A/N: What's this? Yes, it's a new chapter less than two weeks after my last update. Shows what I can do when I finally get my lazy arse in gear... not that the lack of reviews helped, however. Only five for Chapter Forty? Get them written, people, you know how much I want them.
Underpaid Critic: Ah, yes, them. They might not be all that welcome... but you know what I mean. Reviews such as 'I like this' are fine as they encourage me. And I wouldn't set a target chapter; given that my intentions change with every chapter, it might well limit me, or I could end up having to write pages just to fill empty space. It'll end when it ends (hopefully sometime soon; much as I love BaS, my other projects are growing restless).
Rokibfd: Indeed, not hiring a few Guildsmen is a tad unrealistic, so expect that to change. As well as other things. As for Jauffre... well, read on and you'll see what happens to him. And yes, Gorgoth is more than capable of teaching magic, but the Blades aren't capable of learning. Apart from Lucius, Caroline has about the best magical ability of them, and all she can cast is a pathetically weak frost spell. Teaching is fine, but if you don't have any magical ability, then you can't be taught. And most people in the BaS universe don't have that magical ability... adds to the realism.
Hopefully, the next chapter will be up just as quickly as this one, but don't get your hopes up. Also hopefully, I'll get some more reviews for this one...
Chapter Forty-one: The Growing Darkness
The ride from Bruma to Cloud Ruler Temple was a short one, but Gorgoth had already counted the charred remains of three Oblivion Gates within sight of the road. Captain Burd had told him that a total of nine had now been closed, including two that had opened within an hour of each other. The Daedra were growing more persistent, and the Mythic Dawn seemed to be perfecting their end of the gate-opening process. It wouldn't be long before a Great Gate was opening, and then Bruma would bleed heavily.
There would be no repeat of Kvatch, however; Burd had new recruits swelling the numbers of the Bruma Guard to nearly eight hundred, and if he introduced conscription he could more than double that. Even so, the Guard was not alone; mercenaries were always drawn by conflict, and other cities had already sent contingents from what they could spare from their own garrisons. Oblivion Gates were appearing all over the country, but Bruma undoubtedly had the greatest need. The city was teeming with soldiers, and some citizens had even formed a militia that could act as a last resort if required.
In the two days of slow riding since they'd left the Corbolo, he'd taken the time to get to know each of the Orcs he'd taken from Burzukh. A blood oath was something no Orc took lightly, but if he knew his men, he could at least decide whether to trust them or not. They were all good warriors, and would be valued in the days to come, but he wouldn't trust them at his back for some time yet. He'd given Lurog authority over them and told him to find them accommodation in Bruma; they wouldn't be welcome in Cloud Ruler Temple. Uriel Signus had also opted to try and find a room in the already overcrowded city, as had Ilend and Aerin, though for very different reasons.
That left him with just Mazoga, the Blades who had survived Atatar, and a messenger who'd met him on the road, summoning him to the Temple to speak with Jauffre. The Grandmaster was dying, apparently. Gorgoth wasn't surprised; he'd been old already, and the stress of the unexpected crisis disrupting his semi-retirement had aged him rapidly. He didn't waste time on wondering what the old Breton wanted with him; there were far more pressing matters at hand. As they rode up to the foot of the massive gates to the Temple, the Orc twisted around in his saddle and looked around. From this high vantage point, he could see the remnants of four Gates, all closer to Bruma than the Temple. It was a logical move; if Bruma fell, then Dagon's fiery fist would have no obstacle when he descended upon the home of the Blades.
The gates swung open, and the warrior-shaman dismounted to walk Baluk up the steps as the party fragmented, each going their own way. Shading his eyes from the bright afternoon sun as he led his mare to the stables, the Orc barely saw Captain Renault until the Breton was falling in beside him. "Gorgoth, Jauffre wants to see-"
"I know. I got the message."
"There was also a letter from Modryn Oreyn. I left it in your chambers." Gorgoth nodded in acknowledgement and she left him and Mazoga alone as they entered the stables, presumably to go and check on the returning Blades. No doubt the entire Temple would be affected by their heavy losses, but they would know how to cope with the death of friends by now. The war had long since affected them all.
"It'll be good to sleep in a bed again," grunted Mazoga as she stretched her legs before attending to her horse. "It's always better with your clothes off. Back in the bedroll you wouldn't even remove your-"
"I'm not likely to leave myself so vulnerable simply because I'm thinking of your cunt rather than my own weaknesses," responded Gorgoth, eyeing her levelly across Baluk's back. She glared at him before dropping her eyes and focusing on her work, muttering under her breath. He finished unsaddling his mare and moved around her, idly patting her a few times and observing some of the returning squad of Blades enter the stables. Lowering his voice, he moved closer to Mazoga. "Jauffre or Modryn might call me away from the Temple, but you'll have a good night tonight. I can promise you that." She deserved at least that much for staying with him despite knowing that he would willingly sacrifice her should the need arise.
Before his lover could respond, the Orc had turned and left the stables, leaving instructions to the ostler to have Baluk well fed and watered. The messenger had told him where to find the Grandmaster, and it didn't take him long to find the right room in the East Wing. He entered after knocking and marched to the foot of his superior's sickbed, snapping to attention and saluting. "You sent for me," he stated.
The old, withered Breton weakly raised his head to gaze at the Orc with eyes that still retained something of their former sharpness. "Leave us, Lucius," he told the battlemage sitting on a chair next to the bed. Jauffre waited until the door had shut behind him before sighing. "Sit, Gorgoth," he whispered, letting his head settle back on his pillow.
Carefully easing himself down into Lucius' chair, the warrior-shaman waited until the creaking had stopped before leaning forward over the Grandmaster to better hear his strained voice. "I want to set the record straight," he rasped. "Put everything... behind us. I want to die with... with few regrets."
"Die with no regrets," rumbled Gorgoth. "All regret is pointless. You cannot change the past. Stop thinking you can."
"Ah... we're not you, Orc. We're only... human." The Breton coughed before a wry smile stretched his lips over his skull. "I talked to Martin. I managed to make him agree to... release you from your oath... if you were willing." His eyes narrowed. "I hope I have judged you correctly, Gorgoth. I hope you will not stay on as a Blade after... after this is over."
The warrior-shaman shook his head. Martin would have no need of one extra Blade after the main danger had past. The Orc had unfinished business at home, not to mention his new-found attraction to the Cyrodiil Fighters Guild. "You need not worry, Jauffre," he told the Grandmaster. "When the Emperor no longer needs me, I will lay my katana at his feet. I swear it." His fingers touched his heart briefly. The Breton might not like him, but even he would understand that his word was unbreakable.
Sighing in relief, the old man let his eyes shut briefly before opening them again, focused on his Blade's face. "I hate you, Gorgoth," he murmured. "I hate you for what you are, what you did. You feel no remorse. You don't even think what you did was wrong." His mouth twisted in distaste. "I would never have offered you your katana if I'd known," he sighed, head falling back to his pillow once again. "I will hate you until my dying day for what you've done and will probably do again. Yet..." The Breton coughed weakly before mouthing words too quiet for the warrior-shaman to make out.
Looking up, he noted a pitcher of water and poured some into a nearby glass, holding the liquid to the old man's lips until he was waved away. "Yes," he continued, his voice stronger. "I hate you, but I should not have acted as I did. I was... unprofessional. You are a soldier under... under my command, and you deserved... better." As ever, the Orc's face was a stoic mask, but under the surface he was remembering everything Jauffre had ever said to him since he'd learnt of his past. Yes, he'd been confrontational, unprofessional, insulting... but Gorgoth could see why. Bretons were not Orcs; the differences were all too evident.
