A/N: It's been almost a month since my last update... sorry about that. And I can't really offer any excuse, either. I just hope I can flog my dedication back into shape. More reviews would probably help, though. Speaking of reviews...
Underpaid Critic: Well, it seemed fine to me, but... that's me, of course. I can't look at it from a reader's perspective, which is why reviews are so important. And yes, the end is in sight, but... it's a long way off yet. A lot of things have to happen first. And you've got over a year at least before I start my Skyrim fic, so... plenty of time.
Rokibfd: Gorgoth does care about some few of his allies, but he'll rarely, if ever, let that interfere with his planning; he's merely making the best use of the resources he has to hand, and they're more valuable to him alive than dead. Caring doesn't enter his equation. As for Modryn... you'll see him again. The Fighter's Guild quest line is progressing, after all. And I doubt Gorgoth will let him miss the climatic battle... Bleh, hate typos like that. Changed it.
Random Reader: Yeah, a few hundred Dremora might not be too well received... besides, he'd struggle to summon more then twenty at once. And that could have worked, true, but he's sticking to his 'tried-and-tested' methods. As for Aerin, that's really the core of her personality. It'll take more than a near-death experience to knock that for long; she's had a few of them in the past. I'll keep it up, that's for certain. Abandoning it now would be a betrayal.
As always, thanks to those who reviewed. And, as always, I'll remind those who didn't review to do so in future. It can't hurt, surely...
Chapter Forty: Focus
The small heap of black soil was still fresh, even several hours later. Lurog's hand smoothed the surface, the earth cold and wet under his rough green skin. There was no marker; Shagar's head would never be found again, but he would have no need of stones to remember him. Memories would be enough. The Orc had been a strong warrior and a worthy adversary; his soul would probably be resting easily in Aetherius, knowing that he had been defeated with honour.
Patting his cousin's grave one last time, the Orcish warrior rose and pulled on his gauntlets, looking up through the canopy of the Blackwood at the morning sun. It had been twilight when they'd emerged from Atatar the previous day; Gorgoth had wanted to pursue Burzukh immediately, but Glenroy had ordered him to stay as the Blades buried their dead. After a token argument, the warrior-shaman had obeyed – he had never been one to question a direct superior – but had taken the opportunity to retrieve Blackheart's body and cremate it on a funeral pyre along with his armour and what trophies the Redguard had kept with him in the Ayleid ruin.
They had set up camp near a clearing suitable for burial, and had worked through the night; twelve graves had been dug in a neat row, with carved stones marking their inhabitants. S'kasha and eleven Blades would never leave this place, but at least they were being honoured in death. Most of the Blades were busy paying their respects, so Lurog kept his steps as light as possible as he slowly walked past them to the camp. One, however, heard him and stood, blocking his path.
"How did he do it, Lurog?" demanded Callia, staring up at him with an expression that was a confused mixture of anger, shock, and sorrow. "How did he kill four of us? When we knew where he was, what he could do..." Her voice trailed off, and she swept her free hand slowly over the graves. The other fist was clenched tightly around the hilt of her katana.
The Orc knew exactly what she meant. Do'kazirr, confronted with a squad of Blades along with Modryn Oreyn and Jongar, must have known that his end had come. Having fought him before, Gorgoth and his fellow Orcs had warned their comrades of the dangers the Khajiit posed, but he had still killed four Blades before finally being cornered and overwhelmed.
"He was a great warrior," replied Lurog simply. "Be thankful that your squad didn't come across Blackheart. He would have killed more than four." She sighed angrily and glared into the distance. The Orc put a hand on her shoulder. "You couldn't have done anything else, Callia," he told her. "If anything, I'm surprised you managed to keep the casualties so low. Good men and women were always going to die killing him."
She met his eyes for a second before grunting and brushing off his hand, moving to kneel at another grave. The warrior respected her desire for solitude and started off towards the camp again. It was smaller now; the Guildsmen had left earlier. Oreyn had been eager to publish the tale and discredit the Blackwood Company while restoring the Guild's honour, but he had at least paid his respects to every individual Blade that had fallen before making his exit. He was a hard man and a good soldier, that one.
Gorgoth, Mazoga and Glenroy were sitting around a small fire. The Knight Captain was wrapping the katanas of his dead comrades in a large cloth, presumably to tie to his saddle until they were returned to Cloud Ruler Temple. Gorgoth was examining the contents of one of the six massive chests that he'd extracted from Atatar using spells to reduce their weight. Modryn had promptly taken twenty thousand septims for the Guild, declaring that their coffers could use the money, but he hadn't argued when Glenroy had claimed the rest; the Blades had suffered badly. The Imperial had kept three of the chests, but had given Gorgoth ten thousand septims to do with as he saw fit.
At the moment, the warrior-shaman was dividing up his spoils into equally-sized sacks, the gold clinking as he poured it in. The complexity of the telekinesis he was using was far beyond Lurog, so he simply crouched down beside Mazoga, who was watching intently. "How much are we each getting?" he asked. He personally didn't care how much he got – he had plenty of money back in Orsinium due to his years as a mercenary under Gorgoth – but it was always good to know that you could afford another good horse if the need arose.
"Twenty-five hundred each," grunted Mazoga, a slight smirk tugging at her mouth. "Us three and Aerin. Gorgoth says Ilend's in the Guild, so he can go bugger Modryn if he wants some."
"He'll love that, I'm sure," muttered Lurog sarcastically as he eyed one of the four sacks his comrade was filling. The Imperial didn't seem like the type to serve just for money, but he might well raise a protest if his lover got a small fortune while he missed out. His mind turned to more important matters. "Are we likely to catch Burzukh?" He did not bear the same hatred for his former comrade that Gorgoth did, but he still wanted to see him dead; the best enemy was a dead enemy.
The warrior-shaman shook his head. "It is unlikely that we'll reach them before they stop near Bruma. If Ilend and Aerin can track them, however, we can defeat them before they can become a problem. They might even lead us to the Orcs that Burzukh already sent north." He finished dividing the coins and started tying the necks of the sacks. "I would still prefer to leave as soon as possible. The less time we waste, the better." His last statement was clearly directed in Glenroy's direction.
"Within the hour. We'll have finished paying our respects by then." The Imperial had finished securing the katanas and was rising to his feet, putting his helmet on. "I'd best go and say a few words. Morale's low." He nodded to them and walked off towards the clearing. Mazoga watched him go, some appreciation showing in her eyes.
"He hasn't been a captain for long, but he certainly knows what to do," she mused.
"You'd bloody well hope so," barked a harsh voice from behind them. Lurog and Mazoga spun to find Uriel Signus entering the clearing, making little noise despite his heavy chainmail. The grizzled Imperial walked with the dangerous grace of a wily predator despite his advancing years. "Given that they're meant to be the finest soldiers in the bloody Empire, you'd hope that they can at least choose their officers well." The mercenary squatted down by the fire, looking at each of them in turn, his tongue running over his crooked teeth. His sword had been returned to him, but their captive had elected to stick around instead of taking the freedom offered to him by Glenroy.
"Why are you still here?" growled Mazoga, glaring across at him as she rested her naked sword against her knees.
Signus spat into the fire. "Finding a good paying job this far south is a nightmare unless you're Company," he muttered. "And given that the Daedra seem to be so focused on fighting everyone, all the decent wars have dried up." He shook his head and spat again. "I'm here because I'm not sure where to go next."
