables - whose horses were renowned throughout Cyrodiil - was burning, the horses dead or scattered. A handful of dead guardsmen and lesser daedra were scattered around on the ground outside; the first attack had been a weak one. Standing a few feet to his right, Captain Leland was bellowing orders, waving his arms around and generally giving a display of decisive action. His domestic policies might be questionable, but Leland was at least a competent soldier, if an ill-mannered one.
"What the fuck do you want?" he snarled as Gorgoth walked up. "I don't have the time to babysit sodding mercenaries..." his voice trailed off as he recognised the warrior-shaman. He cocked his head to the side, peering up at him suspiciously. "Oh. It's you." The Breton grunted, glancing towards the Oblivion Gate. "The Knights of the Thorn, a band of pricks with over-inflated egos-" The irony was so great that a nearby guardsman bashed his head against the wall to stop himself laughing "- have decided to kill themselves by charging into the Gate. A bunch of under-trained imbeciles who think their swashbuckling, mythic adventures are actually real." Leland paused to spit. "Thing is, they're led by the Count's son, Farwil Indarys. So it's your job to go in there and babysit him. Close the Gate and try to keep him alive, hero." The Guard Captain turned away from Gorgoth and bawled for a messenger to fetch the Mages and Fighters Guilds.
The warrior-shaman wasted no time in swinging himself over the parapet and jumping to the ground below, much to the amazement of most people watching him. A Slowfall spell saw him down safely and he straightened before walking briskly off in the direction of the Gate, which was situated on a small hill about half the height of the city wall. It was just out of bowshot, but the Cheydinhal Mages Guild had a greater range, and would be invaluable on the walls. Cheydinhal's Guard was not as good as Leyawiin's – far from it, having one of the worst reputations in Cyrodiil – but they would do a creditable job.
As he walked up to the portal, Gorgoth drew Blood King from his back. He had closed several of these gates by now, yet each one was unique. He knew basically what to expect, but none of it was exact. Wrapping a shield spell around himself to protect against a potential trap, he entered Oblivion. He'd grown used to the sensation of burning and ignored it the best he could, arriving on the other side alert, immediately looking around, casting a Detect Life spell and looking around quickly. There was nothing living in the immediate area.
However, there were several corpses. A handful of Dremora and lesser daedra had been killed, and around them about an equal number of mortals lay dead. Their armour was identical; steel plate with the sigil of the Knights of the Thorn – a sword, pointing downwards, wrapped in thorns – on the chest. The Warder ignored them and focused on the terrain. He was standing on a ridge overlooking large parts of the Deadlands; from his vantage point, he could see a clear path to the Sigil Keep, across lava and through formations of rock. Nothing exceptional. Continuing onwards, he found himself at the edge of a cliff. A path off to the left beckoned to him, but if Farwil had been persistent and foolish enough to continue, Gorgoth need to waste no time in intercepting him.
He launched himself off the cliff, keeping his feet pointing firmly towards the ground as gravity sent his bulk hurtling towards the earth. Casting a Slowfall a few metres above the end of his fall, he went down on one knee, ascertaining that there was no danger before looking around. To his right, pressed against the side of the cliff, was a path that led to a bridge across the lava. To his left was the entrance to a cave, which presumably led back up the cliff top. Seeing no corpses on the path, the Orc turned towards the cave; much as he disliked the idea, finding the remnants of the Knights – most particularly Farwil – was of importance. Dying in Oblivion could be a heroic way to die, but no doubt the Count would be grateful to whoever brought his son back alive. And an indebted Count was a good asset to have.
Before he could enter, sounds emanating from the cavern warned him of something approaching. As he adopted a fighting stance, the voices became closer and distinguishable as mortal, and after a few moments two bloodied figures staggered out into the relative light of the Deadlands. One was a tall, stocky Imperial with most of his face obscured by a helmet, whereas the other one was quite clearly Farwil Indarys. As well as sweat and blood, the long-haired slender Dunmer reeked of nobility. Both were clutching battered shields and chipped swords; when they caught sight of the threatening Orc in front of them they instantly became warier, crouching slightly, eyes fixed on him and the malevolent-looking mace in his right hand.
"I am Gorgoth gro-Kharz," stated Gorgoth, running his eyes over them analytically. The Imperial seemed fairly competent – none of the blood was his own and his blade was chipped in several places, indicative of profligate use – but Farwil was clearly hopeless, already having a dent in his armour and a sword that was mostly clean. The very way he held himself clearly showed he'd never been in battle before this, and what training he'd had was either forgotten or basic. The look of innate superiority about him, however, would probably never change. "Where are the rest of you?" The warrior-shaman didn't suppose any of their comrades had survived – happy-go-lucky opportunists would get short shrift in Oblivion – but it was always best to confirm the forces at his disposal.
Farwil drew himself up, lowering his sword, frowning at the Orc in front of him. "My comrades have given their lives in the valiant pursuit of closing this Oblivion Gate," he announced as though addressing a crowd to commemorate his future victory. The Dunmer continued more bombastically: "Myself and Bremman will press onward and close this vile Gate to save Cheydinhal, no matter what the odds may be. You will join us, Orc, as our numbers have been somewhat depleted."