The Grandmaster was still talking. "You were right, Orc. We need you. We have to value what we have. I know I could not be expected to... to like you, but... you deserved better. Please..." He cleared his throat. "Forgive me."
Gorgoth leaned back in his chair and studied the dying man in front of him. Forgiveness was not something he had much experience of; most people who had crossed him were now dead or bearing scars. But most of those had not asked for his forgiveness, and none had ever been the Grandmaster of the Blades. He leaned forward again. "How much longer do you have to live?" he asked.
"No idea. Lucius thinks no more than a few days." Jauffre's voice was a weak rasp.
"It was always your wish to die in battle, fighting Dagon."
The Breton managed a bitter laugh. "I can barely grip my katana, let alone swing it."
In response, Gorgoth stripped off a gauntlet and laid his naked hand against the Grandmaster's clammy forehead. "Your battlemage does not know fortification like I do," he muttered. "I can get you up and fighting. I can give you strength and agility. I can make you feel as though you were in your prime again... more or less." Sharp blue eyes found his and held his gaze; yes, there was still fight left in the old man yet. "It would use up what little life you have left. You probably wouldn't see another sunset after today's... but there are Oblivion Gates opening near Bruma nearly every day now."
Jauffre's eyes were wide. "Is this some cruel joke?" he whispered, peering up at the Orc, full of hope.
"I do not make jokes." The warrior-shaman leaned closer. "Grandmaster, if you die in battle, I will forgive you. And you yourself will always prefer to sell your life dearly. I know it."
The Breton held his gaze for a long moment. "Call Lucius."
As the battlemage dutifully responded to Gorgoth's shout, Jauffre sat up with the Orc's arm around his thin shoulders. "My armour and dai-katana, Lucius. Be quick about it." Some of the old strength had returned to his voice; Gorgoth did not believe in hope, himself, but he did acknowledge that it awoke great power in some.
The old Imperial didn't question his superior's commands, but his expression was one of bemusement as he left the room. Jauffre had clearly already dismissed the battlemage from his thoughts, however; he had closed his eyes and was breathing deeply. "Do it," he ordered.
Resting his naked hand on the Breton's forehead, Gorgoth let his magicka flow from himself into his Grandmaster, probing his body, feeling the terrible strain and weakness. He closed his eyes to better imagine his complicated work; this was complex Restoration, more difficult than his normal fortification spells. His magicka started pumping through the ravaged body, strengthening it, magical forces taking the place of muscles that had long since wasted away. Jauffre's eyes opened wide and he gasped as he felt invigoration and strength replace what had moments ago been bone-weary fatigue.
Removing his hand, the warrior-shaman rose and stepped back. "It would be wise to take a few minutes to get used to the feeling," he advised. "You are strong and fast now, where seconds ago you were bedridden."
"I only hope none of my skill with a blade has deserted me," grunted the Grandmaster, his voice now full of strength as he swung his legs to the floor and stood awkwardly, looking down at himself with curiosity. He was naked, with the wasted body of an old, dying man; his ribs were visible, his limps almost atrophied in appearance. Everywhere, his skin was tight and drawn over a bare skeleton. Yet he would now be as strong as he ever had been for as long as Gorgoth maintained the spell. He was stretching, testing unused muscles, when Lucius and Captain Renault appeared with his clothes, weapons and armour.
"Don't look so shocked, Captain," chuckled Jauffre as he pulled on a pair of trousers. "You should know by now what Gorgoth is capable of."
The Knight Captain closed her mouth – which had dropped open in astonishment – and looked from her Grandmaster to the warrior-shaman and back again. "Has he... healed you?" she asked tentatively.
Gorgoth shook his head. "I cannot extend or preserve his life. All I can do is help him make better use of what little he has left." He pulled his gauntlet back on before helping Jauffre don his breastplate. "Far better to die on a battlefield with blood on your sword than to end your days lying senseless in a puddle of your own piss." When he himself died – that day would come, inevitably – he wanted to face it on his feet with a weapon in his hands. Malacath respected those who died well.
A look of realisation spread over Renault's face as she slowly removed her helmet. "You're going to Bruma?" she asked.
"Yes," responded Jauffre, nodding in thanks as Gorgoth strapped on his pauldrons. "Lucius, saddle my horse. Healing potions will not be necessary. And if Steffan is available, I would prefer to have a word with him before leaving." The battlemage saluted and left. A small smirk played across the Breton's lips. "It's ironic. All this time, we've been opposing Dagon with all our strength, but right now... I want him to try. I want to go to Aetherius and be able to say that the last thing I did was spit in his face."
Renault appeared to be struggling for words, clearly conflicted, but eventually she found her tongue. "Good luck, Reynald," she muttered, moving forward to clasp his shoulder as Gorgoth fastened his greaves. "I've... already come to terms with your dying - I think - so..." she sighed. "Die well."
"I will. That is the plan." The Grandmaster sat back on his bed to pull on his boots. "I know I'm leaving the Blades in good hands. Martin couldn't ask for better bodyguards."
The Knight Captain nodded. "I've expanded the Imperial Bodyguard," she assured him. "He'll be safe."
Jauffre rose, sliding his sheathed dai-katana through the strap running across his cuirass, leaving the hilt poking up over his shoulder within easy reach. He took his helmet and turned to Gorgoth, running his tongue over his lips. "I have my farewells to say, but... thank you, Gorgoth. Thank you for giving me this chance. I... appreciate it."
"Every man should have a chance to die with honour," responded the warrior-shaman, slamming fist to heart in a perfect salute. Jauffre returned the gesture, standing straight and meeting his gaze for a few seconds before turning and leaving the room. Renault shot him a brief glance then followed her Grandmaster. The Orc was left alone with the fading smell associated with the sickly and the dying. The old Breton would be gone within the hour. They would be hoping, for his sake, that Dagon was trying to invade Bruma again. He'd been right; it was ironic.
Remembering that Modryn had left a note for him, Gorgoth left the sickroom and headed for his own chambers, ignoring the cluster of Blades in the courtyard enthralled by their Grandmaster's new-found strength. He entered the Royal Wing and eased his door open with his foot, kicking it closed behind him. Mazoga looked up from where she was sprawled in an armchair, having removed her armour. She nodded towards the table, where a small folded parchment awaited him. He walked over and removed his gauntlets, placing them on the table before picking up Modryn's note and breaking the seal.
Gorgoth,
I barely got back before one of my contacts almost broke down the door, being so eager to inform me of an opportunity. Blackheart's death is doing a power of good for our reputation already, but now we've got a chance to strike directly at the Blackwood Company. Meet me in my house in Chorrol. Bring Protector Vonius if you want. He seems reliable, if a bit dim. Now move your arse, boot. I don't like waiting.
Oreyn
The warrior-shaman refolded the letter and tucked it inside one of his gauntlets. "It seems I won't be spending the night here," he told his lover. "Oreyn wants me as soon as possible."
She frowned at him, standing and folding her arms. "You promised me a good night tonight."
The barest upturn of the corners of his mouth indicated that Gorgoth was smiling. "Then we'll bring the night forward," he suggested. He gestured to the window, through which the sinking sun was visible. "It's almost dusk anyhow."
Mazoga smirked as she walked up to him, placing a hand on his chest. "For once, Gorgoth, I might be liking your way of thinking." She laughed as she started to undo the straps of his cuirass.