"Why not fight the Daedra?" asked Lurog. "An experienced sellsword might find himself in demand in threatened areas. Which is just about everywhere."
The Imperial laughed bitterly and waved a dismissive hand. "I'll fight anyone within reason if the pay is good enough. Do pretty much anything as well. But I'll not fight them." He spat the word with such loathing that Lurog raised an eyebrow.
"Why not?" The Orc folded his arms and watched as the mercenary took the weight off his legs, settling to the ground. "Who better to fight these days?" Gorgoth had finished tying the sacks and was silently watching the Imperial with his typical unwavering cold gaze.
"I'd sooner jump naked into a bath full of blood-crazed slaughterfish than cross a Daedra," snorted Signus. He traced a hand over his chest. "I have a scar from here-" he tapped his right shoulder "-to here." He ran his hand across his torso, stopping under his left armpit. "Took one of my nipples off. Didn't get to a healer in time to fix the scar. A Dremora did that." The mercenary spat again. "Once was enough. I'd need a small fortune to fight one of those bastards again. It would be all right if they died, but... I know that smug git is out there right now, with that sword in his hand, and no matter what I do, I can't kill him."
"So you're a coward," sneered Mazoga, glaring at him with a look of contempt spreading across her features. Lurog sighed, closing his eyes. She always had been hasty. Not to mention fiery. But she was right, this time.
The Imperial snarled. "I am no coward," he insisted, lurching to his feet and placing a hand on his sword. "I've fought in more battles than you've read about, girl. If you can even read."
"On the winning side every time," observed Gorgoth, putting up a hand to forestall his lover's furious reply. "You always made sure you were on the side with the clear advantage, I'm sure."
"You surrendered to Caroline when you still had some fight left in you, if Modryn was telling it right," added Lurog, rising to his feet. Signus glared at him and took a step back.
"And you refuse to even consider fighting Daedra just because some Dremora wounded you once," spat Mazoga, also rising. The sellsword's grey eyes flickered from one to the other, unsure.
Gorgoth smoothly rose to his feet, kicking soil over the fire to extinguish it but never taking his eyes away from the Imperial's. "It is not always the case, but sometimes men who fight only for coin think only of their own skins and run at the first sign of hardship," he grated, his voice hard as he stepped forward. Signus took another step back. "They don't think of their comrades, or their cause, why they're fighting. They don't think of hundreds of things that might help them, such as the strengths and weaknesses of the men at their side. They don't care about anything except their gold and their life." The warrior-shaman kept advancing, forcing Signus away until he backed into a tree. A conjured shortsword appeared in the Orc's hand and he plunged it into the tree an inch away from the mercenary's ear, watching him flinch away as fragments of bark hit his face.
"Give me a good reason why I shouldn't kill you, coward," growled the Orc, grabbing his victim's left shoulder and pressing him back against the tree.
There was fear in the Imperial's eyes as they met Gorgoth's, but his hands were steady and his back straight; he knew how to control his emotions, at least. "I can be of use to you," he muttered, his voice not as harsh at it had once been. He dropped his gaze to the warrior-shaman's throat.
"What use is a coward?" snorted Mazoga dismissively. She and Lurog had taken up positions just behind their compatriot's shoulders. "Kill this idiot. He's defiling the air that we're breathing."
"You can find a use for just about everything, if you know how," countered Lurog, looking sideways at her. "You found a use for Weebam-Na, if I recall." His fellow warrior snorted again and tossed her head, her multitude of braids flying in several directions at once. He often found himself wondering why she didn't wear war braids. She probably didn't want to have to cut her hair if she was ever defeated. It was just like Mazoga to get irrationally attached to something.
"Bravery is relative!" shouted Signus, raising a hand and tapping Gorgoth's breastplate. "Yes, I was always on the winning side, but what sellsword with sense would take the losing side?" He spat before glaring at Lurog. "Modryn didn't tell it right; a few more hits would have ended me. That girl's got a rare skill with a blade. I'm not about to throw my life away because it's honourable to put death before capture." The Imperial shook his head again. "And I don't fight Daedra because the few who would hire me wouldn't pay well enough. Think about it." He snarled and pushed himself away from the tree, skirting around Gorgoth.
"The Counts and Countesses and rulers of cities have their guards. Farmers, hunters, everyone who lives outside their walls, they can flee into them. Villagers too stubborn to move can't afford me. The Legion is stretched, but not so desperate to hire mercs, and the treasury is empty anyway." The mercenary spat again and glared up at the warrior-shaman. "You call me a coward, but that's what you think. You're Orcs. You think different." All the fear was gone from his eyes.
Silence fell. As he thought it over, Lurog realised that Signus was speaking some semblance of sense. Imperial sellswords would have none of the Orcish honour, and while that made them a target for contempt, it also made them easily misunderstood. Gorgoth, however, had clearly already worked that out. Maybe he had planned this all along. "Would you fight Daedra if your life depended on it?" the warrior-shaman asked slowly, his voice low.
The Imperial nodded. "Aye, I would," he replied. "I'd fight pretty much anything if my life depended on it. I quite value my life. You might have noticed."
Leaning forward, Gorgoth gripped the mercenary's shoulder. "Only a blind man could fail to see the signs, Imperial. With more Oblivion Gates opening every day, it's obvious that Dagon is increasing the pressure. If he ever succeeds, what do you think will happen to you? Will he spare you because you didn't fight him? No. He'll hunt you down and kill you for sport." He straightened and took a step back. "So your life does depend on it. We need every fighter we can get. Come to Cloud Ruler Temple with us."
Signus looked over his shoulder at the summoned shortsword still buried in the tree behind him. After a moment's thought, he turned back to Gorgoth. "You make it hard for me to refuse," he grunted. The warrior-shaman said nothing, waiting in silence. Lurog searched that impenetrable face for answers but, as usual, found none. He'd known Gorgoth for nearly a decade, but he was still a mystery to him all too often.
Eventually, the Imperial sighed and gave an almost imperceptible nod. "When do we leave?"
"Within the hour. Do not fall behind."
"They're camped just off the Yellow Road. They don't seem ta be leaving it in the daytime. Makes it easier for us ta track them, but harder ta keep up." Aerin paused to bite deep into the apple that Ilend had given her when she'd returned from her scouting. She'd have to go hunting soon; it had only been two days since they'd left Atatar, but the provisions they'd taken with them had been meagre.
"The Panther River's just to the north of us," muttered Ilend, frowning down at the map that he was struggling to read by moonlight. There was no fire; any light might have been detected by the Orcs, who had good eyes in darkness. The Bosmer had been tempted to complain, but the nights weren't so cold now that she was sharing her lover's blankets. The mere thought of it still brought a slight flush to her cheeks and an impish smile to her face. Ilend had refused to take her virginity until they were safe in a proper bed, but the mere warmth of sharing blankets was good enough for her for now.
He continued, probably unaware of the Wood Elf's straying thoughts. "We should cross tonight, before them. If Burzukh's smart, he might leave a guard. It's the only bridge across the Panther for miles, and I wouldn't fancy fording it in many of these places." His gauntleted finger swept across the tiny ribbon that indicated the river on his map. "I'll stay awake for two hours, then wake you for your shift. Then we'll move." His eyes met hers, awaiting confirmation.
