A/N: At least update times seem to be consistent now. Let's hope I can keep that up as the fic nears the end (though the end isn't really in sight yet, not for me). Anyhow, thanks for the reviews, as ever:
PpC: Indeed. I hated the Company as well... and that kind of thing is probably commonplace if you're using a phone. My sympathies, though all I'll ever need from a phone is the capability of calling someone...
Orion the Awesome: I'm not sure. I'm hoping to keep it to one, but the flow might dictate a split. We'll see.
Random Reader: The new Arch-Mage has helped already... well, before she was Arch-Mage, but nonetheless, she made her first appearance in Chapter 34. But anyhow, yes, battlemages will be of great use. Good to hear you're sticking around...
Rokibfd: Damned typos. Changed it. And yes, I've never seen differing life spans ever talked about in human/elf relations despite its importance. No, the Brotherhood's questline hasn't started because my DB fic will take place after the Oblivion Crisis. As for the Arch-Mage... you'll find out. As for magic, I made it more 'realistic', if such a term can be applied to magic. I wouldn't say that made it inherently more powerful, but it did make it more varied. But Gorgoth IS that powerful, yes. And as for the chapter name... the sigil of the Blackwood Company is a crossed sword and axe in front of a tree, and 'Broken Sword' sounded better than 'Broken Sword-and-Axe'. Also, the Company is now a broken sword; it's defeated and can't do anything. Finally, Gorgoth put a notch into Ri'Zakar's blade, though that's not really a breaking... As for Skyrim, I went for an axe-and-magic combo (oddly similar to Gorgoth's fighting style, with a weapon in the right hand with the left free for casting). Anyhow, good to hear you'll be around as well.
As ever, reviews will always help me, so leave one if you've taken the time to read this chapter.
Chapter Forty-three: New Leaders
The Chorrol Guildhall had changed little since Modryn had last left it. Sitting at the dining table just off the entrance hall, he had a good view of the stark wooden floor and stone walls, the simple wall hangings, and the trophies that his predecessors had put on display. It smelt like home. This Guildhall had been his home for many years, and soon it would be his home again. But wood and stone and steel were not his interests at this moment. The Guildsmen sitting around the table – nearly twenty of them – were all looking to him. It was a sign of Donton's collapse that they were willing to submit to the leadership of an exile. But he would not be an exile for much longer.
It had been five days since Gorgoth had left them to go south. Five days that the ex-Champion had used as best he could. After using Ilend to run messages for the first day, he'd allowed him and his lover to head back to Bruma, where they were probably even now sharing a bed or fighting Dremora. This was the first time he'd felt confident enough to return to the Guildhall instead of holding meetings in his house. He'd been told that Donton rarely left her office when she even bothered to show up, so they were unlikely to be disturbed.
"We've got replies from Bruma, Cheydinhal, Skingrad, Bravil and the City," Kurz gro-Baroth was telling him. The Orcish Warder was in effective command of the Chorrol Guild, though Donton had threatened to expel him when he'd tentatively approached her about appointing a new Champion. "They're all in favour. It's clear to even the blindest idiot that the Guildmaster's lost it. No replies from Anvil or Leyawiin yet, but they'll come in time."
"Leyawiin will agree," replied Modryn, idly tapping his helmet, which rested on the table in front of him. He was fully armoured; coming garbed for battle had seemed somewhat fitting. "They've been under the boot of the Blackwood Company for so long that they'll agree when they learn it was Donton's fault that took us this long to take action." There were no rumours out of Leyawiin about the Company yet, which only increased the tension the Dunmer was feeling. All his plans rested on Gorgoth being successful, and while he was confident of the Orc's success, that didn't stop him worrying. His inner nerves were well hidden now, however; the Guildsmen around the table had compete trust in him, and he couldn't let them down now.
"So our plan now hinges on Gorgoth getting back with news of the Company's defeat?" asked Lum gro-Baroth, Kurz's more optimistic brother. Neither Orc was armoured, but their warhammers were strapped across their backs and both looked ready for action at any moment. They were good fighters, strong and loyal, exactly what the Guild needed, though neither much suited to political leadership. The fact that Kurz was effectively running the largest Guildhall in Tamriel spoke much of the Guild's troubles.
"Indeed," agreed Modryn. That was all he needed from the warrior-shaman; he had everything else in hand himself. Some of Ajum-Kajin's papers had given him exactly what he needed; proof of the Company's involvement not only in the death of Viranus Donton, but in his brother's as well. Faced with irrefutable evidence along with the news of the Company's destruction, Donton would have no choice but to give in. He hoped. "He left us five days ago. He'll be back soon." Once again, the Dark Elf was waiting. He hoped that the Orc hadn't made it a habit.
Sabine Laul raised an eyebrow. "Five days from Chorrol to Leyawiin and back with death and destruction in between?" The Guild smith was a middle-aged Breton with wrinkles starting to show around her brown eyes, but her muscular arms could still swing a hammer with the best of them.
"This is Gorgoth we're talking about, Sabine," Modryn told her. "He might as well have been born in a saddle, given how he handles a horse." In truth, the ex-Champion knew nothing about the warrior-shaman's parentage, but his skill on horseback was undoubted; fitting, for someone who'd led heavy cavalry in battle.
"Either way, we shouldn't expect him to walk in through the door this minute. It's barely past noon." The Breton swept her shoulder-length brown hair out of her eyes and met his crimson gaze. "What part is he going to play in the Guild after things are settled, anyway?"
Modryn shrugged. He didn't know the Orc well enough to know exactly what he'd want, but he thought it safe to assume that he'd want at least a high position in the Guild. "He'll be involved, I'd imagine," he grunted. "I'll probably make him a Guardian, at least. Apart from that, he knows best about how he can serve. He can-" The thump of heavy footsteps upstairs cut him off in mid-sentence. Everyone froze as Vilena Donton slowly made her way down the stairs to gaze at her former Champion.
The Guildmaster was already nearing sixty, but appeared to have aged twenty years in the last few months. Her wrinkled skin hung loosely from her bones, and her once-muscular body had wasted away. Slumped shoulders and bloodshot eyes gave her a haggard, exhausted air, and her dress was draped loosely from her shoulders like a soiled rag. Yet there was emotion in those eyes; anger and distaste. "You," she snarled, raising a steady hand to point at the Dunmer. A longsword was still hanging from her sword belt, and while she would be no match for him in her current state, she would still know how to use it.