As she worked, the warrior-shaman stared down at her, sweeping her from head to toe with an analytical glance. She would never be called good-looking; her features were harsh and angular and her breasts small for her size, leading many non-Orcs to assume she was a man at first sight. That didn't matter to him, however; exterior beauty was only skin-deep. It was what was inside that mattered. "Mazoga?" he grunted.
She paused in removing his pauldrons. "What?"
"I think I love you."
His lover cocked her head to the side and raised an eyebrow. "I'm assuming that this revelation won't be changing the way you act at all?"
"Of course not. You know me." He might have confirmed its existence, but he would still keep that love rigidly suppressed. No one could ever use Mazoga against him; he was steel, and steel did not have emotions that could weaken the armour.
His lover shrugged and dropped his pauldron to the floor, kneeling to work on his greaves. "Fine by me," she grunted. "I know I've got you, bloody emotional armour and all. That's all I need." She finished removing off his greaves and straightened to press her body against his, her hands clawing at his shirt. He tore her own shirt from her back and forced her backwards into the bedroom. She would indeed have a good night. They both would.
As the last rays of the sun gave way to the dark of night, a cold wind was whipping at the battlements of Cloud Ruler Temple. Roliand, being a Skyrim-born Nord, was well-accustomed to the conditions and was weathering the winter with his customary rugged demeanour, kept warm by the bearskin cloak he was wearing over his armour. Standing beside him, Martin envied the man for his natural resistance to cold. The ex-priest was also wearing a heavy fur cloak over his warm woollen robes, but even so, he was glad for the small brazier in the watch tower.
"Where is it, do you think?" he asked the Knight Brother, who had replaced Baurus as sentry two hours previously. He was referring to the dull red glow on the horizon which indicated an Oblivion Gate.
"South, I think. Beyond Bruma by several miles, I'd say. Far out." The Nord smiled. "But close enough for Grandfather to be dealing with it."
Martin nodded, folding his arms and lapsing into silence once again. He'd seen the Grandmaster off an hour previously, knowing that it would be the last time he'd ever see the man alive. Afterwards, he'd attempted to go back to his translating, but found himself unable to focus. Instead, he'd donned his cloak and gone to patrol the battlements, looking out across the snowy landscape of the north. The Blades were carrying out their duties as normal – he'd expected nothing less – but the fortress seemed quieter, slightly less cheerful. They'd lost many Blades in the expedition to kill Azani Blackheart, and now they had lost their Grandmaster. It was a lot to absorb.
The heir had known Jauffre for mere months, but he still owed a lot to him. It had been the Breton who'd ordered Gorgoth to get him out of Kvatch. It had been he who'd led him to safety in Cloud Ruler Temple, and helped him with the sudden demands of his new role. When Jauffre had been unable to leave his bed several days ago, the ex-priest had attended him for hours until the Grandmaster sent him back to his work, saying that saving the realm was far more important than tending to a dying old man in his final hours.
Steffan had come to him to speak privately after that, to ask him if he would have any problems about the Knight Captain being appointed the next Grandmaster; officially, it was the Emperor's choice, though Martin recognised how foolish it would be should he reject Jauffre's recommendation. He'd given Steffan his blessing. The Imperial had vast experience of both administration and combat, but more importantly, he was a good man and a good soldier; exactly what the Blades would need in these times.
Martin was no stranger to loss. Sometimes, it seemed to be his constant companion, and he had become somewhat acquainted with it. He would briefly grieve for Jauffre, but his heart had long since been hardened. Sanguine and Kvatch had made sure of that. In these times, when death walked Tamriel every day, if grief was allowed so much as a foothold he would be torn apart. He could only pray that the Divines would look kindly upon their souls. Many brave soldiers were dying every week in Bruma; he could only hope that the Divines were listening.
Some would question his continuing belief, and he himself had started to despair in the ruins of Kvatch, trapped in the Chapel. Then the champion of the Nine had appeared and swept the Daedra from the city. It had taken some thought in the privacy of his chambers, but the ex-priest had finally reached the conclusion that the answer to his prayers had come in the form of an Orcish warrior-shaman. Gorgoth gro-Kharz might follow a different god, he might have done his share of murder, rape, and pillage, but he was the champion of the Nine, sent to cast Dagon back into the Oblivion. An odd choice, for sure, but the heir knew that sometimes the Divines acted in ways incomprehensible to mortals. He could only trust their judgement.
Heavy footsteps crunching through the snow disrupted his thinking, and the ex-priest turned to find the subject of his thoughts joining them in the watch tower. The Orc didn't seem to feel the cold; his only concession to the weather seemed to be a thick fur vest visible through some of the gaps in his battered armour. Martin supposed that this temperature might well be described as mild in the Wrothgarians. "Good evening," greeted the heir, inclining his head. Roliand smiled and have a half-salute before returning to watching for danger.
"I will not be staying long," Gorgoth told him. "I've received word from Oreyn. Important Guild business that cannot wait. I leave within the hour." He paused. "How is the translation coming?"
Martin sighed, his shoulders starting to slump until he realised what company he was in. In front of one such as Gorgoth gro-Kharz, it was best to never display any weakness. While he was very thankful for the varied lessons the warrior-shaman had given him so far, he wasn't in the right frame of mind for a lecture at the moment. "It's difficult," he muttered. "Dagon goes from one kind of madness to the other. If we still had Selene..." his eyes were drawn to the Orc's weapons. The hilt of Sinweaver and the head of Blood King were visible over his shoulders, and his dai-katana and the Thornblade hang from his sword belt, but... "Where is her glaive?" he asked.
"There was no room on my back. I left it in your chambers. You will know what to do with it."
The heir leaned on the wall of the watch tower and gazed at the unearthly glow of the Oblivion Gate. "I suppose I will," he murmured. He'd been slightly shaken by her death at the time, but now she was just one casualty of many from a long list of those who had been close to him. In war, you mourned for the dead and moved on, or the distraction was fatal. Gorgoth had taught him that. "Will you be back soon?" he inquired, changing the subject.
"I don't know. Oreyn wasn't specific." The Orc paused, joining the ex-priest in watching the horizon. "Mazoga will not be coming with me, but I suspect she'll leave soon anyway to find Lurog in Bruma." Martin nodded absently. The one time he'd approached the warrior-shaman's lover to attempt to get to know her, she'd told him rather aggressively to piss off. According to Lurog, that was a typical response.
"Make sure you do come back," he reminded. "We can't afford to lose you."
"I'll be back." Gorgoth turned to go before pausing. "Get some sleep, Martin. Your exhaustion benefits no one."
"I'll try," promised the Imperial. He did feel tired; translation of that evil book was enough to exhaust anyone, and he'd only had about four hours sleep in the last two days. The warrior-shaman grunted in approval and turned to leave, his boots leaving deep footprints in the snow. Sighing, the ex-priest returned to watching the distant red sky, shifting closer to the brazier. He didn't envy Roliand or any of the Blades for their lonely vigils at night, but he did appreciate them for it. It was impossible to feel completely secure with the threat of Oblivion Gates hanging over them, but the Blades did provide him with safety.
A clatter of hooves and some Blades moving to operate the gates told him that Gorgoth was leaving. Martin sighed and turned to eave the watch tower, intending to attempt to get some sleep. "Wake me when we get news of Jauffre," he told Roliand. The Nord nodded, never stopping in his task of scanning for danger.
He retreated to his chambers, mechanically stripping and crawling into bed. There were two Blades at the door to his chambers at all times now, but even so, he kept a dagger under his pillow. While Dagon was free to operate, no one was truly safe. It took him a long time to get to sleep.