"Sounds good," she murmured. They were sitting together under the same tree the horses were tied to, with their bedroll nearby. "I've ridden with Gorgoth enough times. I've mostly got used ta the lack of sleep." He laughed and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, squeezing her to him. The Imperial even slept in that chainmail these days, but it didn't matter; she could feel the warmth of him through the cold steel rings. "Do ya think Gorgoth's following us yet?" she asked, resting her head on his shoulder and holding the apple core up behind her head. A warm, wet nose tickled her fingers as Firebrand plucked the half-eaten fruit from her hand.
"He should be," responded Ilend, staring at his free hand without seeing it. She knew him well enough by now to know when he was in deep thought, only giving half his attention to the world around him. This was one of those times, it seemed. "You know how fast he rides."
She idly nodded, giving him a few minutes with his thoughts as she removed her gauntlets. "What are ya thinking about, guardsman?" she eventually asked, sliding her bare hand through his black locks to rub the back of his neck. He smiled.
"You," he told her, closing his eyes and sighing contentedly as her hand worked at what muscles of his neck she could reach. "We could really use someone like you in the Guild, you know."
Aerin laughed, lightly punching him in the ribs with her other hand. "Ya know, guardsman, weird as it was, I was expecting something... deep and contemplative, ya know? Like you were... meditating on the nature of my being. And then you come out with..." She dissolved into laughter, wrapping both arms around him. His smile grew broader as his hands stroked her hair.
"Well, it's true," he said defensively. "Besides, meditating on you would be a waste of time right now. I think I'll need years before I can understand you." Snorting, he shook his head. "Come on, now. You should be getting some sleep." He poked the bedroll with his foot.
She pouted, but he was right; neither of them had slept for nearly twenty hours, and it felt as though there were weights dragging down her eyelashes. Reluctantly, she detached herself from the Imperial and dragged their bedroll a bit closer to him so that he could sit up against the tree while still lending her warmth. As she was making herself as comfortable as she could under the thick blanket, a thought struck her and she turned to frown at Ilend's thigh, which was level with her head. "Could we... hold them at the bridge?"
Her lover raised an eyebrow. "And how do you propose we do that?" he asked, his voice laced with curiosity and some slight disbelief.
She sat up, tracing a finger over the massive recurve bow he'd taken from the Orc who had ambushed them at Atatar. It was a fine weapon, as tall as Ilend was, with immense range and power. Strong as he was, the Imperial could barely draw it, but he was a fair shot, and would outrange her by at least fifty paces despite Trueshot's enchantment. "The bridge is the only one for miles either way, ya said?" she asked. He confirmed it with a nod. "So, maybe... the two of us could stand at one end and block it with their bodies? I know I can get four, five shots off before they reach us."
For a moment, the Protector considered, scratching a jaw that was thick with stubble. Then he shook his head. "Even if we could slow then, Aerin... they outrange us, and I'm willing to bet that most of them are better archers than I am." He sighed. "It's tempting, but all Gorgoth told us to do was keep in contact with them. We'll leave the killing to him. It's what he's best at."
Aerin grimaced but accepted his wisdom, laying her head down on what passed for a pillow. She could feel the hard ground through the thin bedroll, but she'd slept far rougher than this before. "Besides," Ilend continued, "I get the feeling that Gorgoth might not be happy if we present him with Burzukh's head. I think he wants to settle matters personally." The Wood Elf murmured agreement, wrapping an arm around the Guildsman's leg and hugging it to her as she closed her eyes. He kept talking, but fatigue dulled her senses. She fell asleep with her cheek pressed against his knee, listening to the sound of his voice.
Cassandra Renault had been a Blade for nearly twenty years, so when her counterpart had come for her, she knew instantly from the look on his face that it was serious. She followed the Captain of the Temple Garrison to the small rooms of the East Wing, almost wishing he would break into a run. But Knight Captains of the Blades had to maintain their dignity, so he merely walked as quickly as he could. Even so, Renault was burning with impatience when she finally reached their destination.
Lucius Varo had been the resident battlemage of Cloud Ruler Temple for as long as she could remember. He was completely bald, and his face was lined and weathered with age – he had reportedly lived for over a century – but he was still fit and ready for whatever duty called him to do. He had always been reliable in the past, but now he was sitting on his stool with a look of dejection and resignation in his deep brown eyes. Rising to salute his superior, he found himself ignored as the Breton crossed the room in three quick strides to kneel beside the bed.
Jauffre, in contrast to the battlemage, looked the oldest she'd ever seen him. All the flesh was gone from his face, leaving skin stretched tight over gaunt cheeks. The fire was still in his eyes, however; he looked up and nodded in satisfaction when she leaned over him, taking his hand in hers. The flesh felt cold. "Good that you've come, Cassandra," whispered her Grandmaster in a voice as thin and brittle as old parchment. "Age always seems to creep up on you, then bite without warning." His wheeze might have been a bitter laugh.
"Is there anything you can do for him?" she asked Lucius, hastily blinking back tears. Her superior wasn't called Grandfather by the Blades for nothing; many of them held some kind of affection for the old man who had been Grandmaster for as long as most of them could remember.
The battlemage shook his head. "I can't cure old age, Captain," he muttered. "It's only a matter of time now. I'll do what I can, but..." he spread his hands helplessly. Steffan, standing beside Renault, sighed and also knelt. The Breton could almost physically feel the burden of command shifting onto her fellow Captain's shoulders.
Jauffre's hand gripped hers, bringing her eyes back to him. "I've still got enough strength to... do what has to be done," he rasped. "These will probably be my last orders." He paused, swallowing. "Steffan, you'll be Acting Grandmaster, speaking with my voice, until I pass on to Aetherius. Then you will lead the Blades." The Imperial nodded; he'd expected nothing else. "Remember..." the old man paused again, his breath rattling in his throat as his face took on a determined look. "Gorgoth must be released from his oath after Martin is crowned. But I... I have to speak to him first." He closed his eyes, looking pained.
"I'll send for him immediately," confirmed his successor, touching his fingers to his heart.
The Grandmaster opened his eyes again and looked at Renault. "You have done well with the... networks," he murmured. "But you are Captain of the Imperial Bodyguard, not the Spymaster. Recall Captain Cosades from Orsinium. He will relieve you and take his proper place."
She nodded, secretly pleased. Mostly, operating the extensive network of Blades spies had been a matter of following the notes and orders Caius had left for her when he had departed for High Rock some time ago on matters that required his personal attention. It had been complex work, however, his webs so intricate that they made her brain hurt. That man's plans would confuse Mephala, let alone a simple soldier. She'd welcome the return to her comparatively simple bodyguard duties. Jauffre was not finished, however.
"When the Emperor is crowned... take every Blade you can with him, apart from a handful to remain here. He must be kept safe." The vehemence in the old man's voice didn't surprise her; this late in his life, he would not want to be remembered as the Grandmaster who'd let the last Septim die.
"He'll be surrounded by every Blade we can spare, Reynald," promised Steffan. "Any attackers will have to cut through over fifty of the best swords in the Empire."
Jauffre nodded, his eyes sliding shut again. "One last order," he whispered, his voice so weak that both Captains had to lean forward to hear him. "Do not make the mistakes that I did." His breath left him in a long, low sigh as he opened his eyes, looking at each of them in turn. "Go, and protect the Emperor," he ordered. They got to their feet, snapping to attention and delivering perfect salutes, fists to heart. He acknowledged them with a weak nod as his eyes slid shut again. Turning on her heels, Renault led the way out, only to be checked once again by the Grandmaster's voice.