Gorgoth folded his arms and looked Farwil in the eyes. His Imperial companion – Bremman - groaned quietly and shrank back, squeezing his brown eyes shut. Brashly meeting the Warder's gaze, Farwil blinked then faltered as Gorgoth leaned forward, driving the knight a step back. He'd dealt with idiots of this kind before. "Listen well, Indarys," he grated. "You are a fool. A dangerous fool. You have lead ill-trained men in here on a whim and most of them are dead. You will follow my instructions to the letter until I have seen you safely out of here. I have no patience for your idiocy." The warrior turned and stared walking down the path. "Stay behind me. I will deal with any threats."
Farwil spluttered before recovering himself and running up to plant himself firmly in front of this new, unpleasant companion. "I will not be ordered around by some greenskin who has no notion of command. I am in-" he was cut off by the Orc walking right through him, knocking him aside and staggering him.
"I do not have time for your pathetic games, Indarys," Gorgoth told him over his shoulder. Farwil's eyes filled with loathing but he fell obediently in beside Bremman, a few paces behind the warrior-shaman, talking in whispers. The Orsimer ignored their talk and focused on locating any danger. Two lone clannfear wandering aimlessly around were dispatched by bolts of lightning before either of the two knights behind him had even seen them. There was no other resistance until they reached the bridge, which was lightly patrolled. Most notably, several Dremora were standing guard at the end they were approaching.
The over-enthusiastic Dark Elf, ignoring his protector's earlier instructions, uttered an ear-splitting "Huzzah!" which alerted every daedra within half a mile, and charged towards the enemy, waving his blade flamboyantly. His companion joined him in a rather more subtle manner by merely drawing his sword and matching his pace. For a second, the warrior-shaman was tempted to leave the Dremora to slaughter them but instead sprinted towards them himself, overtaking the two knights on the way before slamming Blood King into a Dremora's torso. The air around the mace's head pulsated darkly as the shattered Kynaz was launched into the lava. Three more enemies were fast approaching, but Gorgoth threw out his glowing hand; a freezing blue cloud materialised above the Kyn, shimmering for a few seconds before blasting frost magicka down upon them with such ferocity that even the scorched earth of the Deadlands froze solid.
Bremman was shocked enough by this to stagger to a halt, but Farwil continued on, waving his sword at the two remaining Dremora. They seemed unimpressed, circling around to attack him from both sides. Their bodies abruptly jerked as a powerful telekinesis spell plucked them into the air and threw them into the lava. Farwil lowered his sword, looking disappointed, then turned to Gorgoth, who was stomping up to him. "You should have-" The Dunmer was cut off by the Orc's finger stabbing into his chest with enough force to make Farwil step back.
"I did not expect you to listen to me the first time, but you will listen now," he snarled, forcing his face to within inches of Farwil's, who recoiled, wrinkling his nose. "Clearly you are a dim-witted upstart with no creditable brain in that thick skull, so I will use simple words. You will stay behind me. You will not engage the enemy unless I give you permission. You will not do anything except defend yourself unless I give you permission. Do you understand, or do I have to use smaller words more suitable for brain-dead goat-fuckers?" Farwil was so terrified by that cold amber gaze boring into his skull that he could only nod meekly.
The warrior-shaman snorted and turned away, walking off across the bridge. "Keep an eye on him," he commanded the shocked Bremman as he passed. "He is not fit to be off his mother's apron strings." The two knights, neither of them speaking, fell in behind Gorgoth, looking slightly more subdued. Two scamps wandering about on the bridge failed to rouse them, and were swiftly dispatched by lightning bolts. They also hung back and let him deal with the minor resistance at the other end, consisting of two Dremora and a daedroth. Bremman clearly stayed out of it due to a sense of self-preservation, whereas Farwil was clearly frustrated at his lack of involvement. If that frustration ever overcame his fear, stupidity on his part would almost certainly ensue.
One distinct path twisted away from the bridge. The Orc led the way, ignoring the mutterings of the two knights behind him. He would keep the wayward son alive and in a fit state to dump at his father's feet, but that allowed him significant leeway for discipline. His suspicions were confirmed as a party of four Dremora appeared around a rock formation; Farwil's "Huzzah!" rent the air and he charged them, waving his sword around, his Imperial comrade at his side. Their ignored protector followed at a slower pace, walking with Blood King hanging by his side.
The Kyn drew their weapons and two moved to take each knight. They contained Farwil's attacks easily and started to push him back. The Dunmer – who up to this point hadn't seen much battle, his knights instead fighting and dying in his place – lost his look of eagerness, which was replaced by a look of determination, and then desperation as a blade sliced through his armour and opened his thigh. Gorgoth looked on impassively with arms folded as Farwil fell to the ground, panicked. The Count's son had a clear view as the other daedra gutted Bremman before decapitating him. He whimpered as his dead comrade's head rolled past him. One of the Dremora kicked it out of the way and raised his mace, pausing to make sure his aim was correct.