When he was gently woken several hours later, he was told that it had been Captain Burd himself who had brought the Grandmaster's bloodstained dai-katana back to Cloud Ruler Temple.
Bruma was a busy place. So busy, in fact, that the inns were full to bursting and the companies of guardsmen sent by the other cities were setting up camps outside the walls, being told – with profuse apologies – that there were simply not enough barracks to hold them. The expanded Bruma City Guard alone filled most of the available space. This meant that travellers approaching Bruma would find camps of armed men each side of the road, with the flags of different cities flying proudly from numerous tents. Fortunately, the famous discipline of the Imperial Legion held strong; everything was well-organised, the latrines were far from both the walls and the road, and brawls were rare.
Lurog had noted the camps as he'd entered Bruma the day before, but there was no need for him and the rest of Gorgoth's sworn Orcs to join them; only nine in number, they'd managed to negotiate their way into sleeping in the cellar of one of the inns near the South Gate. It was damp and cramped, but they were soldiers, all of them; they were used to conditions far worse than this. He'd woken them all at first light – best to keep them in the habit – and gave them strict reminders not to cause any trouble unless the provocation was dire. He didn't have Gorgoth's status with the authorities, and the last thing he wanted was to find that some of his comrades were wasting their time in jail.
With all of them confirming that they'd obey the laws of Bruma – more or less – he led them out of the cellar and up to the inn's common room, which was sparsely populated and quiet at this hour, a few tables being occupied by men and women of various races who were obviously mercenaries. Giving his comrades permission to disperse, Lurog walked up to a table and slid down into an empty chair, the inevitable creaking drawing the eyes of both occupants. "Watch yourself, Signus, she's a handful," he warned the grizzled mercenary. "Even this early."
The Imperial glared up at him, but his companion only giggled. "Good to see you again, Lurog," purred Dralasa Helas, leaning forward to touch his cheek with delicate fingers and deliberately drawing his eyes to the plunging neckline of her clinging green silk dress. The Dunmer always seemed to dress like she was in a brothel, whatever the weather. One of the advantages of heating spells.
"And you, Dral," replied the Orc, returning her warm smile with a grin and waving for the nearest serving girl, flicking her a drake and ordering ale. "What have you been doing while me and Gorgoth have been off killing people?"
"What do you think?" she asked, winking and flashing him a sly grin that would have had his heart beating slightly faster if he had been interested at the moment. He doubted that she'd slept alone every night she'd been in Bruma. When not in combat – where she could be devastatingly effective – she really did seem to do little else except what she called 'my sport', as long as she had a sufficient population to 'play' with. As far as he could tell, that 'sport' involved flirting with as many men as possible and getting into bed with those she was most impressed with. She'd even spread her legs for her close friends when there had been no one else around for a while. Gorgoth had been the only one to refuse her consistently; Lurog himself had welcomed her to his bed a few times, after her reassurances that her spells ensured that his fathering a half-breed with her would be impossible.
Uriel Signus spat onto the stone floor. "At least she's clean," he growled. "If not, half the garrison would have come down with the pox by now." The Imperial grabbed his tankard and took several large gulps.
"Only half?" Lurog chuckled. "I think you might be underestimating our friend's appetite, mercenary." He nodded in thanks as his own tankard arrived and sighed in pleasure as the cool ale washed the taste of sleep from his mouth.
The sellsword grimaced and replaced his tankard. "Well, she's definitely a handful, I'll give her that." Dralasa rested her chin on interlocked fingers and grinned impishly at him as he took another swig.
"You're energetic for an old man, you know." She laughed as he spluttered on his ale. "Makes me wonder how good you are with that other sword of yours." She winked and reached over to affectionately pat his shoulder.
"Well, we'll soon find out," claimed Lurog, eyeing the mercenary. He was fully armoured save for his gauntlets and helmet, which rested on the table beside his ale. That was a good sign; experienced mercenaries often got into a habit of being ready for battle at any time. "He'll be coming with us into the next Gate that opens. Best to get some more experience of what you'll be facing." He'd make sure all eight of Gorgoth's Orcs also joined him; he doubted if any had encountered a Gate before, let alone fought through one.
Signus, having recovered, drained the last of his ale and slammed his tankard down, glaring at the warrior. "Who says I'm coming with you?" he growled.
"Your sense of self-preservation. Your chances of survival, after all, will be far greater if you have experience at fighting Daedra."
"I have experience," snarled the mercenary, his hand unconsciously running across his chest, presumably tracing the scar left there by a Dremora years ago.
"Not of the Deadlands, you don't," Dralasa told him, resting her foot on her opposite knee and leaning back in her chair with her arms behind her head. Inevitably, the Imperial's eyes were drawn to her body. "Besides, come with us and you might just have the pleasure of seeing me blow stuff up." She laughed at the expression on Signus's face.
"Glad you're coming, Dral," grunted Lurog. "Every squad that goes into a gate would benefit from a powerful mage. And some levity to distract from the situation, which you're always sure to provide." He leaned in closer. "Just... no flirting with Gorgoth's Orcs while they're tearing out guts, OK? It might distract them."
She laughed again and leaned across the table to wrap her arms around his thick neck and kiss his cheek before letting go and rising. "Course not," she chuckled. "There's a time and place for everything, I guess. Speaking of which, I need a new dress. Oblivion has a habit of ruining them. See you later." Sweeping her flame-red hair out of her eyes, she turned and sauntered from the inn, winking in reply to every leer.
"Is she mad?" asked Signus, gazing after her, bewilderment and lust showing in his eyes in equal measures.
"Probably. I'd advise you not to get in the way of her fireballs."
Modryn Oreyn had experienced a lot of waiting in his life, but it never failed to irritate him. He was pacing back and forth in the living room of his small house, dressed in full armour apart from his helmet. The sound of his boots on the floorboards was regular as he strode from wall to wall, deep in thought. He'd given the message to a courier five days ago. Gorgoth should be here by now, or very soon. When the window of opportunity was this small, however, everything needed to have happened the day before, or before that, or before that. Cursing in frustration and damning the Orc's slow green hide, the Dunmer moved into his bedroom.
The two chests he'd taken from Atatar were still there, their reinforced locks made even more secure by the chains he'd wrapped around the lids. No one would get that twenty thousand without fighting for it, that was certain. The Alteration that Gorgoth had laid on them meant that it had been easy enough to carry them on his horse, but that spell had worn off a day ago, and he wasn't about to call anyone down from the Guild to collect them. Questions would be asked.
Even so, he'd had a constant stream of well-wishers from the Guild at his door, praising him for the handling of the Blackheart affair. Vilena Donton hadn't been one of them, but according to some of the Guildsmen, she rarely left her office these days. No doubt she was having problems seeing past the end of her own nose. A few calls to the right contacts had seen the Guild's reputation largely restored, but it was going to fall apart soon enough unless there was a change in leadership. Most of the Guildhalls hadn't had any directives from Chorrol for weeks, and while most were capable of self-government, a Guild without both an effective Guildmaster and an effective Champion was heading for dangerous waters.
A sharp knock on the door brought him out of his musings. "Who is it?" he called, stomping over and standing with his hand on the chain. Not many people called at this time; the sun had gone down over an hour previously, and the winter nights were cold.
"Gorgoth gro-Kharz."
Finally. Modryn unbolted the door and wrenched it open, stepping back so that the massive Orc could duck under the doorframe and enter. "What took you so long?" he barked.