"If he can be spared, send Martin to me. And do not... do not forget Gorgoth. I must see him."
"I'll send messengers within the hour," responded Steffan. Jauffre nodded and closed his eyes. Lucius leaned over him and waved them from the room.
Once outside the sick room, Renault sighed and slowly put her helmet back on. Steffan waited for her, leaning back against the door frame and staring at the opposite wall, politely averting his eyes as she angrily brushed away the single tear that she'd let fall. There would be a time for mourning, but it was not now. "I suppose you'll have to name a new Captain of the Temple Garrison," she muttered, hoping to divert their minds.
The Imperial nodded. "Glenroy," he told her. "That's why I promoted him in the first place. To ease him into his rank before he gets the position." A small smile plucked at her lips. Steffan always had been one for rigorous preparation. "I'd better get Jauffre's orders carried out," he said, looking from side to side. They were alone in the corridor. "You'll want to send a message to Caius. It'll be good to see him again."
Her smile grew slightly wider as she started off towards the courtyard. Steffan fell in beside her. "It definitely will be," she said wistfully. "He won't have changed much. He never does." Despite his long absences from the Temple on official business with the more shadowy part of the Blades, both of them liked the old Imperial and the tales he brought back with him. Security prevented him from telling them everything, of course, but even so, they knew more about the Nerevarine than most of Morrowind.
In the courtyard, the afternoon sun was shining down brightly on the carpets of snow that would probably lie until spring came again. The Imperial stopped at one of the braziers, taking the time to warm his hands. Renault joined him, giving a pointed glance to the small huddle of Blades that indicated that the two captains wanted privacy. They reluctantly shuffled away to one of the other braziers, clutching their cloaks tightly around them.
"He always wanted to die in battle," said Renault softly, gazing into the brazier, the fire hot on her face. The new effective commander of the Blades didn't reply, instead staring bleakly into the distance.
The clack of wood on wood echoed throughout the larger training room as Saliith launched another flurry of attacks on his latest opponent. He'd been sparring since he'd got up in the late morning, eager to prevent any dulling of his skills. A gladiator who let his training slip would pay for that mistake, and it would be the same for a soldier. And despite his known prowess, there was no shortage of Blades willing to try their hand against him, particularly as Lathar was on hand to bark obscenities at them every time they made a mistake.
Not that there were many mistakes; the Blades were the Emperor's sworn bodyguards for a reason. Several had pressed him hard, and he was willing to bet that some few could take on the entire Arena by themselves, one by one. He bore several bruises himself, but without fail he had given out more than he'd taken in every session so far. It gave him a sense of purpose; keeping himself honed was far better than sitting around doing nothing in this frozen fortress.
Of course, he hadn't been completely idle. Once, he had helped the Bruma Guard close an Oblivion Gate, and the exhilaration had immense after so much inactivity. But the Guard – its numbers now swelled by mercenaries and aid from the other cities – was now perfectly able to close isolated Gates with minimal losses. Even so, they were bleeding; it was only a matter of time before Dagon tried something else, and Bruma was still in peril. The worst thing was that Saliith couldn't do anything about their fate; the entire world depended on an ex-priest and the speed at which he could translate an evil book written by a Daedric Lord.
A wooden practice sword grazing his arm snapped his full attention back to the sparring. His opponent, a bulky Nord named Roliand, was stripped to the waist and already sporting two prominent bruises, but he was still fighting with relentless strength. Saliith himself was only wearing his ragged, dirt-stained tunic; he always believed that the increased pain was a greater incentive to stay untouched. He danced away from the Nord's second swing, avoiding the wooden sword-stick – longer than his two to resemble the difference between shortsword and katana – before dancing back into range, slashing with both weapons.
Roliand twisted, parrying one, but the other grazed his thigh with enough force to have been a distracting wound had the wood been steel. Staggering slightly, the Nord opened himself for a flurry of attacks, finding himself driven back across the training room until the Grand Champion brought both blades down simultaneously either side of his neck. The force of the blow sent him to his knees, and he dropped his sword, wincing as his hands found the painful-looking welts already apparent on his collarbone.
"You're a good one, Nord," remarked Saliith, lowering his weapons and helping the Knight Brother to his feet. "You almost killed me once. I just wore you down."
The Blade chuckled, shaking his head. "The Arena didn't stand a chance when you were unleashed, I can tell," he said, picking up his sword and throwing it in Lathar's direction. The grizzled Redguard caught it one-handed and rested it on his knees, looking around for anyone else willing to try their luck. There were over a dozen off-duty Blades in the training room, most already bearing bruises. They were likely working themselves hard to take their minds off their ailing Grandmaster.
"Not bad, Roliand, not bad," muttered the drillmaster. From him, that was high praise. "Try not to waste yourself too early."
"Why don't you try him, Lathar?" suggested on of the spectators, a mischievous grin appearing on his face. Lathar barked a harsh laugh and shook his head.
"I teach, whelp. I don't get taught." Looking at Saliith, the old Redguard snorted and lowered his voice, though everyone in the chamber could still hear him clearly. "They call me 'Leathertongue' when they think I'm not around," he growled. Some of the Blades had the good grace to look abashed. "Seems to me with both suit our names, lizard. I doubt anyone in this fortress could survive you, one-on-one."
"There is someone, actually," announced a Redguard Blade named Cameron as he walked in, clad in full armour, clearly on duty. "Well, I'd assume the Grey Prince could at least survive his successor."
The Grand Champion's head jerked up and he dropped his practice blades. "Agronak gro-Malog is here?" he asked, shocked. He knew that Ysabel would be furious at his prolonged absence, but he'd never imagined that she'd be able to bully Agronak into fetching him.
Cameron shrugged. "I don't think Cloud Ruler Temple is hosting another pale half-Orc that's known to pretty much the entire continent," he remarked sardonically. "He's waiting in one of the communal areas. Wants to talk to you." He half-turned to the door, clearly waiting for Saliith to follow him.
"Let's hope he doesn't want to drag our favourite Argonian back to the Arena," observed Roliand as the lizard donned his scale armour and belted on his swords. It was always best to dress like going into battle when talking of Arena matters. "You're a good fighter, Saliith. You're a lot of use here. Maybe we could get Steffan to..." what the Nord wanted Steffan to do was lost as the Green Tornado strode from the training room.
Cameron led him to one of the small communal areas in the West Wing. "He wanted privacy," explained the Blade as he turned to stand guard beside the closed door, waving for the Argonian to enter.
Rolling his shoulders as though preparing to plunge into a swirling melee, Saliith pushed open the door and entered. Agronak was seated near the window, watching the midafternoon sun's reflections on the mountains to the west. He rose as his successor approached. The half-Orc had left his impractical Raiment of Valour at the Arena and instead opted for leather and furs, looking more like an Orc than ever. A small smile plucked at his lips as he firmly grasped his fellow gladiator's hand in greeting, his rough calloused skin grinding against the green scales. "Good to see you again, friend," he greeted.
"And you, Agronak," replied the Grand Champion, gripping his comrade's hand before releasing it. "Though I have to wonder what draws you to this Oblivion-scarred frozen wasteland."
"Well, I like to visit the north and feel the snow between my toes every so often," said the Blademaster, waving in the general direction of a chair before returning to his own chair. "The heat of the Imperial City might make me soft after a while. I'm more Orc than Imperial; we like the cold."