"Me," confirmed Modryn, rising and making his way around the table to stand in front of her. He'd almost expected this eventuality; all it meant was that he'd have to move before Gorgoth got back. No matter. The broken wretch in front of him was a walking corpse anyway, driven half-mad with grief. A blind Bosmer could see that. "I've come to restore the Guild to its former glory."
She slapped him. It was a full-armed blow, with most of her power behind it, but she wasn't as strong as she used to be. Even so, his cheek stung. "That wasn't very courteous," he observed. He was aware of the Guildsmen in their seats behind him watching intently. Some Associates had crept up from the basement and were watching with wide eyes.
"You have a nerve," hissed Donton. "You killed my children, then walk back in here like you own it. You-"
"You think your boys meant nothing to me?" roared Modryn, the fury in his voice forcing her to step backwards. "I fought and bled beside Vitellus for years before he was killed by Blackheart's men. And Viranus would have been a damn good fighter if the Company hadn't murdered him!" He stepped forward, forcing her backwards again. "When they died, I felt it as well, Donton," he snarled. "But the difference is, I actually did something."
"Like what?" she demanded, still slightly off-balance.
"On the table you'll find documents that prove the Blackwood Company murdered Viranus, supposedly to keep us off 'their turf'. And, again, I have proof that they were in league with Azani Blackheart. Gorgoth got you vengeance for Vitellus, by the way. Remember him? The Orc that you expelled simply because he brought you bad news and told you a few simple truths?" By now, the Dark Elf had backed the Guildmaster into the wall and was glaring at her, his eyes a few inches from hers.
"I-" Donton's retort was cut off by the doors to the Guildhall slamming open. Modryn stepped back to regard Gorgoth as he walked in, fully armoured and towering head and shoulders above everyone except his fellow Orcs. In his battered plate armour with weapons strapped to most of his body, he looked every inch a veteran.
"I assume the deed is done?" inquired the ex-Champion, raising an eyebrow as he folded his arms.
The warrior-shaman's cold amber eyes took in the scene before answering as the doors swung shut behind him. "The Blackwood Company has been destroyed. I killed Ri'Zakar and most of his men. Count Caro has the rest in his dungeons. The Hist tree has been destroyed."
A small smile twitched Modryn's lips. He'd always had confidence in the big Orc, but hearing the news still pleased him. That pleasure quickly soured, however, as he shot a sideways glance at Donton. "Good that you're finally here. I think our honoured Guildmaster here will soon have a decision to make." Most of the Chorrol Guild – at least eighty fighters - was now within earshot.
The Guildmaster's eyes were darting between the two of them as she struggled to find words. "What decision?" she finally managed.
"You used to be a good leader," Modryn told her, eyes softening slightly as he recalled fighting by her side decades ago. The steel-clad ferocious warrior who had wielded a greatsword with admirable skill was as dead as her sons, however. "For many years, you led the Guild well. But that time ended a while ago. Your grief has led you downhill and now your incompetence will only lead you from one disaster to another. You have to go." His sharp words made her flinch, but he held her gaze. "Resign, for the good of the Guild."
Her lips were trembling. "What then? You would take over? You!"
The Dark Elf shook his head. "Not me. But I'll be the one to choose our next Guildmaster, if they're willing." He took a step forward, stabbing a finger into her shoulder. "If you reinstate me and Gorgoth, then resign, you can have a peaceful retirement with a good pension. It's the least you deserve for what you did in your... better days."
"And if I don't do as you say?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.
Modryn spread his arms. Did he really have to spell it out for her? "I have the Guild unified behind me, Vilena," he told her. "You do not hold the power here any more. If you refuse, then..." A cruel smile crept onto his face. "As the longest-serving, highest-ranked surviving member, Burz gro-Khash would take command were something to happen to you. Not only is he the only person in the Guild who wants the top job less than me, but he would also be rather uncaring about what actually happened to you..." His grin must look truly horrible by now.
Behind him, Gorgoth stepped forward. "There is a need for soldiers around Bruma," he rumbled. "If I cut off your nose and left you with a few scars, no one would ever recognise you again. And I doubt you would survive long in any case." Modryn suppressed a wince; while he would go through with what the Orc was saying if he had to, he wished that the warrior-shaman had been more subtle.
Donton was shuffling backwards, a look of horror and disgust on her face. "You're both vermin," she hissed.
"Maybe that's true," said Tarad, a young Redguard Defender who, until recently, had been one of Donton's staunchest protectors. He'd changed his tune when Modryn had shown him the undeniable truth. He stood, blue eyes flashing as he glared down at his Guildmaster. "But at least they're doing what's best for the Guild. The same can't be said for you... unless you resign." He folded his arms across his broad chest and waited as most of the Guildsmen at the table stood, adding their mute agreement.
"But..." Donton was visibly trembling now. "He..." She was pointing at Modryn, but the words weren't coming.
"Yes, I took Vitellus with me to root out Azani Blackheart," sighed the ex-Champion. "Wasn't me who killed him. And yes, I sent Viranus to kill those trolls, well within his capabilities. It wasn't me who murdered him."
"He's right," growled Tarad. "It was the Blackwood company and Azani Blackheart who killed them. They're gone. No thanks to you. You stayed in your office and let your despair take you." His young, hard face softened slightly. "Retire and you can have your peace at last," he suggested. "Let others take the strain. It's the best thing you can do for your Guild."
"I..." The Imperial's voice trailed off as she sighed, shoulders slumping even further. "I've failed, haven't I?" she whispered, her voice so low it was hard to hear her.
Despite her actions, despite her decline, despite her complete ineptitude, Modryn felt a pang of sympathy for her. The woman had lost both her sons, after all; not an easy thing to take. While the ex-Champion had a few children of his own, they were bastards, the result of casual flings with serving girls and maids. He had never been a true father, and so couldn't empathise with his Guildmaster, but even so, he thought he might be able to understand why she had collapsed. However, any comfort he might have offered had been removed by the bitterness of his removal and the knowledge of what Donton had done to the Guild. "Yes, Donton. You've failed."
"You were weak," put in Gorgoth. His eyes were chips of yellow ice. "As a leader, you should be strong. You had a duty to everyone under your leadership. You betrayed them."
The Guildmaster squeezed her eyes shut for a few seconds before opening them again. They were full of pain and regret. "Modryn Oreyn, I am reinstating you to the Fighters Guild with the rank of Champion."
A small smile twitched Modryn's lips, but he refused to let any more of his relief show. There was still much work to be done. "Now get Gorgoth back in. Make him a Guardian." It seemed ludicrous – the Orc had only been in the Guild for a matter of months – but he had more than proved his worth in these difficult days. He would be invaluable in a position of command.