"A desire not to kill our horses on the way here," responded Gorgoth, giving him a cold glance and standing aside so his companions could enter. The ex-Champion had expected Ilend Vonius, but he narrowed his eyes when Aerin sauntered in after her lover, casually kicking the door shut behind her and looking around after pushing back the hood of her cloak.
"I told you to-"
The warrior-shaman cut him off. "You told me to bring Protector Vonius if I wanted. You said nothing about what to do if his lover insisting on being dragged along as well." Aerin at least had the grace to blush as she moved to warm himself by his fire. "She'll be useful. She often is. What did you want us for?"
Modryn grunted and folded his arms. "The Company has moved north," he declared.
Ilend's head jerked away from the fire, where he'd joined Aerin in warming himself. "Where are they?" he growled. "Point us in the right direction and we'll bloody them." That suggestion was predictable; the Imperial was loyal, dependable, and a skilled warrior, but too simplistic to be much more than that.
"I wouldn't have thought an ex-guardsman would be so eager to get bored in the Emperor's dungeons," replied the Dunmer, sarcasm thick in his voice. "We need a plan for this; one that doesn't involve bludgeoning everyone with a sword-and-axe sigil on their armour. No, we have to think it through and get as much benefit as we can from it."
"What's the full situation?" asked Gorgoth, eyeing one of the chairs before mercifully deciding to remain standing.
"The Company have sent one of their best squads north to establish a foothold. They're not setting up in cities this time; fortunately for us, they're probably planning to start operations out of Glademist Cave." That had been a relief; if they had started building a Company Hall, it would have been a lot harder to do what needed to be done. "It's just off the Orange Road. Shouldn't take us much more than a day to get there, if you can get your nags up to speed." The ex-Champion moved over to his table and laid a hand on two saddlebags, each having been fully prepared hours ago. "If you were hoping for a nice night's rest, you can forget that. Time is critical."
"It often is," concurred Gorgoth, his deep voice almost concealing a slight theatrical groan from Aerin. "What do you have in mind?"
"Firstly, we need to kill all but one of them. None can escape. They're still legal, no matter how much we shout at the Council, so if word gets out that we're massacring them, we'll fast get acquainted with the hospitality of prison guards." Modryn snorted. True, the Council had bigger things to worry about, but they could be very blind sometimes. Word from Leyawiin indicated that the Company's dealings were swiftly growing even more questionable.
"You said 'all but one of them'," noted Ilend.
"This is important for them, so they've put Ajum-Kajin, one of their high-rankers, in command. An Argonian, good with a blade, better with magic, and even better with paperwork. Exactly what you'd need for this kind of thing." A small, threatening smile plucked at his lips. "He knows too much for us to waste it by killing him, much as he deserves it. No, we're going to capture him and get everything he knows." The Dunmer looked up at Gorgoth. "You're good with interrogation, I seem to remember."
"Some Bretons have been broken by my reputation alone." Modryn was inclined to believe him. The cold, threatening manner of the Orc certainly suggested that he was well-acquainted with torture.
"So, if time is so important..." Ilend paused to look between the ex-Champion and the ex-Warder. "What are we waiting for?"
"For you to shut your trap and follow me," growled Modryn, putting on his helmet before grabbing his saddlebags. "Come on. We can discuss the finer points on the way there. Let's move." Without waiting for any answer, he quickly walked to the door and wrenched it open, striding out into the night. The Blackwood Company was going to regret coming north.
Two hours sleep at a camp by the side of the road was all the ex-Champion had allowed them, and as a result they reached Glademist Cave well before dusk the next day. As they tied their horses near the entrance, Gorgoth entered the cave through the dark fissure in the rock. He came out a few minutes later, throwing a severed head – still in its helmet – to the ground. "Their sentry won't be giving them any warning," he told them, wiping blood from the Thornblade with an old, stained cloth.
"How did you kill this one?" enquired Ilend, making sure his sword belt was firm around his waist. He'd left his newly-acquired Orcish battle bow with Javelin; there would be no need for it in the confines of the cave. Given how much the two ex-Guildsmen had talked about the inner workings and the future of the Guild on the way here, he found it deeply ironic that he was the only Guildsman there. Of course, when he had pointed that out, Oreyn had snorted, but the Imperial had glimpsed a brief flash of pain in the Dark Elf's crimson eyes. His dismissal after decades of service had hurt the proud old warrior, that was certain.
"Invisibility and the Silencing of whatever noise I was making." The Orc tucked his rag back inside his gauntlet and sheathed the Thornblade with a rasp of steel on leather. "He knew of nothing until my steel sliced through his neck."
"We'd better get in there before they discover his blood fertilising the moss, then," growled Oreyn, taking his shield from his horse and patting him in farewell before starting towards the entrance. "Aerin, stand guard and make sure no one l-"
"Not a chance, ash-filth," snarled Aerin, furiously cutting him off as she clenched her fists around Trueshot. "I've been stuck on guard duty too often for my liking, especially when it involves getting stabbed, beaten and crushed half ta death. If you want ta make sure no one gets out, you take guard duty." She tossed her head angrily, her ponytail swinging from side to side. Ilend quietly sighed and grimaced. He'd expected her to flare up if confronted with this, not that he could blame her.
Momentarily taken aback, the Dunmer's eyes swiftly narrowed and he started walking slowly up to her. Ilend's hand unconsciously closed over his sword hilt. "Listen here, you worthless piece of horseshit," he grated, his voice dangerously low. "I've been killing men before your father's father was whelped. I know what I'm saying. So when I tell you to do something, you'll do it, or I'll make you wish you were him." A grey finger pointed in the direction of the Company man's severed head.
The Wood Elf opened her mouth, presumably to rebuff him again, but then she saw something in those cold crimson eyes that made her swallow her words. She glared up at him for a few seconds before muttering a curse and dropping her gaze. "Fine," she sighed, shoulders slumping. "Don't blame me if ya find me with my throat cut." Her voice sounded sullen but resigned.
"If you have even a shred of sense, we won't," snorted Modryn, turning away and once again walking towards the entrance to Glademist Cave. "Come on. We've wasted enough time already." Gorgoth, who had watched the exchange with folded arms and an unreadable expression, nodded and followed him.
"Fat lot of help you were," hissed Aerin with surprising savagery when Ilend tried to put a hand on her shoulder as he fell in beside her. Startled, he removed his hand and tried to speak, but she cut him off with a furious glare and sped up, stalking towards the opening. What in Oblivion could I have possibly done? He shook his head and strapped his shield to his left arm. He might find it hard to understand his lover sometimes, but at least he knew her well enough to know that she'd calm down soon enough. At least, he hoped so.
"Wait." Gorgoth's barked command and a clenched fist brought Oreyn up short just as he was passing into the shadowed entrance of the cave.
"What now?" he demanded.
In response, the warrior-shaman turned and looked towards a large clump of bushes, taking two steps towards them and folding his arms. "Step forward," he commanded. Ilend frowned; the Orc was talking to thin air, it seemed. He couldn't see anything. Looking sideways, he saw Aerin looking just as confused.
"Knew I wouldn't be able to fool you, greenskin," responded a gravelly, distorted voice from nowhere. Then a shimmering in the air betrayed the presence of someone cloaked in Illusion magic as they stepped forward into the clearing, the clinking of armour suggesting that he was a threat.
"Take off the ring," ordered Gorgoth, uncrossing his arms and staring into what was probably the stranger's face. Beside the Orc, Oreyn had drawn his mace; clearly, he wasn't in a trusting mood.