"You got that right," muttered Saliith, sinking slowly into a chair and manoeuvring his sword hilts out of his ribs. He could recall Gorgoth describing winter in Bruma as 'mild'. Orcs were mad, all of them. Even the half-breeds. "Not that I could ever see you as soft, Agronak. But I note you didn't answer my question." He leaned forward. "Do you find yourself wondering how Owyn ever put up with Ysabel?" he smirked.
The half-Orc grimaced. "That woman is... gah." He shook his head, his gaze drifting to the window again. "Yes, she's difficult to work with, but at least she runs the financial side of the Arena admirably. I can see why Owyn stuck with her... but yes, she did bully me into coming to bring you back."
"Will she skin you alive if you return empty-handed?"
"Most likely." A wry grin twisted Agronak's mouth, making his prominent Orcish canines seem even more fearsome.
"Well, I'm sorry to abandon you to that fate, my friend... but I have no intention of leaving this Oblivion-scarred frozen wasteland until the Oblivion Crisis is over." The lizard leaned back in his seat. "I have a purpose here. I might not survive, but at least I'll have died for something more than the love of a greedy mob who adore the Green Tornado but know nothing about Saliith."
The former Grand Champion gave his successor a searching, analytical glance. The Argonian shifted, slightly uncomfortable under the glare of that yellow gaze. Finally, the Grey Prince nodded slightly. "There was a time, once, when you'd have lived for nothing but that adoration," he mused. "You've changed, Saliith. Most of the gladiators at the Arena would call you a fool, and Ysabel would agree, but I've seen more than them." He closed his eyes and sighed. "I wish you the best of luck. I'll need some as well, to survive Ysabel when I get back. There's no sense in trying to persuade you to come back; you've moved on. While I might have killed hundreds, I'm not one to try and change your purpose."
Smiling gratefully, the Green Tornado rose to his feet, habitually running his hand over the throwing knives on his back. "Thanks. But you can do more than that." He crossed the room to stand beside Agronak's chair, looking with him out at the snow. "It's senseless that good warriors are killing each other for sport when men less skilled than them are dying in defence of the entire world," he rasped. "Stay here. Or, better yet, go then return with whoever you can convince to come. We'll need every good fighter we can get in the days to come."
The half-Orc smirked. "You sound like a doomsayer," he chuckled. Despite the levity of his tone, however, it was evident that he was giving the proposal much thought. His fingers rose up and unconsciously started to tap his canines. Saliith laughed.
"Gorgoth does that," he pointed out.
Raising an eyebrow, the Blademaster looked down at his fingers. "Does he?" he murmured. "Seems that me and him have a lot in common. I was hoping to speak to him."
"He's down south on Fighter's Guild business. Something about rooting out a bandit lord."
Agronak grunted in acknowledgement. "Let's say I put this proposal of yours to the gladiators," he said. "You're going to be in enough trouble as it is by refusing to return. Ysabel can't replace me as Blademaster, but she can try to have you deposed as Grand Champion. Knowing her, she would try."
Saliith snorted. "You'd block that. And so would any gladiator with a brain."
"Most of the gladiators don't even have half a brain. You should know that by now." The half-Orc grunted as though remembering something. "That reminds me. Those two young protégés of yours have joined up." Seeing the look of alarm on his friend's face, the Blademaster held up his hands to calm him. "Relax. I made sure they were good enough before letting them in. And I made sure they're both on the Yellow Team. No chance of-" He stopped short, but Branwen's name still resonated in Saliith's head.
"That's good," he rasped, moving quickly on to dispel any awkwardness. "It's good. They were always going to join some day. I hope I can see them fight at least once before I die. Or they die."
Agronak stood and looked him in the eyes. "You think you're going to die?" he asked.
Saliith nodded. "Probably," he confirmed. "Dagon's got a lot of armies. There's going to be a big battle at some point. And I'm going to be in it. I'm good, but anything could happen." He stepped forward and took the half-Orc's shoulder in an iron grip. "And that is why we need more gladiators," he grated. "Even a few dozen could make a big impact. See what you can do. Please." The last word came strangely to his tongue; politeness had been foreign in the Bloodworks.
The Grey Prince gripped his hand. "I'll see what I can do," he promised. "Don't expect anything. You know how Ysabel is." He gently removed the Argonian's hand from his shoulder and strode towards the exit, picking up his shield from where it had been resting against his chair. It was high-quality ebony, scarred and pitted by the blows of hundreds of weapons. "I'm staying the night in Bruma. I don't blame the Blades for not wanting a stranger here. It took more than just my reputation to get me in."
"Even if none of the others come... you'll be here, won't you?" asked Saliith, gazing intently into his friend's eyes. "When the time comes?"
Agronak returned his gaze levelly. "I promise that I'll do my utmost," he replied, before turning and leaving the Green Tornado alone in the room with the rays of the setting sun.
"The Corbolo's the last river between Burzukh and an uninterrupted road to the north," explained Ilend, rolling out his map and pointing out the relevant places, struggling to see in the dim lit of the early night's moons. "Again, this is pretty much the only bridge for miles, and fording points are miles downriver."
"And we're on the north side, and Burzukh isn't," pointed out Aerin, smiling. "Methinks I'll sleep more soundly tonight."
The ex-guardsman smirked and shook his head. They'd tracked Burzukh's group all through the last day, keeping in contact but never in sight, staying in the forest. When the Orc had finally made camp just off the Yellow Road, they'd sneaked past him and across the Corbolo. "He could still ride across in the night and hang your head from his saddle," he reminded her. "We'll keep the same watch as usual."
Sighing, the Wood Elf slid away from him and started unpacking their bedroll. "It's me doing most of the scouting. I'm so tired, Ilend."
He looked over at her. The riding had been hard, and there hadn't been much sleep available in the last few days. She did look tired, with dark bags under her eyes and shoulders that were slumped with fatigue. "All right, then," he sighed, recalling Savlian Matius's lesson about hardship and ignoring it. "You sleep. I'll take your watch for you."
She stiffened and muttered something under her breath before turning back to him. "No, no, no, you can't do that, it wouldn't be fair." She shook her head and tapped him on the nose. "You get some sleep. I'll take the first watch, don't you worry." Her tired smile turned into a curious grin as he started chuckling. "What?"
"Nothing, nothing," he laughed, gently punching her on the arm. "I just like your new-found sense of duty is all." He kissed her on the cheek and stood, walking over to check on the horses. Satisfied that they were well-fed and rested, he was stroking Javelin's nose when he felt her arms wrap around him from behind.
"Ya confuse me sometimes, ya know?" she told his back.
"And here I was, always assuming it would be the other way around, with you confusing me without fail every day," he replied, smirking and turning around to hug her. Her warm body was a welcome ward against the cold night air. "You know, I-" he cut off short, looking up, alert. Aerin detected the change and stepped away from him, her hand going to Trueshot as she, too, looked around for whatever had made the mistake of treading on a twig.
"You two could wake the dead, you know." The cool female voice came from the shadows beneath a stunted tree. Ilend gripped his sword hilt firmly as his companion removed her bow from her back, nocking an arrow. Neither made a move to attack, however; the voice was somewhat familiar, and definitely not Orcish.
"Show yourself," challenged Ilend, taking a step forward. They'd made camp in a tiny clearing, barely eight feet across, but there was plenty of room to swing his sword if he was in the centre of it.