Abruptly, all four of the Kyn were snatched into the air with a telekinesis spell, their attacker dragging them higher before throwing them away, watching them smash down onto the rocks below. Farwil, wide-eyed at his escape, struggled to his feet and glanced around, catching sight of Gorgoth. He hobbled towards the Orc, his face a mask of fury. "What do you think you're playing at, greenskin?" he shouted, purple blotches of anger starting to spread over his cheeks. "I could have died there! Bremman did die! What the fuck were you just standing there f-" The rest of his words were cut off as the somewhat irritated Warder backhanded him, sending the Dunmer crashing to the ground, his cheek torn open by the Orc's gauntlet.
"You are the most pompous, lazy, arrogant waste of space I have ever had the displeasure of fighting with," growled Gorgoth, punctuating his words with a kick into Farwil's ribs. The Dark Elf's armour absorbed most of the blow, but he still cried out in agony. Bending over, the warrior-shaman hauled him up by his throat until they were eye-to-eye. The hapless Dunmer's feet kicked helplessly several inches from the ground. "The only reason I haven't killed you yet is because you're worth more to me alive than dead," Gorgoth told him. "However, if you do not obey my orders from now, I will leave your broken corpse as food for the clannfear." His victim could only whimper, that cold gaze instilling fear that no words ever could. The Orc sent healing magic pumping through his body, healing all the wounds it came across, before throwing the knight to the ground.
"Keep up, or I will leave you behind," grunted Gorgoth, scanning the horizon as Farwil stood up on shaking legs. "I have no time for children." The Orc started off down the path, ignoring Bremman's headless corpse as he strode past it. After a few seconds of hesitation, the last remaining Knight of the Thorn jogged up to uncertainly walk beside him. His companion eyed him sideways. "You truly know nothing," he observed. "Move over. This close, we make one target for a fireball and not two."
Earlier, the Dunmer might have been tempted to point out his resistance to fire, but his terror prevented him from doing anything but obey, moving apart and walking a few metres from him. Oddly, there wasn't much resistance; either this part of the Deadlands was sparsely populated, or the daedra had left the Gate into Nirn without being noticed. There was little chance that the Knights of the Thorn had disrupted their assault enough for it to be cancelled. However, neither elf was known to curse good fortune whenever it visited them.
This lack of resistance continued all the way to the foot of the Sigil Keep. Used to the sight, the warrior-shaman merely opened the doors and stepped in, but his companion stood still, looking up, awed by the sight until a grunt jerked him inside. The Dark Elf became even more awestruck inside, however, as he laid eyes on the column of pure magicka. He wouldn't have noticed the two Xivilai charging towards them unless Gorgoth had thrown one into the wall right next to him. Growling at the pain of a broken arm, the ash-skinned daedra hauled himself to his feet, batting aside Farwil's blow with ease and kicking him into the opposite wall. Groaning, the future Count of Cheydinhal feebly attempted to rise, but he needn't have bothered; a bolt of Destruction magicka froze the Xivilai solid. Farwil staggered to his feet and looked on as his Orcish saviour battered down the other daedra's defence and shattered his ribcage.
"Stay close to me," rumbled the warrior-shaman, walking towards a door leading deeper into the Keep. Compliance was immediate. A scamp screamed in fear and fled for its life as the two mortal intruders approached, heading up the spiralling passageway towards the Sigillum Sanguis. An icicle in its torso sent it tumbling back down past them. Further resistance was dealt with entirely by Gorgoth, with his useless comrade relegated to the role of a spectator on most occasions. Blood King's desire for blood and conflict would never truly be sated, but the slaughter now wrought by its wielder would make even Malacath approve. Watching his protector tear the opposition apart, Farwil shuddered as he realised that he was completely at his mercy.
It was not until they were over halfway to the Sigil Stone that they met significant resistance. Three Dremora emerged from the shadows, all of them attacking simultaneously from different angles. Gorgoth's dai-katana rasped out of his sheath and he blocked two swords while twisting so that the third glanced off his armour. Blood King's riposte shattered one daedric blade and left its wielder wide open for the Orc's dai-katana, which promptly cut his throat open. The fallen Dremora's comrades, however, had taken the opportunity well; one moved towards Farwil as the other slid his broadsword though a weak point in Gorgoth's battered armour, penetrating his ribcage.
Grunting, the warrior-shaman spun, throwing the Kynaz off-balance as he attempted to retrieve his sword. Within seconds, the steel head of Blood King had crushed his skull, scattering fragments of bone and brain over the ground. Staggering forward, Gorgoth looked over at the final Dremora – who was on the verge of dismembering Farwil – and shattered him with ball lightning. The Orc resisted the strong urge to sag as he sheathed his dai-katana, the broadsword in his ribs sending sharp stabs of pain throughout his body every time he moved. He had been lucky; an inch higher and the rib would have deflected the blade into his heart instead of protecting it. "Remove this," he told the worried nobleman, gesturing towards the hilt.
The Dunmer obediently wrapped his hands around the guard and threw himself backwards, putting his entire weight into extracting the weapon. As it came free, he dropped it in shock, falling onto his back and wheezing as the air left his lungs. Gorgoth ignored him and healed his wound, spitting blood from his mouth before hefting Blood King once again. The crimson liquid staining his prominent canines made him look even more menacing than usual. "Keep that," he grunted, nudging the broadsword with his foot. "It is better than that blunt butcher's knife you are using." Without waiting for him to pick it up, the Orc took one last look around the passageway before ducking through the door up ahead.