"Seems you're smarter than I ever gave you credit for," growled the cloaked stranger. A man abruptly became visible a few paces in front of them as he yanked a ring off his finger. At least, the Protector thought it was a man; he was wearing a pot helm that covered the entirety of his head,which would be the reason for the distortion of his voice. A chainmail hauberk reached his knees, and dull steel mail protected his arms and legs. Several potions hanging from his sword belt balanced the weight of a long broadsword on the opposite hip. "Not bad, this, but you always were bloody cautious," continued the soldier, idly tossing the ring from hand to hand. The sunlight glimmered off a wide golden band and a massive ruby.
"And I would not have expected you to be wielding the Ring of Khajiiti," rumbled Gorgoth, waving for Modryn to lower his weapon. The ex-Champion did so slowly, looking as confused as Ilend felt.
"I'll put it to better use than those bloody house cats it's named after," snorted the helmed man. He looked around at them, the whites of his eyes barely visible through the eye-slits of his simple, smooth helmet. "Are you lackwits ever going to find your tongues?"
"What in Azura's name is going on, Gorgoth?" inquired Modryn, glaring from the Orc to the stranger and back again. "Who is this sneaky bugger? Company?" Ilend shared the Dunmer's suspicion; a stranger appearing at a Blackwood Company base of operations at the same time they did was unlikely to be a coincidence.
The unknown man barked a harsh laugh, but it was the warrior-shaman who answered. "An acquaintance, you could say. Definitely not Company. He-"
"Cut the crap, big guy," interrupted Aerin, finally finding her voice. "Who is he?" Not waiting for an answer, she whirled on the stranger. "Who are you? Take that tin hat off."
"Why? Is the masked stranger making you nervous, treehugger?" The man snorted. "Idiots. If a greenskin can figure it out, so can you." Ilend's hand tightened around his sword hilt. Company or not, he wasn't the type to take any insult lightly.
"Enough," grunted Gorgoth. "We're wasting time here. Join us or go back to the Temple, Magnus. Either way, stop playing your games."
"Fine, fine," growled the soldier, reaching up and removing the helmet to reveal the sun-darkened bald head and well-trimmed white goatee of Gnaeus Magnus. "Close your mouth before you start catching flies, girl," he told Aerin as he rested his helmet in the crook of his elbow. "What, you thought you'd got rid of the senile, grouchy old git? Not a bloody chance."
Despite himself, Ilend felt a smirk slide onto his face. "I missed you, old man," he admitted, releasing his sword hilt. "You've been keeping busy, it seems. Where'd you get the armour?"
"Have your bloody family reunion later," spat Modryn, raising his mace and pointing into the darkness of Glademist Cave. "You." He glared at Gnaeus. "If you're coming, kill anything that moves that isn't us. And spare an Argonian called Ajum-Kajin. Sound simple enough for you?"
"Yes. Stop your yapping and let an old man through," responded the Imperial, brushing past all of them and drawing his ebony broadsword. Even Aerin, despite her current foul mood, had to laugh at the expression on the Dunmer's face. Recovering, he glanced at Gorgoth as though to ask is he always like that? before shaking his head and following the ex-hermit in. Ilend drew his sword, strapped his shield to his arm, and took one last look around the clearing before entering the cave.
It was dank and dark, the only light coming from the entrance and a globe of magical light hovering above Gorgoth's head. A headless corpse decorated the start of a passageway that was lined with moss-covered rocks stalagmites. Gnaeus was up ahead, studying the body with mild curiosity. A resigned sigh turned his head; Aerin had sat down on a rock near the exit and laid Trueshot across her knees. "We'll be back soon enough," the Protector told her. "Kill anyone who isn't us. And don't die, okay?"
She managed a weak smile. "If I get impaled and crushed half ta death, kill Modryn for me, could ya?" She shook her head and and clasped his hand for a second before releasing him. "Go on. I'll be fine." She was right; from her position, anyone wanting to approach her from within the cave would have at least thirty paces to advance through a narrow passageway whilst under fire from an expert marksman with a powerful bow. He gave her a last smile and hurried off after the others.
Gorgoth was leading the way with Blood King clenched in his right fist. Ilend took the rear, advancing with shield half-raised. The passage was winding with sharp turns and narrow enough that they were forced into single file, but it was no surprise when it suddenly opened up into a fair-sized cavern; the raised voices of Company members talking had forewarned them. There were five of them, all in steel plate or chainmail with the sword-and-axe prominent on their dark green surcoats. They're certainly proud of who they are, thought Ilend grimly as he stepped up beside his comrades, forming a line as the Company men hastily grabbed their weapons and rushed towards the intruders without even asking whether they were friend or foe.
The warrior-shaman shattered one enemy with ball lightning before they'd even joined battle, leaving them one each. Blocking a Khajiit's wild slash with his shield, the Protector pushed him off in the direction of Gnaeus and turned his attention to a spear-wielding Argonian with a bare head and bare feet. Batting aside a hopeful stab, the Imperial darted forward with a swift downcut. The lizard danced out of his reach and poked again, probing his defences. Stepping backwards to draw him in, the Guildsman surged forward and brought his longsword down on the wooden shaft, cutting the six-foot weapon in two. The Company man blinked and attempted to draw the shortsword at his hip, but moved too slowly and found himself run through by a Daedric longsword.
Ilend pushed the Argonian's corpse off his blade and turned, but the rest of the battle was already over. Gorgoth had somehow managed to impale his opponent on a stalactite far above them, the Redguard's broken limbs hanging limply down as though trying to grasp the head of his killer. The Imperial shook his head and busied himself with cleaning his blade. Blood King had been known to defy conventional thought at times. The architect of the unusual kill was standing at the point where the cavern narrowed and twisted out of sight. "There are two ways forward," he reported, pointing over to the mouth of another passage.
"Take that way, Protector," ordered Oreyn, pointing to the side passage. "If it's a dead end, catch up with us. Take the old man." The Dunmer was turning away and leading Gorgoth down the far passage before the Guildsman could respond.
"And he calls me old man..." grumbled Gnaeus, whose voice was once again distorted by his full-face helmet. He started off towards the opening in the rock without waiting for Ilend. "Damned ash-skin is probably twice my age..."
The younger Imperial snorted but held his tongue. Verbal sparring could wait until they had less people to kill. He pushed past the ex-hermit to lead with shield up, cursing the clattering their chainmail made on the various rocky protrusions common in Glademist cave. Fortunately, such sounds worked both ways, so the Protector was fully prepared for when two fully-armoured Company men came around the corner with weapons drawn.
Wasting no time, Ilend smashed his shield sideways into the leading Khajiit's weapon arm, pinning it to the wall while he stabbed him through the stomach. The dying foe fell backwards as the ex-guardsman withdrew his blade, causing the approaching Nord to stumble and waste precious seconds pushing his former comrade out of the way. That was the only opening Ilend needed, slashing down and opening the Nord's torso from shoulder to stomach, the surcoat and chainmail parting easily for the Daedric steel. As his opponent's breath turned to gurgles, the Imperial moved forward and slashed again, spilling his entrails over the cavern floor.
"Are you quite finished with showing off?" barked Gnaeus, having been forced to watch from behind his younger companion in the narrow confines of the tunnel.
"Maybe," smirked Ilend, cleaning his blade as he carefully stepped over the bodies. "Wait your turn, old man. I'll bet you've had your fair share of killing while we've been gone."
The ex-hermit snorted. "A load of bandits who couldn't tell one end of a blade from the other."
"Which is clearly why you're still alive." The Protector chuckled and leaned carefully around a corner to check that the way was clear before continuing. "Not like back in your day, eh?"