Donton nodded. "Gorgoth gro-Kharz, I am reinstating you to the Fighters Guild with the rank of Guardian."
"No." Modryn's head jerked sideways, staring up at the Orc with open shock. "Make me Guildmaster." For a brief, crazy moment, the Dunmer thought his comrade was making a bad joke, but then remembered that Gorgoth didn't make jokes. All around were raised eyebrows and shocked expressions. Donton was gaping. This Orc, unknown to most of the Guild, in command? The notion would be laughable if the situation wasn't so serious. As ever, the warrior-shaman's face might as well have been hewn from granite for all the emotion it showed.
"Gorgoth..." He paused, unsure how to continue. That fearsome golden gaze turned to him. "You... don't know this Guild like I do. There are more suitable candidates-"
"Like who?" The warrior-shaman didn't let him answer, continuing on, his deep voice filling the Guildhall. "I have no doubt that there are capable officers. But do they have the right qualities? Are they men of true steel?" Gorgoth shook his head and looked around the hall. "I have not been in this Guild long, true. I joined merely because it was suggested as cover by the Blades." He paused to slowly walk across the hall to a display case containing a Dwemer battleaxe once wielded by a former Guildmaster. The Orc stared down at the mighty weapon for a few seconds before turning and sweeping the inhabitants of the Chorrol Fighters Guild with those frozen amber eyes.
"But in time, I realised this Guild is no mere collection of sellswords of the kind that are so common in High Rock. No, it is something more. It has a hint of brotherhood about it." The Orc shook his head. "Ordinary mercenaries will abandon their comrades and run when the battle turns against them. But Guildsmen... I know that Guildsmen will not do that. We fight side by side as brothers. Mercenaries are capable of honour, and there is plenty of it in this Guild." He clenched his fists. "And that is why I would give much to protect it, to bring down those who oppose it. I am proud to be a part of this Guild... and I would be honoured to lead it."
He turned to Modryn once again. "You say that there are more suitable candidates, Champion. You know this Guild better than me, of course, but I am no stranger to leadership. You might even say I was born to it." A curious, bitter smirk plucked at one corner of his mouth before fading. "I have led Orcish heavy cavalry in fierce battles, yes, but I also formed a mercenary company after I gained my independence. Ask any honest warrior in Orsinium and they will tell you how effective we were." He stepped forward, forcing the Dunmer to bend his neck to meet that gaze. "These are hard times, Modryn. The Guild needs strong leadership. And I am both hard and strong." His gaze fell upon Donton. "So, Guildmaster... make your decision."
As Donton fumbled for an answer, the Dark Elf forced his features back into neutrality. In truth, he'd never considered the Orc for the position; he was too new, too much of an unknown factor. But now... hurriedly, he re-evaluated the candidates for Guildmaster; Ohtimbar had only been in the Guild for three years, and though he was a formidable fighter, the administration might be beyond him. Ah-Malz was a good leader, but bitter over his lack of promotion and untried in some aspects. Azzan was probably the best choice, the Anvil branch having profited from his good, firm leadership over the years, but now that Gorgoth was in the picture... Modryn found himself wondering if the Redguard would even want the job. The grizzled, honourable Redguard would no doubt take it if no one else stepped up, but with competition...
"The Guild would need your full attention," he reminded the Orc. "You couldn't run it alongside whatever you've got going in Orsinium-"
"I could. When I am in Orsinium, I would have a strong Champion to command in my stead. And do not underestimate my magic. Travel times would not be a factor once I have the teleportation system in place."
Teleportation system? The idea sounded mad even in Modryn's head, but he found himself recalling that day on the hill outside Atatar. The Dark Elf knew little of magic, but if the warrior-shaman was strong enough to devastate an entire army, developing a teleportation device surely couldn't be beyond his grasp. And Gorgoth was right again; having been effectively running large parts of the Guild since the death of Vitellus, Modryn was confident in his own abilities at keeping things going. He grunted.
"Donton... make him Guildmaster." The Imperial shot him an incredulous gaze, but the Dunmer cut off any protest. "Do it."
She took a deep, shaky breath. "I... resign from the position of Guildmaster of the Fighters Guild and appoint Gorgoth gro-Kharz my successor."
If the Orc was feeling anything, his face did not show it. He merely nodded. Bloody typical, thought Modryn.
Those golden eyes turned to the warrior-shaman's predecessor. "Your last act, at least, was not without merit," he rumbled. "Go in peace. As Modryn promised, you'll have your pension."
Donton sighed. The ex-Guildmaster's eyes were dull now, almost without expression. "I'll... I'll go clear my desk," she mumbled, moving quickly up the stairs before anyone else could move.
Ignoring his predecessor, the new Guildmaster's eyes swept over everyone in the room. "Before anything else, I will need a scribe," he declared. "I can read perfectly well, but my writing is incomprehensible to most. I need someone skilled with their letters."
Modryn resisted the urge to sigh. It seemed almost laughable that their next Guildmaster would be effectively half-illiterate. Fortunately, one of the Associates stepped forward almost immediately, a short Imperial with a pale face and dark hair that made it look even paler. He couldn't have been much more than sixteen, and the longsword at his belt looked almost as out of place as the leather armour covering him from neck to toes. "I- I had a good tutor," he stammered, his nerves evident. "I can write for you, if you want."
Gorgoth glanced him over quickly and gave a short nod. "You might do," he grunted. "We'll see. For now-" He was cut off by a crash coming from upstairs. Modryn grunted and started off towards the stairs, but his new superior stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "In time," he rumbled. The Dunmer frowned but allowed the Orc to guide him back in place.
"There is much work to be done," the warrior-shaman continued, raising his voice so it carried throughout the Guildhall. "We have to rebuild. We have to find our strength again. But first, before we can turn our attention to reforming, there is another enemy that must be faced." He started pacing, thick arms swinging by his sides as his boots made the floorboards groan under his weight. "Mehrunes Dagon is massing for an assault on Bruma. The city needs every sword it can get."
"The Blades sent word," said Tarad. "Some of our number have already gone of their own accord."
"Not enough." Gorgoth paused in the centre of the entrance hall. Every eye was on him, everyone hanging on his every word. "The fate of Tamriel will hang in the balance at Bruma. For that, we must contribute more than a few swords. I will not have it said that the Fighters Guild stood idly by and watched while Dagon shattered our forces." He clenched a fist. "Return to your duties for now. But I will reassemble you soon enough. There is much to be done." As the Guildsmen slowly dispersed, he motioned for Modryn and his new scribe to follow him upstairs.