By the time the knight had managed to catch up, after abandoning his shield and hefting the heavy broadsword in both hands, Gorgoth had mown through the opposition and stood waiting at the entrance to the Sigillum Sanguis. As the Dark Elf joined him, panting, the warrior-shaman thrust out a hand to stop him. "I will enter the Sanguis alone," he rumbled. "It will be too dangerous in there for me to watch out for you. When it is safe, I will call you in." He turned and walked through the doors, letting them slowly slide shut behind him. Farwil leaned back against the wall and sighed.
The Count of Cheydinhal's son wasn't used to waiting. For almost all of his life, his every whim had been catered for immediately. Nothing had been denied to him. He'd lived the pampered life of a nobleman, a self-styled head of an order of knights he'd founded. But now he found himself fully prepared to wait. The realities of what he'd got himself into were now hitting him hard; the bodies of his knights – his men – were proof that war was not a game. Before the Oblivion Gate appeared, the Knights of the Thorn had numbered twenty. Now, there was only one left. Farwil was feeling increasingly pathetic, increasingly guilty. He'd led his companions to their deaths on a whim, a vain hunt for real glory. There was no glory here, not for him; for someone of his limited abilities, Oblivion held only death for him. Death and despair.
It was despair that forced him to his knees, despair and guilt. Nineteen good, honest men had come to Oblivion because he wanted them to. It was his ambition, his self-confidence in his own exaggerated abilities that had led them to their deaths. Farwil had failed them. He had failed their families. He had failed Cheydinhal. He had failed his father. And now that his own self-assurance had vanished, the young Dunmer had no idea what to do. He was completely reliant on his last surviving companion. Helplessness wasn't something he was used to feeling.
Sighing shakily, Farwil rested his head back against the obsidian walls of the Sanguis, only to jerk upwards to his feet as the door next to him opened. Angrily scrubbing at his wet cheeks and keeping his head down, he followed Gorgoth meekly through the chamber, past the daedric corpses littering the ground. Another reminder of his own weakness: any number of those daedra was the match of any Knight of the Thorn, yet the Warder had scythed through their ranks as though their claws and blades were made of wood.
The warrior-shaman walked up to the Sigil Stone and plucked it from the spire of magicka. Having now closed several Oblivion Gates, he was prepared for the wall of fire racing up at them from down below, but Farwil wasn't; he squeaked in terror and threw all inhibition away, clinging to Gorgoth like a child clinging to his father. The burning sensation washed over both of them before the magic of the portal deposited them outside the collapsing Gate. Wide-eyed, the Dark Elf slowly disentangled himself and stepped back, staring at his boots. "Gorgoth, I..." his voice trailed off, unable to find the words.
Folding his arms, the Orc stared down at his fellow survivor. "I have little patience for pompous cowards," he rumbled. "Say what you are going to say."
"Thank you." The words seemed to leech the tension out of Farwil, and he sagged. "Thank you for saving me, and... protecting me. Azura knows I didn't deserve it. I cannot repay you." Realising that he was still carrying the heavy daedric broadsword, he dropped it, letting it fall to the earth. He was no warrior; he didn't need it any more.
"You cannot repay me, true." Gorgoth tapped a canine. "But your father will want to know what has transpired. Move." It was the early hours of the morning if the moons were any indication, but any half-decent father would grant an audience to the saviour of his only son.
That audience would take place, in normal circumstances, in the County Hall of Castle Cheydinhal. The Hall was typically opulent, with a rich green carpet running the entire length of the room and elaborate tapestries covering the high stone walls. Even the ceiling was covered in a decorative mural. Several tubs spread around the edges hosted exotic plants, and hangings from the balcony formed a backdrop for two elaborate, well-carved wooden chairs. The entire room spoke of extravagance; clearly, the ruler of Cheydinhal did not care for subtlety.
As it turned out, Count Andel Indarys did not have to be woken as Gorgoth has suspected; he hadn't slept since news of the Oblivion Gate and his son's involvement had reached him. The Dunmer was sitting in one of those chairs somewhat anxiously, his blue fingers scratching his receding scalp, his sharp red eyes darting around. Those eyes rested on Farwil and widened in shock before adopting an expression of delight as the ruler of Cheydinhal jumped out of his chair and embraced his son, ignoring the blood and grime splattered over his once-fine armour. "I never thought I'd see you again!" he exclaimed.
His heir nodded soberly. "I would not be here if it were not for Gorgoth, father," he muttered, his voice low and somewhat stiff. Count Indarys frowned before turning to his son's saviour, looking him up and down analytically, taking in the battered, filthy armour; the chiselled, weathered face; the blood still staining his mace. A threatening figure, for sure.