Gnaeus harrumphed. "Back when I was still getting paid for things like this, a bandit wasn't considered a true bandit unless he'd lopped off at least ten ears, toes, fingers... whatever they kept as trophies." He shook his head. "Of course, this was Hammerfell. The Alik'r Redguards have no concept of civilisation."
"Much like you, then." Ilend cut off the old man's response with a clenched fist. "Quiet. There's more around the next bend." He peered around an outcropping and glimpsed four men in a wide cavern up ahead before an arrow slamming into the rock next to his ear sent him back behind cover. "Archer," he warned.
"My eyes work perfectly fine," snapped the ex-hermit.
Raising his shield, Ilend surged out into the chamber, Gnaeus right behind him. An arrow instantly made its presence known by embedding itself in his shield, but it merely succeeded in momentarily throwing him off balance. He winced as something flashed past his ear, but only when he heard the choked cry in front of him did he realise that Gnaeus had actually thrown his broadsword into the archer. Lowering his shield, the Imperial had time to glimpse the archer clawing at the ebony blade protruding from his upper chest before his view was blocked by a Bosmer darting forward and slashing with two shortswords.
Blocking both with his shield, the Protector pushed forward, his quick swings and thrusts forcing the less skilled Wood Elf backwards until he tripped over the thrashing body of his comrade. Ilend kicked him in the stomach, sending him crashing to the ground, and stepped over him to swiftly thrust his blade into his chest. The elf's heart thumped twice against the longsword before its wielder twisted and withdrew it in a spray of blood.
"A little help here?" roared Gnaeus, who was having trouble containing two Imperials when armed with nothing but a dagger. The Guildsman moved swiftly, coming up behind one of the ex-hermit's assailants and kicking him in the back of the knee, catching him as he fell and slitting his throat. His longsword was hardly the most effective tool for the task, turning it into more of a half-decapitation and splattering the Protector with hot blood, but it served its purpose. Gnaeus had ducked low under an axe swing and tackled the other Company man to the ground, pinning his weapon arm with a knee as he buried the dagger in his opponent's eye.
"Try not to carelessly chuck your sword away next time," advised Ilend as he cleaned his own blade. Most of his torso and some of his face was covered in blood, but cleaning that could wait.
"Try not to mindlessly charge an archer next time," retorted Gnaeus, wrenching his broadsword from the chest of the mentioned archer. Both of their heads jerked around as a hulking, heavily-armoured Nord in steel plate armour stepped from a passage on the far side of the cavern.
A shaggy brown beard covered most of his chest, and he was almost as wide as Gorgoth, but it was the two battleaxes he was casually carrying in his hands that attracted the eye. His gaze swept across the two of them and he grunted, hefting his mighty weapons and settling into a combat stance. "How would you like to die?" he asked gruffly.
"My plans for death do not involve a half-ogre chopping off my manhood with an axe that has more sense than he does," growled Gnaeus, shifting to a two-handed grip on his sword. The massive Nord snarled and advanced, swinging both axes in an arc before him, driving the ex-hermit back. Ilend leapt in and aimed a thrust at his enemy's neck, but he moved quicker than his size would suggest, his parry almost tearing the sword from the Imperial's hand. Instead of staggering backwards, the Protector purposefully overbalanced and rolled forwards, coming up inside the Nord's reach and thrusting upwards. The power of the thrust and the power of Daedric steel meant that his blade punched through the steel plate and into his opponent's abdomen.
Roaring in pain, the Nord dropped his battleaxes and swept Ilend off his feet before he could react. He found himself crushed against the cold steel breastplate, the breath being squeezed out of him as the wounded Company man squeezed with all his enormous strength. Gasping for breath with his face pushed into the Nord's beard and his ribs slowly buckling, the Imperial frantically attempted to kick his opponent's knees in. Then blood spurted into his face, blinding him as the end of an ebony broadsword protruded through the front of the Nord's forehead. As Gnaeus wrenched his blade from the back of their enemy's neck, Ilend collapsed to the floor, sucking in breath in great gulps.
"Don't you get enough hugs from that bedwarmer of yours?" asked the ex-hermit sardonically as he pulled the longsword from the Nord's stomach and offered it hilt-first to his breathless companion. Ilend took it with a glare and dragged himself to his feet. The old man's expression was impossible to read beneath that helmet, but he was almost definitely smirking.
"Come on," he growled as soon as he had his breath back, motioning them forward as he wiped the blood from his eyes. More of the crimson liquid dripped from his sword as they advanced further through Glademist Cave, but he ignored it. If someone wanted to follow them, all they would need to do was follow the trail of corpses. No doubt their comrades were leaving similar trails of destruction.
They encountered no one else until the next cavern, where the corpses of three Company men greeted them. It was easy to tell who had killed them; both Gorgoth and Oreyn used heavy maces, and all the bodies had various shattered bones and expressions of pain. After a few minutes, they caught up with the ex-Guildsmen just as they were finishing off another batch of opponents.
"Glad you could finally join us," snorted Oreyn as he ripped his mace from the face of an unfortunate Khajiit. "If that blood is yours, get your wounds healed," he told Ilend gruffly as he wiped the worst of the brain matter from his mace. "Otherwise, hurry up. Not far now, according to Gorgoth's life detection."
"I see three life signatures up ahead," reported the warrior-shaman as they headed towards a narrowing in the tunnel. His globe of light was no longer needed due to the torch brackets in the walls. "Beyond them, nothing. The increasing signs of habitation lead me to believe that this is their residence." That much was true; as they'd descended deeper into the cavern, Ilend had noted bedrolls, weapon racks, tables, fires, and other indications that the cave was being used to live in.
The Orc held up a clenched fist as they approached the last chamber. "Remember that Ajum-Kajin is a mage. I'll lead." He summoned a magical shield and strode rapidly around the corner into the light produced by a dozen torches. Ilend followed with his own shield held high.
Instantly, there was a crackle of magic and a roar as a bolt of lightning arced into Gorgoth's shield, doing nothing but light up the three inhabitants of what was certainly the command room of the Company's operations. Two armoured Khajiits were drawing their weapons and advancing, whereas a robed Argonian was retreating with hands outstretched. "Mage!" he was shouting. "Kill the Orc first! He-" the lizard was cut off by Gorgoth's own lightning bolt, which slammed him into the far wall.
Pushing Ajum-Kajin from his mind, Ilend sprang to meet one of the Khajiit's blades with his own, turning the attack aside and forcing him backwards with his shield. The cat hissed and bared his fangs, but jerked and dropped his weapon as Gnaeus smoothly sliced his spine in two. Oreyn had shattered the other warrior's ribcage with a single slash. Gorgoth had advanced and was dragging the twitching, writhing Ajum-Kajin to his feet, healing and Silencing him. Looking around for other enemies and finding none, Ilend sheathed his sword and finally allowed himself to relax slightly.
This small cavern was far more furnished than any part of the cavern so far; a large bed stood in one corner, with a wardrobe and armour stand next to it. A large table hosted maps of Cyrodiil and numerous letters along with quills and inkpots. Torches in brackets hammered into the stone provided ample light. The inhabitant – still shaking from the after-effects of being hit by lightning – squirmed in Gorgoth's grasp as Oreyn walked up to him. What was visible of Ajum-Kajin's scales was mostly red, with a few streaks of green over his cheeks. His orange eyes were full of barely-restrained fear as the Dunmer examined him critically. "You can't-" his rasping voice was cut off by the ex-Champion's backhand.
"Shut it, lizard-rat. You'll speak when you get leave to speak." The Dark Elf looked up at Gorgoth. "Do you want privacy for this?"