"You're making your mark quickly," remarked the Champion as they climbed up towards the Guildmaster's office.
"I have to. They have suffered from weak leadership from far too long. I have to assert myself." They reached the entrance to the office. It was on the top floor of the Guildhall, a wooden wall separating it entirely from the rest of the rooms. The walls were thick, and the large oak door in the centre would prevent much sound from leaving. The only windows in the office opened into clear air; the Guildmaster would have as much privacy as he desired. He paused outside his door and turned to his scribe. "How old are you, boy?"
"F-fifteen, Guildmaster," replied the Imperial, looking at his leader's breastplate rather than his face. He was a scrawny-looking thing, a thin youth who wasn't much over five feet tall. His thin arms and pasty expression, along with his well-crafted armour and unbloodied fine longsword, spoke of the spoiled son of a well-off family. Modryn could only wonder at why he had decided to join the Guild. "I-is that too young?" The Champion snorted and resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. This was the kind of Associate he used to shout at all day long in the training yard. They had always lived in fear of him.
"No. I killed my first man when I was younger than you. Best that you start early." The Orc slid a steel-clad finger under the boy's chin and forced his head upward. The Imperial's bright blue eyes flinched away from that golden gaze. No surprises there. "What is your name?"
"Vantus Wavrick," replied the Associate, clasping his hands together to stop them shaking.
Modryn raised an eyebrow. "Turns out we've got the son of the Countess's bloody Steward in the Guild," he remarked. "Well, boy, it seems you might have a bit of pampering to shake off. The training yard will see to that." A sadistic grin pulled at his lips. "Oh, yes. No matter what work the Guildmaster sets you, you'll still be expected to keep up your efforts in training." This, after all, was an organisation of mercenaries. No Associate was sent out on a contract until they were ready, of course, but nor were they allowed to stagnate. Gorgoth nodded in agreement and released his scribe, who grimaced as the Guildmaster turned to the door.
"We're mercenaries, Vantus. And I intend for us to be highly-skilled mercenaries." He pushed open the door. "War is here already, but there will be more battle, even afterwards. You must prepare yourself for that." He walked into his office, his scribe and his Champion walking in after him.
Modryn stopped dead just inside the doorway. In front of him, the Imperial squeaked and took a step backwards. Vilena Donton's body was hanging from the rafters, her sword belt tight around her neck. Her face was darkening, her eyes bulging from their sockets. Near her feet was an overturned chair. Gorgoth spared only a passing glance for the body of his predecessor before moving over to her cluttered desk. "You knew this was going to happen," rasped Modryn, tearing his eyes away from the former Guildmaster's face.
"I did not know. I merely suspected." The warrior-shaman shrugged. "It is of no consequence. She could have died with more honour at Bruma, but she chose this path. Malacath will judge her harshly." He looked around the spacious room, which was well-lit, with light pouring in from four windows illuminating the sparse furniture. Apart from the massive desk, there was little else; an armour stand and a weapon rack were against one wall, and a small bed was rammed up against the other, under a window. "I will have need of another chair and desk for Vantus," remarked the Orc, as though the corpse of his predecessor was not hanging mere feet from him. "And a larger bed."
"It'll be seen to," grunted Modryn, reminding himself once again of how hard and brutal Gorgoth was.
"Vantus, leave us. I will send for you later, when I have need of your services." The Imperial gave a shaky nod and dashed from the room. His Guildmaster leaned over the desk, examining some of the papers. "As for you, Champion Oreyn..." He paused, looking up and meeting the Dunmer's crimson eyes. "We have much work to do."
Bruma was firmly in the grasp of winter. Snow lay thickly on the ground, and the temperature was often below freezing even during they day. The nights were even colder, the guardsmen on the walls relying on their braziers to keep the blood circulating as they made their weary patrols. Some of the more desperate guardsmen from Bravil or Anvil could sometimes be heard saying that they would be thankful for an Oblivion Gate merely to stave off the cold for a while. Others shook their heads and warned the southerners of those who had died in Oblivion after making that wish.
At this given moment of time, however, Aerin wasn't finding it too cold. In fact, it could almost be said to be too hot in the tiny room she and Ilend were sharing in one of the few inns still to have beds free. She sighed happily and rolled out of the bedroll onto the hard stone floor, a faint sheen of sweat still covering her naked body due to their exertions. The Wood Elf stood and stretched her arms, grunting in satisfaction at the feeling. Her loins were aching pleasantly.
Ilend silently looked up at her from the bedroll, leaning on one elbow. There was more than enough moonlight to see clearly, so she took the opportunity to study his impressive body; he was almost as tall as Lurog and built like a bear, with broad shoulders and thick slabs of muscle evident everywhere on his body. He also looked like a bear in places; the thick forest of coarse black hair that covered his chest and much of his arms sometimes scratched her when they lay together, but she liked it. The hair on his head was much finer, but even darker, and now it was almost falling past his shoulders. He brushed that hair back out of his eyes and met her gaze. "You look like you're thinking," he remarked, still slightly breathless from their vigorous lovemaking.
"I'm thinking admiring thoughts," she giggled, walking over to the window and throwing it open, shivering slightly as the chill of the night hit her hot body.
"Odd..." mused Ilend, slowly getting to his feet and padding over to stand behind her, his hands on her shoulders. "You hate the cold of the north, and now you're welcoming it." She could sense his smirk as she leaned back into him, her loose auburn hair cascading over her body.
"It feels good on me skin. Well, it does now. You'll likely find me wrapped up and cursing the cold tomorrow when we head out."
"As usual, then." He sniggered. "Speaking of tomorrow, we should probably get some sleep. Much as I like-" A sharp rap on the door cut him off. "What?" he barked irritably.
"Captain Burd wants to see you," came a gruff voice from the other side of the door. "He's got a Blade with him."
Muttering curses, the Imperial stalked over to the door and wrenched it open. A Nord in the yellow-and-black uniform of the Bruma City Guard stood on the other side, peering into the small room. Under his inquisitive stare, Aerin blushed and covered her breasts with her hands before Ilend moved to block the guardsman's view. "Can't it wait?" growled the Guildsman.
"Afraid not," muttered the Nord, sounding apologetic. "He did sound insistent."
"Fine," sighed Ilend. "Give me time to change." The guardsman nodded and pulled the door shut. Grunting, the Imperial started to burrow around in the pile of his clothes while muttering darkly under his breath.