The figure stepped out of the shadows and into the clearing. Masser was hidden by clouds, but as soon as the Protector saw Secunda's silvery light reflected off Akaviri-styled plate armour, he relaxed slightly. Behind him, he heard Aerin returning her arrow to the quiver on her hip. "Gorgoth sent you?" he asked.
Even in the low light, Callia's grimace at the mention of the Orc's name was evident. "He did," she grated. "I've got orders for you. Not sure what authority he has, but... I'd follow them if I were you."
The Imperial nodded, nodding to Aerin to resume setting up camp. "Of course. He's got authority because anyone with common sense follows a good leader. Where are his orders?"
Snorting, the Breton threw down her pack near their bedroll before leading her horse to tie him to a nearby tree. "You think he writes his orders?" she asked, contempt clear in her voice. "Even he can barely understand his own writing. No, he made me repeat them five times before he was satisfied."
"Get to the point," said Aerin sharply, sitting down on the bedroll. The Knight Sister took her own bedding from her horse and laid it out nearby before answering.
"We're camped close to Burzukh, just to the south. Gorgoth is going to attack him at first light. We're to hold the bridge. If any Orcs come across the river, you're to send the largest, brightest fireball you can into the sky as a message." The Breton removed her helmet and laid it down on her bedroll before loosening her hair. "Should be simple enough."
Aerin muttered something under her breath, presumably something about missing all the action after tracking Burzukh for days. Ilend knew, however, that after her last encounter, she wouldn't be eager to get to grips with any of his warriors any time soon. He nodded and walked over to their bedding, slumping down beside the Bosmer. "How long until dawn, roughly?" he asked, squinting up at the cloudy sky.
"About six hours. I'll take the first watch, if you like. You two look tired." There was no contempt in Callia's voice; it was clear that she knew the hardships sometimes faced by scouts. The Imperial smiled gratefully and started removing his gauntlets. "And if you, ah..." The Breton paused, looking up at Secunda. "If you two are in the habit of screwing every night, don't worry about it bothering me. I can-" Her rapid stream of words were cut short by Aerin's laughter.
"No, we don't," replied Ilend, rubbing his bristly upper lip in an attempt to hide his smirk. "Not yet, anyway." The Knight Sister mumbled something and rose to walk around the tiny clearing, putting her helmet back on. As his lover lay back on the bedroll, the Imperial finished with his gauntlets and was taking his bow from his back when his head jerked up.
Callia had heard it as well; one hand was in the air, signalling danger, and she had dropped to a crouch with the other hand on the hilt of her katana. Ilend nudged Aerin to rouse her and rose silently to his feet, pulling his gauntlets back on and checking his bowstring. The sound came again, clearer this time; the snorting of a horse was unmistakeable in this lonely part of the forest. Taking an arrow from his quiver – he'd taken the dead Orc's arrows as well as his bow – the Protector moved closer to the Blade, making sure he didn't tread on anything likely to make a sound.
Now voices were drifting through the trees; they were hard to pick out at this distance, but there was no mistaking the guttural, harsh language of the Orcs. Squinting but seeing nothing, the Guildsman beckoned to Aerin. "Do you see anything?" he whispered in her ear. Elves saw better in the dark than humans. Unfortunately for them, Orcish eyes were generally even better than Bosmeri eyes for that purpose.
She shook her head, eyes scanning the dark forest in the general direction of the voices. Callia's head was swivelling from side to side, her katana in hand. "Spread out," hissed Ilend. "They're mounted. In the thick trees, we can use that to our advantage." They nodded and peeled off to the left and right, leaving him to move cautiously forward with arrow nocked, peering around a thick trunk, attempting to see before he was seen.
Minutes later, as his eyes were starting to hurt from the effort, he glimpsed movement. A massive shape disrupted the murky blackness of the shadows as it moved towards him. As it moved closer, a gap in the canopy overhead illuminated the figure with silvery moonlight for a split second. The armour glinting off both Orc and horse finally convinced the Imperial that they were facing enemies; none of their Orcish allies had armoured mounts. More shadows moved forward to either side; two more mounted Orcs swam into his vision.
He was so tense that when the leader spoke, he almost dropped his arrow in shock. Willing his racing heart to slow, he focused on staying very still. There was no point in attempting to listen; Lurog had attempted to teach him a few words of Orcish, but the ex-guardsman never had been good with languages. He was good, however, with weapons, and his bow was powerful, the bodkin arrows designed to pierce armour. If he could get a shot off at close range, he might even stand a chance of penetrating the formidable triple-layered armour that Orcish warriors favoured. Only Trueshot, however, could be relied upon to penetrate those layers of boiled leather, heavy chainmail and thick steel plate. Fighting was inevitable; the Orcs were heading straight for them, and any attempt at flight now would only alert them.
Keeping his breathing slow and steady, the Protector took a step out from behind the tree's cover and raised his bow, arrow half-drawn. The enemy was now barely twenty paces from him; they would see him within seconds. Briefly, he considered a fireball, but despite his training, his pool of magicka was still pathetically tiny, so any spell he could conjure was unlikely to be powerful enough to do much damage beyond the plate armour. Instead, he waited.
The Orc in the centre spotted him almost instantly, and shouted a warning, spurring his horse towards the Imperial as he raised a large war axe. Ilend waited as long as he dared for the range to close before firing. The arrow took the massive figure in the shoulder, unbalancing him slightly but doing no other visible damage. The Protector dropped his bow and rolled out of the way, coming up with longsword in hand as the horse and rider swept past him. A scream and a crash to his right informed him that one of the Orc's horses had been killed; that had likely been Aerin's work, as the plate armour of their steeds was even thicker than that of their riders.
Pushing everything else to the back of his mind, the Imperial whirled and looked for his attacker. Unable to manoeuvre quickly due to the trees, the Orsimer had already dismounted and was advancing towards him with axe and shield at the ready. Moving to meet him, the ex-guardsman took his own shield from his back and adopted a combat stance, sword held high. "Come and get it, you bastard," he growled. His opponent snarled something in his native tongue and advanced.
The axe was a heavy weapon, with a single cutting half-moon blade balanced by a large spike, but the Orc swung it with speed and precision that made the weight seem inconsequential. It was clear that the arrow in his shoulder hadn't penetrated his armour. Ilend ducked low under the slash before surging forward with a thrust of his own. The Orsimer bashed the longsword aside with his shield and aimed a kick at the Imperial's midsection, but he was already moving backwards out of range, shield raised high to catch an overhead axe blow. The attack was so powerful that it penetrated the painted steel, jarring his entire body, but his shield had done its job; the axe was lodged in the centre of the two moons.
Forcing his opponent's weapon arm to the side, the Imperial darted forward, feinting high to draw up his shield before stabbing downwards at the hip. Twisting at the last second, the Orc managed to avoid a serious wound as the Daedric steel scraped ineffectively across his armour. Twisting the other way, he wrenched his axe free with enough force to send them both staggering to the side. The Protector managed to recover first and stepped within the Orsimer's reach, close enough to feel his enemy's hot breath through the mouth-hole of his helmet, before driving his sword upwards with all his strength. His opponent was too slow to react as the blade punched through his chain gorget and through his throat, the attack delivered with enough power to drive the point of the blade out the back of his neck.
Leaving his weapon where it was, Ilend released the hilt and leapt backwards to avoid the Orc's desperate swings as he started to choke on his own blood. As the mortally-wounded Orsimer charged one last time, the Guildsman sidestepped and simply stuck out a leg, bringing his opponent down with a crash that would probably be heard half a mile away. Crouching down over his foe's back, he swiftly drew his dagger, cut the straps of the Orc's helmet, wrenched it off and drove his dagger up into the base of his skull. The mighty elf's struggles ceased.