Indarys gave a short bow. "I am forever indebted to you for saving my son," he said, his voice and eyes grateful. "I have no doubt that you have saved him and done a fine service to Cheydinhal." The Count drew them a few steps away from Farwil and lowered his voice. "He can be... boisterous at times, but he is still my son. It cannot have been easy for you, but... thank you, nonetheless." Gorgoth merely inclined his head slightly. Indarys briefly struggled for words under the intensity of that cold gaze. "I can never fully repay you, but... I do have a reward in mind. There are two old family heirlooms in my possession; the Staff of Indarys and the Thornblade. Please, choose one."
"The Thornblade," intoned Gorgoth. He needed no new sword, but it might well be considered an insult to the Count if he refused. And both of them knew that a sword would not wipe out his debt. Indarys sent for it and stepped back over to his son, engaging him in quiet conversation. A servant soon arrived with a sheathed sword, handing it to the Count who presented it to Gorgoth with many flourishes. The Orc took the Thornblade and drew it, observing the intricate design, running a finger down the slightly serrated edge. A good longsword, even without the enchantment that would burn through armour like it was paper. He nodded in appreciation, sheathed it, and thrust the scabbard though his sword belt around his waist. If nothing else, it was a good counterweight for his potions. Remembering his orders from Oreyn, he turned to leave.
Indarys stepped up to him. "I realise you have pressing business, of course, but... I will always be happy to see you in Cheydinhal." Farwil added his own stammered thanks, looking slightly brighter already. The Count took Gorgoth's hand in both of his, pumping it vigorously. "Once again, thank you. If there's anything more I can do..."
"I'll know where to find you," finished Gorgoth. "For now, keep your Guard on high alert . From what I saw of that Gate, it did not look like a serious attempt to take the city. It was more of a probe. Dagon is growing more profligate."
Indarys frowned, clearly worried. "You mean there could be other attacks?" he asked. Behind him, Farwil closed his eyes and groaned softly.
The Orc nodded. "Probably," he confirmed. "You are likely to come under attack by more than one Gate at once. Expect ladders and battering rams, and possibly other siege equipment. I will leave it to you to take the necessary emergency measures. Do not let this city fall."
Snorting, the Dark Elf stiffened his back, probably insulted by the insinuation that he might not take action of his own accord. "Dagon will not take Cheydinhal while I draw breath," he announced confidently. "We will be ready for whatever he throws at us. You have my word on that." It was easy to see where the younger Indarys had got his confidence from, but at least his father had power to back it up with.
Satisfied, the warrior-shaman stepped around the Count and left the Castle, heading down to the West Gate where the Guard was still on high alert. Ignoring the various accolades and cheers, he left the city and stopped. Bathed in the moonlight, the ruins of the Black Waterside stables revealed that they had been completely destroyed. Any horses that hadn't been meat for the daedra were probably miles away. He cursed, quelling the frustration threatening to rise within him. The journey to Chorrol might take longer than Oreyn expected.
"So you're saying that Ocato has refused to help?" grated Jauffre, his fists tightening as he leaned on his desk.
Burd nodded, his face a thundercloud. "Said that he had so many problems to deal with in the provinces that he couldn't even spare us a century. General Phillida was forced to defer to him." The Nord folded his arms over his yellow surcoat, clearly struggling to control his desire to hit something. "We can't count on any help from the Legion." The other Blades present in the Grandmaster's office – Steffan and Renault – grimaced.
"My contacts tell me that Ocato does have a point," claimed Renault. "There's a lot of unrest in the provinces, and that's even without the invasion tearing the continent apart. The Legion has lost thousands already. Ald'ruhn in Morrowind is a devastated husk."
"Damn the bloody provinces!" shouted Burd, finally snapping and slamming his gauntleted fist into the wall. "Can't that blockhead see that the decisive battle will be fought here, on his very doorstep? Dagon isn't going to give up, and if Bruma falls, the Empire falls! It's only luck that's preserved us from even more Gates!" Since the first Gate had been closed, Bruma had been subject to only one more attack. That portal had been closed easily enough, and new recruits were filling the gaps left by dead guardsmen, but Bruma could not stand alone for long.
"Calm down, Burd," grunted Steffan. "Destroying the Grandmaster's office isn't going to solve any problems." Snarling, the Nord slowly folded his arms, taking visible efforts to control himself. The Imperial Knight Captain kept scratching his receding hairline. "We need more men... that is true enough," he mused. "But where do we get them from? The Blades are strong, but our numbers are few."
Jauffre spoke up, still studying his cluttered desk intently. "We could ask the other cities for aid," he started. The Breton's head rose, his intense brown gaze belying his years. "Each city that has been attacked will know of our plight. All we have to do is make their rulers understand."
Renault sighed. "That won't be an easy task. They'll understandably want to protect their own cities. But if they can be convinced the blow will fall hardest here..." She shrugged. Her superior nodded in her direction. "I'll do my best, Grandmaster," she told him, saluting before leaving to make the necessary arrangements.
Burd nodded. "At least here I know that something will get done," he said. "Bruma cannot stand alone for long, Jauffre. We need aid. The Countess is trusting you to find it for her."
The old Breton slumped down in his chair. "You'll get it, Captain," he assured Burd, his voice fatigued. The experienced Nord - recognising a succinct dismissal - saluted and left, ducking through the doorway and leaving the Grandmaster alone with the Captain of the Temple Garrison.