"Shall I keep the bed warm for you coming back?" asked Aerin, moving over to stand beside him as he pulled on his trousers.
He shrugged. "Do what you want. Hopefully, I won't be long, but..." He spread his arms. "I wouldn't want you getting cold and bored on my behalf. I doubt Lurog, Uriel and Dralasa are going to leave the common room until the early hours."
The Bosmer couldn't resist a chuckle. They'd been introduced to Dralasa when they'd arrived back in Bruma, and they'd both taken a liking to the half-mad, ever-flirtatious Dunmer. "I'll keep that in mind," she told her lover as he pulled on his shirt. "Want help with your armour?"
"If you would," he said, smiling gratefully. She shut the window – the air was now more than cold enough – and moved over to help him don his chainmail.
"So, what do ya reckon Burd wants?" she asked as she fastened his hauberk.
"No idea. He's got a Blade with him, though... could be something from Cloud Ruler Temple." The Imperial sat down to tug his boots on as Aerin tightened his greaves. "Might even be something to do with the Guild. From what I can tell from the Bruma Branch, Oreyn's not stopping for anything. His plan might even have succeeded by now."
The Bosmer shook her head as he pulled on his gauntlets. "Why would they take an interest in the Guild? It makes no sense."
He shrugged as she swept his thick cloak around his shoulders. "I don't know. But I'll be back before dawn." He turned and took her in his arms, lifting her off the floor so his mouth could reach hers. She returned the kiss with vigour, only reluctantly drawing apart when the increasingly impatient guard outside knocked on the door again. "I'll see you later," whispered Ilend, giving her one last smile before opening the door and walking out the their room.
As the door shut behind him, Aerin sighed and crawled into their bedroll. It was cold already; all the heat seemed to have left with Ilend. She shivered and closed her eyes, huddling under the blankets in an attempt to find some warmth. After a few minutes of restless fidgeting, she finally gave up; sleep wasn't going to come easily. Instead, she threw back the blankets and reached for her underclothes.
There'd be no need for armour in the common room, so dressing was a far simpler affair than her lover's; a pair of tight cloth trousers and a simple linen vest would suffice, given the roaring fire that would be kept up until the last patron went to bed. Her sword belt was almost an afterthought; her shortswords and dagger probably wouldn't see use tonight, but Ilend had warned her to keep herself armed with so many soldiers about. She pulled her leather boots on and made sure the window was secure before leaving the room.
It was easy to find her way down to the common room; there was still a considerable amount of noise coming from below. Given the number of soldiers in and around Bruma, the inns and taverns were making more money beer and ale than ever, and the Snowdrift Inn – where Ilend and Aerin were staying – was no exception. The common room was large, lit by several torches and a single roaring hearthfire which took up most of one wall. Tables of various shapes and sizes were crammed into the space available, and many were still occupied despite midnight drawing close. Most of the patrons were inevitably drunk.
The Bosmer – thankful for the warmth of the fire on her bare arms – moved further into the room, looking around. She knew some of the soldiers – a few were Gorgoth's sworn Orcs – but most were strangers to her. As she moved among the tables, fully conscious of her own attractiveness in a room full of drunken, rowdy men, she was fully expecting the barrage of lewd comments she attracted. When she was halfway to the fire, one Imperial, even more drunk that the others with ale dripping from his chin, staggered to his feet and lunged for her. He was an entire foot taller and probably twice as wide, but Aerin simply smirked. She nimbly sidestepped and kicked his foot from under him while giving him a powerful shove in the chest. He overbalanced and crashed into a table that was, unfortunately for him, occupied by four of Gorgoth's Orcs.
Leaving the ale-soaked drunkard to his fate, the Wood Elf grinned and walked lightly over to the table where Uriel Signus, Dralasa and Lurog were snorting with laughter. "If he's spilled Bulg's drink, then he's not going to want to wake up in the morning," claimed Lurog, slapping the archer on the back as she sat down next to him. She winced at his strength but couldn't help grinning even wider.
"Remind me to stick to whores," grunted Uriel, draining his tankard and slamming it down on the stained wood of the table. "They don't fight back." On the table in front of him was a sheathed Daedric broadsword; he'd been into an Oblivion Gate recently – alongside Lurog, Dralasa, several guardsmen and Gorgoth's Orcs - and had imitated Ilend in bringing back a Dremora's weapon as a prize.
"Well, that depends on what you want," replied the Dunmer, wiggling her eyebrows. Her fine blue silk dress was disordered in places; she'd either been through Oblivion again or had already bedded at least one man tonight. Aerin was willing to bet on the latter.
"I want something that gets me blood boiling," growled the grizzled sellsword, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "You, for example." Ignoring the Dark Elf's giggling, he turned and fixed the Bosmer with his steely grey gaze. "Speaking of which, I saw your Imperial walk out earlier with a guardsman. You pissed him off or something?"
Aerin folded her arms atop the table and shook her head. "Burd wanted him for something. No idea what." Her hair was long enough for some to settle on the table around her arms; more was cascading down to her mid-back. Tying most of it back into her usual ponytail was pointless out of combat, and seeing Dralasa's perfect flame-red curls had provoked a rare stab of envy. "At least we'll get ta tear each other's clothes off all over again..." A wicked grin spread over her face.
"You sound almost as horny as me," observed Dralasa, her crimson eyes sparkling with humour. She abruptly reached over and sniffed the Wood Elf, running a hand lightly through her hair. "Yes, I still smell him on you," she sighed, retreating. "Lucky you. Last night, I had a Redguard who was too thin, a Nord who was too heavy, and him." Her grey finger poked Uriel in the chest. The mercenary grunted.
"Might I remind you, Dral, that it's you who chooses who to bed," rumbled Lurog. "And you're quite exclusive."
The Dunmer rolled her eyes and launched into yet another explanation of how she played 'her game'. Aerin smiled and closed her eyes, resting her chin on her folded arms. The euphoria of the sex was fading, and the warmth of the fire seemed to embrace her as fatigue crept up. She dozed for a while, the comforting rumble of Lurog's deep voice lulling her to sleep. When Dralasa's gentle hand on her shoulder woke her, she had no idea how much time had past. "Ilend's back," warned the Dark Elf.
Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, the Bosmer yawned and rose unsteadily. Most of the tables were now empty, and some of the serving girls were already scrubbing the floor, but she only had eyes for her lover. He looked tired as he closed the door behind him, shutting out the cutting wind, but he brightened after catching sight of her. Moving over to their table, he took her in his arms once again and kissed her deeply. She gave a small moan of pleasure and relaxed against him, pressing her body against his. Uriel was probably sniggering, but she didn't care about what some grey-haired old mercenary thought. She didn't care what anyone thought.