Rolling the corpse over to retrieve his longsword, the Imperial finally allowed himself to hear what was going on around him. The clash of steel on steel was going on somewhere behind him, but few other sounds resonated through the forest. "Aerin?" he shouted, rising to his feet with bloody sword in hand. "Callia?"
A rustling brought his head around, and he raised his shield before relaxing as Aerin left the shadows, walking cautiously up to him with an arrow nocked to her bowstring. "That bugger died easily enough when he was trapped under his own horse," she muttered, nodding behind her. "Sounds like Callia's still got problems, though. Head out?"
He nodded and started moving towards the sounds of battle, keeping an eye out. The last thing he wanted was to come upon them suddenly and have his head chopped off by a stray blow. It was Aerin who saw them first, pointing to shadowy shapes moving about forty paces away. Ilend increased his speed to a jog, hoping that the Orc's focus would be on Callia and not on the snapping twigs behind him.
The dismounted enemy was driving the Breton before him, his battleaxe more than able to penetrate her armour, but the experienced Blade wasn't giving him an easy opening. She sidestepped and ducked around blows, placing her feet quickly but carefully, not giving that mighty axe head a chance to break her shield or armour. Ilend stopped within five paces of the Orc, his blade raised and ready to stab upwards into his back, but he hesitated. Stabbing people in the back wasn't something he was accustomed to; it had always been looked down upon in the Watch. However, the ex-gladiator next to him had no such compunctions, sending an arrow into the back of the elf's head.
Callia breathed a heavy sigh of relief, relaxing as her opponent crumpled to the ground. "They hit hard, these Orcs," she observed, grimacing at a massive dent in her shield. The Guildsman could tell that his own shield was in no better shape, but at least it was still largely in working condition.
"There could be more around," grunted Aerin, returning Trueshot to her back. "They must have seen you when you crossed the bridge."
"Or Burzukh's had his suspicions all along," responded Ilend, cleaning his blade with leaves from a nearby tree. "Either way, we've got to stay alert. Should I go to the road and send the signal?" Orcs had, after all, crossed the river. If Gorgoth made his attack in the morning as planned without knowing, his entire plan might be altered by the three missing Orcs.
Callia was shaking her head as she started to lead the way back to their camp. "No. That'll just alert Burzukh and he might move across the river. He could head anywhere from here. We might not get a better opportunity." She sighed and flopped down on her bedroll as soon as they reached the tiny clearing. "I've got to head back and warn him."
Aerin looked critically at her. "You'll never get back across the bridge. He'll have guards, for sure."
"I never said anything about the bridge." The Breton sighed and removed her helmet. "I'll have to swim. The Corbolo's not fast-flowing at this point, and Burzukh won't be watching the banks. And I'm the only one here who knows where our camp is."
"Swim? In that tin suit?"
The Knight Sister gave the Bosmer a withering glare. "Of course not. I'll have to leave my armour, horse, and supplies here. The message has to be delivered, though..." she sighed and started pulling off her gauntlets.
Ilend rubbed his upper lip, thinking. She was right, he realised. A message had to be delivered, and the bridge couldn't be risked. Even so... "You might freeze," he warned. "I know this isn't the north, but it's still nearly winter."
Callia shrugged. "I'm a Blade," she told him, beckoning for him to help with her armour. "We don't swear our oaths and expect easy lives."
He sighed as he tugged off her pauldron. "I should go with you. Two has a better chance of getting through than one, and I'm a strong swimmer."
"Two also run a greater risk of being detected." The Breton smirked as she unstrapped her greaves. "Besides, I don't think Aerin would like being parted from you for too long." The mentioned Wood Elf snorted and moved away to check the horses.
"Fine. But what should we do if you don't return? Stick to our orders?"
"Exactly. Watch the bridge." They finished removing her cuirass and Callia stood, unarmoured save for her boots. Her linen vest and cloth trousers might not keep much of the cold out, but at least they were lighter than steel plate. She'd kept her sword belt, as well; if she was detected, it would be far better to face an Orc with her katana rather than with her bare hands. "Come on. Best not waste any time. I'll bet that it won't be long before those Orcs are missed."
Leaving Aerin in charge of the camp's defence, with an arrow nocked to Trueshot, she and Ilend made their way down to the banks of the Corbolo, about a mile and a half upriver from the bridge. Sand crunched underfoot and mudcrabs scurried out of their way as they made their way down the rocky shore to the water's edge. Goose pimples were already evident on Callia's bare arms, and despite what Ilend guessed were her best efforts, she couldn't conceal her shivering. "I'll admit that I don't envy you," he muttered as they reached the wet sand.
She growled something under her breath and sat to remove her boots. The Imperial removed a gauntlet and bent to test the temperature of the water. He shuddered and removed his hand quickly. "It's icy," he reported. "Best to keep active when you reach the far bank, or the cold will kill you quicker than the Orcs."
"I know how to deal with cold, Guildsman," growled the Blade through gritted teeth. "I've been stationed at the Temple for two years. You learn something about cold up in the Jeralls." She grimaced down at her vest. "Wish I'd worn something warmer."
"You can have my shirt, if you want," suggested Ilend, his hands going to his chainmail. She shook her head and started off towards the river, a determined expression on her face. "Good luck," called the Imperial. She raised a hand in acknowledgement before entering the water. He walked down to the edge until the river was lapping at his boots, watching her until she appeared to reach the far side. It was hard to tell in the gloom; the clouds had by now covered most of Secunda, so the only light came from the stars.
He waited until he could make out a pale, slim figure running across the far shore before relaxing. When she was out of sight, he turned, collected her boots and headed back towards the camp, his eyes heavy with fatigue.
The Yellow Road was dark; clouds covered the night sky from horizon to horizon. This darkness, however, was no obstacle to any company that included one of the most powerful Illusionists in Tamriel in its number. The spells of night vision that Gorgoth was maintaining on each of them meant that they could see as well in the dark as any Khajiit. Callia's return half an hour ago had spurred them all into action; when Burzukh started to suspect that his scouts weren't coming back, he would take action, and the warrior-shaman wasn't about to let his old enemy slip through his fingers again.
He'd left Callia behind at the campsite with a fire, Lurog's fur cloak, and Caroline to keep her warm. The Breton had come back to them just as the second watch was starting, soaking wet and half-frozen, but what she'd said had been lucid enough. It hadn't taken him long to reach his decision, and there had been minimal grumbling when he made the order to strike camp and prepare for battle. Not that he was planning on a large battle; there was no need to risk the lives of his fellow Blades in this personal dispute. If need be, he could kill Burzukh and all his men by himself.
"Light the torches," he ordered. He wanted Burzukh to know they were coming, even if his sentries were too lazy to spot an armed company on horseback riding up the Yellow Road at a fast trot. "We'll be there soon. Remember what I told you all." He dispelled his Illusion as the first torch was lit.
"So, what's your plan?" asked Mazoga, riding by his side. Lurog was up ahead, scouting the road ahead.
"You would approve of it, given how you dealt with your own problem." Calmly walking into a camp and slaughtering everyone in it sounded like an attractive prospect, but only one of those Orcs had to die today. If the rest wanted to see another sunrise, the decision would be theirs. And that decision would come soon; a fire was now visible through the trees. Burzukh had clearly camped just off the Yellow Road, as predicted. One of many mistakes.