"Do you think this will work, Marcus?" he asked quietly, his old eyes sliding half-closed, his face a picture of age and exhaustion.
"It will, Reynald," replied Steffan confidently. "If the Counts and Countesses have any notion of duty, they'll send at least some aid." He paused. "However, they'll only do that if they can be convinced their cities are secure. Some are yet to have been attacked by Dagon. Those cities will be the most nervous. Anticipation is a powerful force."
Jauffre fully closed his eyes. "We can't induce Dagon to attack them," he sighed. "But we will do what we have to do. Assemble a squad that can be used to respond quickly to any reports of danger. Bruma must have allies." The Imperial nodded and left the room, being careful to close it quietly behind him. It was clear that the Breton's health was fading; the once-mighty warrior was a burnt-out shell of what he once was and everyone in the Blades knew it. A final, climatic battle would invigorate him for sure, but until then the pressures of his high office and the dark times were slowly crushing him. The Knight Captain sighed and shook his head as he walked. It had been years since the Grandmaster had been so intimate.
Pausing, he leaned against the wall, removing his helmet and running a hand through his short greying hair. When Jauffre passed on, he would be the next Grandmaster; that was almost certain. He had nearly a decade's experience on Renault, and while she was an excellent handler of agents, she wouldn't take well to running the entirety of the Blades. She never had been the best when working with interpersonal problems, and management of large organisations occasionally flummoxed her. But was Steffan ready for the responsibility? If his superior died soon, could he lead the Blades to victory against Dagon? The men liked and respected the forty-seven year old veteran, and he had seen several wars, but... none like this. Grimacing, the Imperial stiffened his spine. He was a Blade, oathsworn to his Emperor. He would do his duty, no matter what that might be. There was no time to waste worrying about his future. For now, he would focus on his task. Throwing himself into his work had always been an escape for him, and it would prove to be now.
The Knight Captain put his helmet back on walked into the Great Hall. Caroline was in front of the fire, enthusiastically showing an audience of Ilend, Aerin and Saliith how she had once gutted two bandits at once. Gnaeus was in a quieter corner, reading a book, and an equally quiet Lurog was shaping a wood carving, shavings collecting around his boots as he wielded his knife skilfully. The companions the Orc had arrived with – he recalled their names as Mazoga and Dralasa – had decided to stay in Bruma. When asked about it, Lurog had simply shrugged and muttered something about privacy. Steffan was secretly relieved; he was willing to bet that within two days the mad Dunmer would have blown something up.
"The decisive battle is going to be near Bruma," he announced, ignoring Caroline's pout as she was interrupted.
"We knew that already," observed Gnaeus drily, waving his book at him in a shushing gesture.
Steffan folded his arms. "And we won't be getting any help from the Legion." Gnaeus's book dropped from his grasp. Ilend gaped in astonishment, Aerin frowned, and Lurog muttered something about honour. Saliith rose and narrowed his eyes.
"Do we need their help?" he rasped, ignoring Caroline's sidelong look of incredulity. Several of the other Blades in the room were following the exchange with unconcealed interest. "I mean, the Bruma Guard is tough and it's getting plenty of volunteers," continued the Argonian. "We've got mages, and I'm pretty sure some mercenaries will show up. Who needs the Legion?"
"We do, you stupid lizard-rat," snarled Gnaeus, getting to his feet. "If we don't have overwhelming strength of numbers, that daedric bastard can bleed us white. We need to be able to hold out here until that bloody ritual gets deciphered. How long is that going to take, anyway?" he asked, shooting sharp glances around the room, as if any of the listeners knew anything about the finer points of decryption of highly complex daedric text.
"I don't see you making a fucking suggestion!" snapped Saliith, his patience with the old hermit's constant barbs wearing thin.
"Jauffre already made one," Steffan told them, raising his voice to cut off the Grand Champion's furious retort. "The field legions might have deserted us, but the City Guards will feel a sense of kinship with Bruma. They will send aid if they feel safe. Combined forces can hold off Dagon for long enough to complete the translation for sure. Martin is over half-way done already."
Lurog spoke up. "It would take a foolhardy Count to strip his defences when the danger is so great," he observed, holding up his as-of-yet unidentifiable figurine to the light of the fire to study it. "Another Gate could open at any time outside their cities."
"It's a risk," admitted Ilend slowly. "But wouldn't Dagon be concentrating his forces here instead of throwing them around the country?"
Gnaeus snorted. "Read the news more, whelp. Dagon is invading the entire bloody continent. He's got millions of daedra to throw at us."
"Have you ever given anyone any good news, old man?" asked Aerin casually, swinging her legs up to hang over the arm of her chair.
He shrugged. "A few times. I mostly left it to others. Smiling doesn't suit me."
"What we need to do is-" Steffan was cut short by a worried Jena hurrying into the Great Hall, snow billowing around the doorway before the oak doors swung shut. Sudden, violent gusts of wind chilled the bones of even those closest to the fire. The Imperial ignored the discomfort she'd caused and immediately stepped up to her superior.
"Bruma is under attack again," she told him, somewhat breathlessly. "The Guard has beaten back the first wave and has sent a large squad in, but we need to be on high alert. Anything could happen."