Eventually, however, he drew back and put her back down. "The Nine know I needed that," he sighed, running a finger over her jawline before grinning. "You like you've just got out of bed but want to go back to it."
"Ya got that right, guardsman," she said, smirking as he sat down in her chair, well aware of her loose hair and slightly dishevelled appearance. He seemed to like her like that, however. She slid into his lap and curled up, wrapping her arms around his neck and resting her head against his chest, sighing contentedly. "So, what did Burd want?"
"You as his paramour for the night, I'll wager," snorted Uriel, trimming his fingernails with his dagger.
Dralasa rolled his eyes. "He's married, Uriel. Besides, I already offered." The mercenary almost choked on his ale. "He's unlikely to want her if he's already turned me down." She shot a hasty glance in the Bosmer's direction. "No offence meant."
"None taken," murmured Aerin. "Ilend? What did he actually want?"
"A bloody nightmare," grunted the Imperial. His voice made his chest vibrate slightly; a pleasant feeling, though his words were not so pleasant. "I used to be a Watch Sergeant, and now I've got a lot of Gate experience, so..." He sighed. "Burd wants me and a few other veterans to start teaching unbloodied soldiers what to deal with. I can think of a lot of things I'd rather do with my time, to be honest..."
The Bosmer moved her head to look up him with concern. "But... most of your experience is pre-Sutch." It was generally agreed that the tactics of the Daedra had drastically changed since the start of the war, the turning point being the Battle of Fort Sutch, in which the larger part of three Imperial centuries had been destroyed. While Ilend had more experience of Oblivion than most people in Bruma, he hadn't closed an Oblivion Gate for a relatively long time. "You fought through Kvatch and Skingrad, true, but...why you? Others have nearly as much experience."
"Because you know how it can be, love. I have the most free time so they lump it on me." He shook his head. "That Blade was bringing Steffan's recommendation of me. Figures... they make use of every asset they can." He removed his gauntlets and threw them on the table. "At least I can see where they're coming from. Most of the guardsman here have never seen a Dremora before, let alone Oblivion. It's best they get some training."
"And you can always be trusted to do your duty," noted Lurog, approval evident in his voice.
"You could say that," muttered Ilend grudgingly as he rested a hand on Aerin's stomach. "I'll do it, but I made it clear that I'd rather they picked someone else. Burd insisted, though."
"Well, at least you're a good teacher," claimed the Wood Elf, wriggling slightly and craning her neck to look up into his eyes. "I can vouch for that."
"Teaching a lone, highly attractive Bosmer is quite different to teaching a large squad of well-trained guardsmen," grunted the Imperial. "But I'll do what I can, starting the day after tomorrow." He poked her lightly on the nose. "You still get to laze around all day in the warm, you lucky girl," he told her.
"Look on the bright side," she told him, smirking impishly. "At least ya can come back to a nice warm bed." She ignored Lurog's chuckling. Her lover grinned back at her, but his response was cut short by the inn's door slamming open.
"This is the fourth inn I've tried," announced the newcomer as he roughly pushed the door closed behind him. He was a Redguard, tall and broad-shouldered, his piercing blue eyes combining with his size to give him an intimidating aura. A dull green cloak failed to hide an exquisite suit of bronze plate armour forged to perfectly fit his muscular body, and the hilt of a large greatsword was visible over his left shoulder, within easy reach. Slanting across his chest was a powerful yew longbow nearly as tall as he was. Snowflakes were melting in his shoulder-length black dreadlocks, and the dampness of his cloak suggested that he'd been travelling. "I sincerely hope you have a room free," he continued, marching up to the innkeep. "And preferably hot food and a nice drink. I've made it here from Chorrol in just over a day."
The innkeep, a portly, balding Nord named Hjoldir, looked the Redguard up and down critically. "Might be that I have a room for you, and I suppose a few scraps can be heated if you've got the coin," he grunted through crooked teeth. His fighting days were long over, but Hjoldir was never a man to be overawed easily, and the cudgel at his hip had dealt with many a rowdy customer. "Given that rooms are at a premium, it'll be twenty drakes a night. Another five for the scraps. And beer's expensive as well."
Raising an eyebrow, the Redguard swept his cloak back from his torso, fully revealing the magnificence of his armour. It was burnished to such an extent that the flickering torches were reflected in the shining metal, and the full-faced spiked helm hanging from his belt looked fearsome. On another man, it might seem ostentatious and boorish, but Aerin could tell that not only did the man know how to use it, but had done so in the past; several barely-visible scars decorated the breastplate and greaves. "I could sleep in the Guildhall for free," the Redguard was saying.
Hjoldir smirked. "Most likely you've already been there. Most likely that you've discovered it's full, and that's why you're traipsing around Bruma looking for a bed." He shrugged. "Not that I care. My prices are my prices. Take em or leave em, but you're unlikely to find another bed in the city, unless you want to sleep in the Chapel. But it's cold and hard in there... not attractive for a sun-lover."
The Guildsman's jaw clenched, and for a moment his fists trembled. Aerin winced before sliding off Ilend's lap at his urging to allow him to stand, ready to step in at the first signs of violence. To their surprise, however, the Redguard grunted, the anger seeming to largely drain out of him. "I'll pay," he muttered.
Nodding, the Nord held out a meaty palm. "I'll take the first night's gold now and the rest when you leave."
Grudgingly, the warrior took his belt bag and counted out twenty-five drakes. "I hope the bed doesn't have any lice," he grumbled as Hjoldir made the coins disappear into one of his many pockets.
"You pay for what you get," the innkeep told him as he wandered off towards the kitchens, bellowing for whatever unfortunate cook was on duty.
As the Redguard glared at the Nord's retreating back, Aerin watched Ilend walk casually up to him. "You're in the Guild?" he asked.
"Defender Tarad of the Chorrol Branch," responded the Guildsman, turning to take in the Imperial's battered armour and Daedric longsword with an appraising glance. "What's it to you?"
"Protector Ilend Vonius of the Skingrad Branch," replied Ilend, nodding in greeting. "I heard that you came from Chorrol recently. Any news worth hearing?"
Tarad's hard stare had softened slightly. "Plenty, if you can spare enough to buy me a few drinks." A smirk plucked at the corner of the Redguard's mouth. "A man could use a good beer after all that riding."