The warrior-shaman nodded. "I will send for you when he is broken," he assured. "I would advise you to take up defensive positions. We cannot know for sure that this was all of them."
Oreyn rubbed his chin. "Fine. Shame you're better-qualified than me. I'd love to make this eel scream." He aimed a kick at the Argonian before leaving, waving for Gnaeus and Ilend to follow him. The ex-hermit harrumphed but followed without complaint.
The Guildsman lingered. "Gorgoth..."
"I am perfectly capable of doing whatever has to be done on my own. Leave us."
Ilend briefly met the Orc's amber eyes. He quickly dropped his gaze and hurried from the chamber. Despite everything he knew about the Blackwood Company, despite their enmity, he couldn't help but feel a slight twinge of pity for Ajum-Kajin. Shaking his head, he walked off to find Aerin.
After Ilend had departed, Gorgoth stepped up to the only way into the small command room and blocked it with a shield spell. He then added a Silence spell to stop sound leaving the room and finally a light-bending spell to prevent anyone from looking in. Satisfied, he turned back to regard his captive, who was tentatively reaching for something inside his robe. "If you think I'm going to tell you anything-" he started. The warrior-shaman cut him off by grabbing the back of his neck and slamming his face down onto the hard wood table.
Ignoring the pained hissing, the Orc grabbed some rope from his belt and wrenched the Argonian's hands behind his back, quickly tying his wrists together before summoning a shortsword. Ignoring the lizard's protests, he methodically cut the robe from his body, revealing boiled leather armour. He cut the armour off as well, along with everything else the Company man was wearing until he was left naked and shivering. Most of the scales of his body were as red as those on his face, and he had a slight build, with thin shoulders and a short tail. Wordlessly pushing him into a corner, the warrior-shaman knelt and went through the lizard's clothing.
He found nothing of note – apart from a few daggers – until he came across a magical ring in one of the robe's deep pockets. Instead of asking Ajum-Kajin what it was – there would be more important questions to ask – he merely gave the sword-and-axe sigil a casual glance before placing it carefully on the table.
"Can't we talk like civilised people?" complained the Argonian, grunting as he uselessly tested the strength of the ropes binding his wrists together. His skin would crack before he found a way out of them.
"We can," confirmed Gorgoth, dragging a chair in front of the crouching lizard and taking a seat. "And you will tell me what I want to know." He balanced the shortsword that he'd used earlier on his knees. It was a delicate weapon, with a thin blade, sharp on both edges. "But first, let me tell you something about me." His amber eyes met the Argonian's orange eyes and held them. Ajum-Kajin flinched away from his gaze. Good.
"I was sixteen when the shamans came for me," he started, shifting in the chair to get more comfortable. The Argonian started to rise from his crouch, but the Orc forced him back down with a flow of magic. "My father had been resisting them for years. But even with the relatively limited collection of magical books in the palace library, I had still learnt how to make some use of my magical gift. He had no choice."
"Why are you telling-"
"Another word and I gag you. The shamans took me in as one of their own, training me as they have trained thousands of Orcs with the gift of magic over the centuries. Obviously, they noted my great power, even at that early age. I remain one of the most powerful shamans in Orsinium." Gorgoth leaned forward, staring into those apprehensive orange eyes. "But they are not just healers, mages, warriors or wise men. No, many shamans are deeply religious as well." He grunted. "At least, before King Gortwog developed that heresy of Trinimac. But in my days with them, Malacath was still prominent. His teachings would make you soil yourself, Argonian."
"I doubt-"
The Orc grabbed a large strip of the lizard's robe, balled it up, and shoved it into his mouth. "I warned you," he told Ajum-Kajin in response to the Argonian's glare. "Most Orcs will know much about Malacath, of course, but we shamans are taught how to best worship him. You would think our rituals barbaric, and maybe you have a point. But a strong god needs a strong people to do as he desires." His fingers idly drummed on one of his knees. "You may wonder why I am telling you this. When I was seventeen, I was given the honour of taking part in such a ritual. The memory of such an event does not fade easily."
"This is a great honour. I do not have to tell you that."
The young acolyte – dressed in the dark blood-red robes common among shamans – bowed his head. "I am honoured, shaman," replied Gorgoth gro-Kharz, his voice full of respect. Magor gro-Shub had seen over two hundred winters, and his hair fell in white waves to below his waist. Gorgoth's own black hair – arranged in two braids, in the warrior's fashion – barely reached mid-back, though today both were concealed under his hood.
Magor held out a curved iron dagger, stained with the blood of countless sacrifices. "You know what has to be done." He was the oldest and wisest of the shamans living in the network of caves in the mountains a few miles north of the city of Orsinium, where Gorgoth had been brought to learn. There were other collections of shamans dotting the nation of Orsinium, but this one was among the biggest. The young Orc reached out and took the dagger hilt-first, feeling the weight of it, hefting it in his palm. "Do not displease Malacath," warned Magor, giving the acolyte one last look before turning and walking out of the small cave and into the blinding light of day.
The sound of chanting echoed down from the surface. Gorgoth clenched his hand around the cold hilt, made from the same iron as the blade of the dagger. It was time. His boots – good leather – crunched over the loose stones as he confidently strode out of the cave and into the daylight.
He knew that there were nearly a hundred Orcs all around him, but as his vision adjusted to the sudden brightness, the young acolyte only had eyes for the massive state of Malacath before him, the grey stone leviathan proudly standing forty feet tall. The likeness of Malacath closely resembled that of an Orc, with bulging muscles and a colossal battleaxe raised above his head, ready to swing. It was unknown how or why the Daedric Lord had been angered, but they did not need to know that. All they had to know was how to sate his anger. And a method had been provided.
Gorgoth walked slowly to the altar at the foot of the statue, holding the dagger out in front of him as the chanting intensified. Tied spread-eagled to the altar was a young naked Breton girl, probably taken from an under-guarded caravan. She couldn't have been much more than ten. Drugged almost to oblivion, she was barely aware of the chanting, or of the dagger as the young acolyte stopped in front of her and raised it over her body.
As the chanting reached a climax, the Orc did not hesitate. He plunged the iron hand of Malacath down into her body, wrenched it downwards, opening her from throat to groin. Pulling the bloody knife free, he dropped it on the altar and reached inside her, groping until he found the slow beat of her heart. He tore the still-beating organ from her chest and held it up to Malacath, ignoring the blood dripping down his arm, under his robes. Blood of the weak to feed the strong. A savage snarl contorted Gorgoth's face as he glared up at the statue. Malacath would be appeased, or they would bleed High Rock dry until he was.
"As it happened, Malacath was appeased by that one girl, so we did not have to start a genocide," finished Gorgoth. Ajum-Kajin was whimpering by now, pressed back against the wall of the cavern, as far away from the warrior-shaman as he could get. The Orc slowly rose to his feet and grabbed the lizard by the throat, lifting him off the ground so their eyes were level, mere inches apart. "I knew nothing of that girl. I felt nothing towards her. And now you know what I did to her." A snarl plucked at his lips. "But you... I do not like you. So imagine what I'm going to do with you if you don't tell me what I want to know." He brought the shortsword into the lizard's field of vision.
The hapless Argonian shook his head frantically, eyes bulging with terror. From the smell and the sudden impact of something warm on his boot, Gorgoth knew that Ajum-Kajin had shit himself. Perfect.
A/N: Yes, Gorgoth is an evil bastard (well, by most definitions, anyway), but you knew that already. I'll remind you all to leave a review; you've made it this far, so what's a few more minutes of your time...?