The Knight Captain nodded and raised his voice, booming out instructions. "Double watch. Rouse the sleepers and put everyone on alert. Inform the Grandmaster." There was a scrambling as the Blades rushed off to ready themselves. Saliith and Gnaeus also left along with Lurog, who mentioned going down to Bruma to stop Dralasa and Mazoga doing anything stupid.
Steffan sighed and walked up to the fire, gazing despondently into the flickering flames. Aerin rose to her feet and slowly walked over to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Ya know... I always try ta look on the bright side of life," she told him. His eyebrows rose. When he had joined the Blades those long decades ago, he hadn't expected something approaching counselling from a twenty-year-old Bosmer. Her accurate reading of his expression also surprised him. "Yeah, we're in a bit of a pickle," she continued. "We don't even know if we'll last a week. But... enjoy life while ya can, or it's wasted... right?"
"If I lose focus to 'enjoy life', people I'm responsible for might die," responded the Imperial, turning his head slightly to observe her in his peripheral vision. Despite her proximity to him, her features were slightly blurred; years of paperwork had taken its toll on his eyesight, though thankfully it was only the edge of his vision seriously affected thus far. "I can't lose focus, Aerin; I have a job to do."
She sighed, exasperated. "Why does everyone around here take this whole damn war so seriously? Come on, if we've got a high chance of dying, let's at least have a bit of fun before it's over!" The Wood Elf threw up her arms in frustration. "Why do people always have to be so obsessed with something that they forget to do anything else except prepare?"
"That is exactly what I've been preaching all my life, Aerin," chipped in Caroline, who, predictably, had yet to leave the Great Hall, let alone don her armour and weapons. "Hopefully, some more stick-in-the-muds come around to our way of thinking..." She walked out, her mutterings clearly distinct to all of those with good ears: "I want to get laid so badly..."
"Sometimes, Aerin..." Ilend scratched his chin. "You make a lot of sense. We've got to be prepared for war, but..." He shrugged. "She's right, Steffan. Don't let this consume you. I know how it feels..."
The Knight Captain grunted. Hadn't he been dwelling too much on the future mere minutes ago? They had a point. How often had he told his men to make sure they wound down? How many times had he empathised the disadvantages of a dry fort to Jauffre whenever the Grandmaster had raised concerns of excessive drinking? The Imperial searched himself for a good reason why he didn't enjoy the same liberties given to his men and came up blank. He had never thought about it like that before. A captain had to be an example, but he didn't have to try to emulate Stendarr. "You have a point," he admitted, sighing. "But right now, I've got to make sure this fortress is ready for anything Dagon throws at us. Excuse me."
Aerin stepped back as he turned and strode out into the courtyard, instinctively lowering his head against the wind and snow that immediately started battering at him. Nearly two dozen Blades were already lining the battlements, looking down at Bruma. Steffan joined them, squeezing in alongside Jauffre and Selene. The Oblivion Gate was just visible to the east of Bruma, a distant flickering of flame through the snow. "Not much to see," observed the Grandmaster, his wizened face red because of the biting wind. "I trust Burd to handle this one on his own. What do you think, Steffan?"
"I agree, Grandmaster," replied the Imperial. "These conditions would delay us anyhow, and the most we can spare are twenty men. Burd now has over six hundred at his command. He might be back in the city by now, but if not his second in command is more than competent right now."
"I could go," pointed out Selene. The half-elf was wearing a thick cloak, but the two men could feel the warmth of her heating spell. She could certainly make the journey quickly enough with that to heat her and a shield to keep the snow from her. However, the Mysterium Xarxes was clearly draining her; more often than not, she fell asleep in Martin's rooms through pure exhaustion, which understandably led to much discussion and smirking in the barracks. But the fact was that she wasn't in the best shape. Steffan shook his head.
"I don't think Martin would advise you to overexert yourself, Selene," he told her. "I haven't seen you sparring with the men for days now. That bloody book is taking its toll. I'm no scholar, but I think that four hours translating you do every day is too much."
She opened her mouth, probably intending to disagree, then closed it again after realising he spoke sense. "We've got to work hard," she said finally. "We can't afford to slacken; what if Tamriel burnt because we were too slow?" She sighed. "Better I burn out than millions of people."
Steffan grimaced and gripped her shoulder, half in comfort, half in reprimand. Earlier, he'd have admired her dedication, but now Aerin's words were echoing within his head. "You don't have to kill yourself," he told the battlemage. "You need to relax once in a while. Keep your energy up or you'll just be decreasing in effectiveness the whole time. Go on, go to your room and grab some rest, then take some time out. That's an order." Technically, he couldn't give her an order due to her not being in the Blades, but she was still a guest in his fort.
The half-elf grunted. "Martin wouldn't-"
"Martin would agree with me," claimed the Knight Captain, folding his arms. "The last thing he wants is for his co-worker to die of exhaustion and corrupting influences." On her other side, Jauffre was nodding in agreement. "Get to bed. I'll put a guard on your door to make sure you're not interrupted."
Turning, Selene considered for a few seconds before smiling gratefully up at him. "You're right," she agreed. "I do need rest. But I need to do my duty as well."