"Now you're speaking my language." Ilend motioned for him to follow them back to their table, where Aerin hastily pulled up another two chairs, positioning herself next to her lover when he threw himself back down in his old seat. Tarad took his place on her other side, waiting for the creaking of the tortured chair to subside before nodding in greeting to the other occupants of the table. His eyes lingered on both women when Ilend introduced all of them, which was understandable. Once the Imperial informed him in a firm tone that she was his lover, however, his roving eyes snapped to her face and he gave her a courteous smile.
Up close, she could observe him in more detail; his square-jawed face was hard and uncompromising, much like his armour. What surprised her, however, was his youth; his eyes were those of an eagle and he had clearly seen fighting, but he was her age, if that. That did not necessarily mean much, however; Redguards were often raised to be warriors from the time they could walk, and he might well have been in the Guild since the age of sixteen or even younger. He certainly had an air of experience about him, and the way he weighed up Uriel and Lurog as though assessing their strength spoke of wisdom beyond his years.
"So, what happened in Chorrol that made you ride here so fast?" asked Ilend, leaning forward and resting his arms on the table.
"Let's just say that the new Guildmaster has a certain way of doing things," responded Tarad, a wry smirk twisting his mouth as he removed his gauntlets and tossed them on the table. "But drink first. Talk once my throat is wet." He called for a beer.
It was no surprise to Aerin that there was a new Guildmaster; from what she'd heard of Vilena Donton, the woman had been completely incompetent. Ilend was clearly intrigued, but patiently waited while the Redguard downed half a tankard of strong black beer with large gulps, wiping away a trickle that ran down his chin. Dralasa moved away, presumably to find some 'sport', and while Uriel looked wistfully after her, he also seemed interested in what the Guildsman might have to say.
Eventually, Tarad slammed his mug down and looked at each one of them in turn. "Where do I start?" he asked.
"Who is our new Guildmaster?" inquired Ilend.
"An Orc. Gorgoth gro-Kharz is his name. You've most likely heard of him. He's the Hero of Kvatch."
Lurog had been idly tracing patterns on the table with a dagger, but at the Redguard's words he put it down and fixed him with his amber gaze. "What?" His flat, sharp, disbelieving tone was entirely expected; Aerin herself wasn't sure if she'd heard correctly. Gorgoth, leader of the Fighters Guild? He'd only been in it for a matter of months, and she'd always got the idea that he had business back in Orsinium to finish. Beside her, Ilend closed his mouth after it had fallen open in shock.
"I believe you heard me the first time, Lurog," said Tarad, arching an eyebrow slightly. "Gorgoth put himself forward rather forcefully, it has to be said, but... he made a good argument. The entire Guild will back him, I'm sure. Champion Oreyn certainly thinks so."
"I wasn't expecting that," muttered Ilend, scratching his chin.
"Neither was I," said Aerin, shrugging. "Still... he'll be a good leader. I just know it." She certainly couldn't think of anyone stronger or harder, and those were good qualities of leadership as far as she knew.
"He's a good fighter in any case," grunted the Redguard, wincing. "On the morning I left, I challenged him to a mock duel in the yard to get his measure." He shook his head. "I've never fought someone so strong or so skilled. And he's fast for his size. I'd have been riding all the way here in agony if he hadn't healed me."
Uriel chuckled dryly. "At what point did that seem like a good idea?"
The Defender shot the Imperial a warning glance. "Until I faced him, I was considered the second-best warrior in the Guild," he claimed. "I beat Oreyn two times out of five, at least."
"A prodigy, eh?" Lurog grunted and shook his head. "Bloody yourself in a few battles and I'll respect you more, boy."
Before an annoyed Tarad could reply, Ilend spoke up again. "What about the old Guildmaster?" he asked, frowning.
"Vilena Donton hanged herself after resigning and appointing her successor." The Redguard shrugged. "It was a mercy, I suppose. Losing her two sons, losing respect, her sense, everything... give me a good clean death in battle any day."
"Not that you've ever seen a battle," remarked Lurog, drumming his gauntleted fingers on the table. "Many deaths in battle are honourable, yes, but hardly clean." He leaned forward, smiling grimly. "I've seen scores of men in their last moments, all begging me for the mercy of my dagger. They'd fought well, acquitted themselves honourably, but the victors hadn't thought to finish them off after their defeat. There was a battle going on, after all. It gets chaotic. And what is one scream for mercy among hundreds of identical screams?" The Orc shook his head. "You want a clean death in battle, boy, you'd better hope it's someone who's either good enough to kill you outright, or someone who'll take the time to finish you off."
Tarad glared across the table at the warrior. "And what one are you?" he growled.
"Both." The Orc's eyes were frozen chips of yellow ice, somewhat reminiscent of Gorgoth's. Though Gorgoth's eyes looked like that most of the time. "How old are you, boy?"
"Nineteen," he spat. "And I didn't come over here to be questioned by-"
"Your betters?" The warrior barked a bitter laugh. "I was killing men bigger than you before you picked up real steel, boy. How many true fights have you been in, hmm? How many proper warriors have you killed?" He sighed. "It doesn't matter, anyhow. You're in Bruma. You'll find a challenge in battle soon enough." Lurog stood, putting on his helmet and picking up his scarred shield from where it had rested against the table. Next to Tarad's fine bronze plate, his dull chainmail looked like an armourer's afterthought, but it bore several scars where it had saved his life in the past. "I've fought through two Gates in two days. I need some rest." He strode off, long mace swinging from his belt.
The Redguard stared at his retreating back. "How old is he?"
"Half my age, I'll wager," grunted Uriel, rising from his chair. "Though admittedly I stopped counting after my fiftieth birthday. I don't like getting old." He looked old, certainly; most of his hair was gone and what little remained was grey and thin. Despite his gaunt appearance and rusted chainmail, however, Aerin had watched him spar with Ilend, and he had pushed her lover hard before inevitably falling to the energy and strength of the younger man. "Speaking of age, my eyes grow tired. I hope my room is warm." He picked up his newly-acquired broadsword and slotted it through his belt before departing.
Aerin herself would have preferred to follow his example and take Ilend back to bed, but now that they were finally alone with Tarad, the Protector returned to his questioning. "What's Gorgoth doing, now he's Guildmaster?" he asked.
The Redguard shook himself, turning his gaze back to the Imperial, his gaze refocusing. "He's not wasting any time, that's for certain," he snorted. "He sent me to Cloud Ruler Temple to deliver a message. I'd be there now if the guardsmen hadn't advised me to spend the night here. Heavy snowfall is predicted, or so they say." He grimaced. "I'm not made for winter. But after I've delivered that note, I'm to take command of the Guildsmen here until the Guildmaster himself arrives."