As they drew closer to the fire, Gorgoth called the Blades to him before telling them not to get involved unless they were attacked. Then he rode slowly forward with Mazoga and Lurog before stopping and conjuring a light far above their heads, powerful enough to illuminate the area for a mile around them. Finally, he dismounted and handed Baluk's reins to Lurog before stepping forward and drawing Sinweaver, settling down to wait.
It took about five minutes for Burzukh and all eight of his surviving Orcs to appear. When their leader saw Gorgoth standing alone with the Ayleid-forged claymore in one hand, a look of knowing spread across his ruined face. He dismounted and threw his reins to one of his comrades before drawing his own battleaxe and advancing across a landscape that was bathed in an unearthly glow, making it seem like it was day. He stopped a few paces from his old enemy.
"Looks like you finally caught up, Bastard," spat the scarred Orc, his single eye full of malevolence under his battered helmet. He was speaking in his heavily accented Common Cyrodilic, no doubt due to the non-Orcish audience.
"And you have no poison this time." The massive head of the battleaxe was dry; clearly, Burzukh hadn't thought to bring any Silencing poisons with him. "This time, justice will be done."
The warrior spat onto the dusty stones of the Yellow Road. "Justice?" He barked a harsh laugh and looked around behind Gorgoth, at the Orcs, at the Blades. "All this time, and he's still been deluded by what his pathetic father told him." He shook his head before snarling. "No, all this petty fool wants is revenge. Do you lot even know what he wants to kill me for?"
Gorgoth took a step forward. The Blades didn't know the history between him and Burzukh, but it wouldn't hurt to tell them. "I know that you insulted the King, murdered good Orcs, gave in to your savage side. I know you betrayed me, Burzukh. I called you brother once." His lip curled into an unconscious snarl. "You have no honour."
"I shit on your honour, you servile cur," growled his old enemy. "Pitiful that you forgot all the shamans taught you about Malacath. You know that he gives glory to the strong, and despises the weak." The Orc spat again. "I never defied Malacath."
"You're wrong," the warrior-shaman told him, his voice dangerously low. "You didn't prey on the weak. You preyed on everyone." He raised his voice, to give the listening Blades the full story. "Good, honourable Orcs were murdered by you and your bandits. You preyed on every trading caravan, every merchant that you could find." He shook his head. "Preying on weak, deserving merchants is good in Malacaths's eyes, but you went too far. And when the king ordered you to stop, you defied him."
"Lies," snarled Burzukh, shaking his head. "Lies spread by weaklings and your father. You just wanted an excuse to put me down."
"I already had several. There was no need to create another."
The scarred warrior snorted. "Yes, I'll admit that. Tell me, when you found that friend of yours in the caravan, did he beg you to end his pain?" His yellow eyes were full of hatred and mocking, but Gorgoth refused to let that affect him. Grat gro-Burug had been a good Orc, a strong warrior. Burzukh and his bandits had attacked the merchant train he'd been defending and cut off Grat's legs, leaving him to his fate.
"He did not have to beg. I allowed him his last words then ended his existence for him."
Burzukh sneered. "What did he say?"
"He made me swear on my honour to avenge him, no matter how long it took." The warrior-shaman hefted Sinweaver, his strength meaning that the claymore was perfectly weighted for one hand. "This is the day you die, Burzukh. You were never truly my equal, even when you had both your eyes." The blade seemed to shimmer, the dark red glow waxing and waning. For the first time, fear became evident in his enemy's eye. He'd probably known all along that he was going to die here, but now he was finally recognising that.
"Fine." The Orc spat onto the stones before taking his battleaxe in both hands, barking an order for his men not to interfere. Gorgoth stepped forward, casting a shield spell to augment his battered Akaviri-styled plate armour. His enemy was in full Orcish battle armour, all three layers, but that wouldn't save him. Sinweaver shimmered again, the blade seemingly drinking in the light of the bright globe above.
The warrior-shaman made the first move, darting forward with the claymore thrusting upwards. Burzukh moved to block, but Gorgoth grabbed the haft of his battleaxe in his free hand and wrenched it aside, forcing his opponent to jerk sideways to avoid the thrust. He stubbornly kept hold of it, moving in and smashing his forehead down into the Orc's face. The helmet split his skin, but his enemy was momentarily stunned, giving the warrior-shaman enough time to kick him away and swing at him from the right.
With his left eye missing, the scarred warrior couldn't anticipate the blow as quickly as he could have done in the past. He barely managed to block it with the steel haft of his battleaxe, and was still reeling when the next attack came, again from his left. The Orsimer was driven back across the Yellow Road towards his own comrades, who urged their horses aside to make room for the duel. Unlike their leader, they at least appeared to have some shred of honour; none were making a move to interfere.
Stopping his retreat, Burzukh ducked low under a swing and swung for his assailant's legs. Gorgoth was prepared for such an attack, however; it had been a blow like that which had splintered his shin in their last battle. He span to the side and thrust sideways. His opponent rolled forwards, Sinweaver merely grazing his steel plate. Before he could fully recover, the warrior-shaman was on him again, Ayleid blade cleaving towards his left shoulder. The attack staggered him, but failed to penetrate, and he dug in his heels to meet the next swing, catching the blade with the head of his battleaxe and twisting, attempting to pry the weapon away from his enemy.
The warrior-shaman gave him no chance; he kicked twice at his enemy's leg, sending him to one knee, before tearing the claymore free and striking at Burzukh's arm. The armour absorbed the blow but forced the Orc's defence aside, leaving him vulnerable. Gorgoth wasted no time in putting all his strength into a two-handed slash that tore his old comrade's head from his shoulders. The headless corpse slumped backwards as the head bounced and rolled across the Yellow Road, finally coming to a halt when Lurog dismounted and stopped it with his boot.
It was done. Gorgoth felt nothing; there was no place for emotion in his life, no place for any weakness. He was steel. Burzukh had been a comrade once, a brother to him, but any pain, hatred or anger he might have felt had been ruthlessly suppressed. He had no time or use for needless emotions, just as he had no time or use for petty distractions in these times of need. Petty distractions such as a desire for vengeance amongst Burzukh's minions.
With thick Orcish blood still staining his blade, the warrior-shaman turned and coldly regarded the eight surviving Orcs. "You served him. Are you like him?" He moved towards them, holding each gaze for a few seconds. "You served him, and I will not trust you, but killing you would gain me nothing." Raising Sinweaver, he pointed it at each of them in turn. "There are still battles to be fought, battles far more important than any dispute between mortals." He grounded the ancient Ayleid claymore in the ground in front of him. "Get down on your knees and swear your lives to me, or I will kill you."
For several long moments, the only sound was the rustling of the wind through the trees and the snorting of horses. Then, one by one, the Orcish warriors dismounted and knelt, bowing their heads and laying their weapons at his feet. As they muttered their oaths and sealed them with their blood, Gorgoth knew that they were his.
A/N: And another enemy bites the dust... not many left now. Well, at least, not many that you know of. In any case, hopefully I can get the next chapter written faster than this one. Keep in mind that pretty much any review - one-liners included - will encourage me, so I'll encourage you now to leave one. It can't hurt. And constructive criticism is always a good thing; if you don't point out where I'm going wrong, then I'll find it very hard to improve. If you want my quality to increase, tell me what I'm doing wrong. I'm far from perfect...