"You're already doing it very commendably. But a soldier cannot fight an endless battle. You are no different. Now sleep." She nodded and left, her cloak swirling around her ankles as she walked back to the Royal Wing. Steffan returned to leaning on the battlements. "I think the same goes for you as well, Reynald," he muttered, using a tone too low for the surrounding Blades to hear. "This doesn't look to be anything more than a single Gate. Bruma can handle it. You go and get some rest. You look constantly tired these days. I can run the Blades for a few hours." He had run the Blades for several months at a time during Jauffre's semi-retirement, so the Grandmaster knew he could trust him.
The Breton grunted. "Call me if anything happens," he instructed before slowly stepping away from the battlements and heading back to the warmth of the Great Hall. More proof of his ageing; a week earlier, he would have resisted the mere idea of extra rest vigorously. The burden of command shifted onto Steffan's shoulders, an almost tangible weight. Better that he bear it in a relatively low-risk situation such as this than an ailing man on the brink of physical and mental exhaustion. He moved around, giving the expected orders and staying on the battlements despite the weather until the portal to Oblivion flickered and collapsed. Smiling, he dispersed his fellow watchers and ordered them back to normal duty, turning back towards the welcoming temple.
He was walking towards his office, intending to get some infernal paperwork done, when Renault fell in alongside him, keeping away from the snow he was beating from his helmet. "I've sent a messenger to each Count in Cyrodiil," she told him. "They'll pick up the seal and approval of Countess Carvain in Bruma before setting off."
"How have you worded them?"
She hesitated. "Firmly." That meant that she would be putting a lot of pressure on the Counts to do their civic duty. Maybe the diplomatic hand of Carvain could add something. The Imperial sighed and opened the door to his small office, motioning her in first before closing the door behind them and throwing his helmet and gauntlets onto his overcrowded desk, flopping down in his stiff-backed chair and nodding for her to emulate him.
As the Breton made herself comfortable, removing her own gauntlets and sweeping loose her long brown hair before leaning back in her chair, her fellow Knight Captain withdrew a bottle of flin and two tumblers from a nearby drawer. "I figured we could use something to ease our minds," he explained, pouring a generous amount into both glasses and pushing one across to her. She smiled gratefully and drained half of it.
"Needed that," she observed, wiping her mouth as Steffan pushed the bottle to the middle of the table. "I also sent a messenger to General Phillida, privately. Unlike Ocato, he's not restrained by bucket-loads of bureaucracy, and he knows a lot of people. He might be able to help."
Her companion nodded sagely, running a finger around the rim of his tumbler. She always had been excellent at this kind of thing. "Good idea. What about the Fighters Guild? They have strong, good men."
Renault snorted. "Mercenaries," she muttered, draining the rest of her glass and refilling it. Excellent, but also overly judgemental in places. "We might have money in the coffers to hire them with, but I prefer reliable troops who fight for more than just money."
Waving a hand dismissively, Steffan poured more flin into his glass. "When they see the Gates of Oblivion opening and hordes of daedra pouring over their city walls, they'll have a better reason to fight," he observed. Resting his head back against his chair, he stared up at the ceiling, letting silence move in for a few minutes. "Jauffre's not going to last much longer, Cas," he said abruptly.
She stared at him, her expression sombre. "We've both known that since he started his retirement," she agreed. "He was a good Grandmaster, but he's past his best." Her voice dropped. "He's not going to live to see the end of this war, I think."
The Captain of the Temple Guard leaned forward again. "We might all survive," he insisted. "We can't predict the future. Martin and Selene could finish translating this very evening, we could get what we need within a few days, get the Amulet back, and light the Dragonfires within a week. It probably won't happen, but it might." The Imperial reached for the bottle again, but thought better of it. "Hope for the best, prepare for the worst," he sighed. "How long is it since you've shared your dinner with the ranks?"
"Not for a while..." She frowned. "Not for a long time. Not since I was made Captain of the Imperial Bodyguard... why do you ask, Marcus? It's never been my inclination, you know that."
"It might show solidarity in this troubled time. Anything to help morale..." Steffan ran a hand over his face. He could all too easily see how the burden of command had aged Jauffre prematurely; the Breton had been completely grey by forty-six, only five years into his long tenure as Grandmaster. Shaking his head, the Imperial refilled both tumblers. "I'm tired, Cassandra. Today, I took advice from an elven girl barely out of her teens. Not something that happens often, but right now I just want to forget this stress for a bit." He took his flin and leaned back in his chair, putting his feet up on the table. "Remember the good old times, when we were just lowly Knights Brother and Sister? Following orders and beating up criminals in Elsweyr?"
For the first time in a few days, Renault chuckled, emulating him and putting her boots up on his already mutilated desk. "Now that you mention it..."
A/N: Apologies if this chapter seems substandard, but the writer's block got so bad I wrote anything I could. I managed to get over it, but... judge the quality of the end product for yourselves. Hopefully you won't have to wait as long for the next chapter, either. Do NOT forget to leave a review. They help and encourage me, and it's only a few minutes of your time, so if you've reached this far, leave a review.