"How many men is he bringing with him?"
Tarad smirked. "From the sound of it, he meant to bring the entire Guild, save a few to stay at each Guildhall to keep it running and prevent thievery."
Aerin found herself nodding. "Good for him," she remarked. "And for us. The more men between me and the Daedra in battle, the better. It's hard ta shoot when you've got a daedroth trying to eat ya."
"You're an archer, I take it?" The Defender frowned. "I cant see you making a shot powerful enough to penetrate Daedric plate. Even my longbow has trouble at close range."
"Ya haven't met Trueshot yet," the Bosmer told him, grinning impishly.
Tarad frowned doubtfully, but a distraction arrived in the form of his meat. "If that's all you want to ask me, I'd rather be left in peace for now," he told them as he stabbed a dry sausage with his dagger. "I've got an early morning ride ahead of me, then an argument for a place to lay my head in the Guildhall."
Ilend nodded in sympathy and stood, motioning to Aerin. "Come on. Right now, I'm in the mood to lay you on your back and make you beg for mercy."
She giggled and grabbed his hand, pulling him after her as she made for the stairs. "You'll have ta try very hard, guardsman."
Knight Brother Roliand of the Blades, like most of his comrades, was completely mundane. He also seemed to be everything a stereotypical mage was not; big, strong and hearty. His dai-katana was one of the biggest in the Blades, and his suit of steel plate among the heaviest. His shaggy blonde hair fell to his shoulders, and a beard covered most of his lower face. This, combined with the bearskin cloak he favoured when travelling, did much to lend him a ferocious, untamed appearance. That was probably why Grandmaster Steffan had sent him to the Arcane University to ask for their aid.
His intimidating appearance did not seem to be opening any doors, however; twenty minutes after first entering the massive public lobby, he was still there with his message undelivered. Master-Wizard Polus, who appeared to be a sort of secretary for the Arch-Mage, had firmly told him that he had to wait if he wanted to see her. As Steffan had commanded Roliand to put the question to her directly, it would seem that he had no choice but to wait.
The lobby was high-ceilinged with many passages leading from it, but the Nord suspected that it was even bigger than it had seemed from the outside; magic had a habit of twisting things. After the bench had threatened to splinter under his weight, he had taken to pacing, and having counted out the length from wall to wall, it certainly seemed wider than it had appeared when he'd first approached it. Several battlemages were standing guard, and a dozen mages were conversing quietly on the benches, but all the Blade was interested in was the glowing teleportation pad near the back of the lobby and the man sitting behind the desk next to it.
As he paced, Roliand found himself wondering about the new change in leadership of the Guild. His message was addressed to Hannibal Traven, but Traven was dead. His successor had taken ten battlemages with her to root out and kill Mannimarco, the King of Worms. There were several rumours flying around, but they all agreed on one thing; the new Arch-Mage – an Altmer named Merissa – had returned victorious. Of the ten battlemages, only two had returned with her. One had wasted away and died within hours, and the other refused to speak about the experience. Merissa herself was mostly keeping herself to her chambers, rarely venturing out and receiving few visitors. Polus had informed her of Roliand's mission, but no more than that.
"Come on, mage," growled the Nord, walking up to the Imperial's desk once again. "She can't mope around in her tower all day. There's a war going on. Hadn't you noticed?"
"My eyes work fine, Blade," responded the Master-Wizard, his voice sharp. A strand of his brown hair – much of it greying – fell over his brown eyes, and he brushed it away absently. "The Arch-Mage needs time to recover. Mannimarco is undoubtedly the most powerful enemy we will have faced recently, unless Dagon himself enters Tamriel." He stood, the short, slight Imperial dwarfed by the bulky Nord on the other side of his desk. "I have informed the Arch-Mage of your presence. Maybe you'd like to leave your message with me instead?"
"I follow my orders, mage."
"As do I. Now, please, I have vastly important work to be doing." Polus sat again, looking over the papers on his neatly ordered desk, completely ignoring the Knight Brother.
Roliand ground his teeth, resisting the temptation to slam his dagger down into the wood of the desk. He was capable of killing the Imperial with his bare hands, but that wouldn't count for much if he was being tossed out of the doors with telekinesis. "The survival of Tamriel is at stake," he insisted. "If Bruma falls – which is likely if we don't have enough support when the Great Gate opens – then Cloud Ruler Temple will fall, Martin will die, and you'll all be doomed."
The Master-Wizard looked up at him as though regarding a particularly troublesome child. "The Arch-Mage left orders not to be disturbed."
"Damn you, parrot!" roared Roliand, his mighty voice drawing every eye in the lobby. "What part of important do you not understand? The decisive battle could happen any day, and you sit here at your desk and tell me I can't see the only person who can help me here?"
"If the Blades wanted help they might have sent someone marginally more civilised than a barbarian," retorted Polus, his voice icy as he rose once again from his chair. "Personally, I want to help you. But the Arch-Mage has commanded-"
He was cut off by a flash from the teleportation pad. Roliand turned to regard the Altmer stepping from the glowing portal. She looked largely unchanged from when he'd last seen her in that plane of Oblivion; her hazel eyes still seemed oddly unfocused, and her honey-coloured hair was still arranged in multiple thin braids that spilled from the hood of her deep blue robe. However, her smooth, pretty face was drawn slightly, as though she had experienced much pain recently and hadn't fully recovered. When the Knight Brother walked up to her, Merissa completely ignored him and walked unsteadily over to Polus, the embroidered hem of her robe brushing the floor.
"I am missing a name," she told her Master-Wizard. The High Elf's voice was cool and distant; fitting, as Roliand had never met someone so resolutely distracted. She had even managed to talk to herself for most of the time they'd spent in Oblivion.
"The name of who, Arch-Mage?" asked the Imperial, frowning.
"You know who!" The Altmer's voice was now a whip, cracking through the air, loud and sharp. "The ten who went with me! I must have their names; I am missing one. Ertius, Saenus, Thronor, Pritia, Iniel, Tee-Lan, Relam, Graz, Arnand... only nine that I can remember. Tell me the last." She leaned forward and gripped his wrist. "I must remember them all. I must!" As quickly as it came, the feverish gleam left her eyes, and she sighed and dropped the Imperial's arm. She turned and walked quickly back towards the portal.
Roliand moved to block her path. He did not mean to delay any longer. "Arch-Mage Merissa. I have a message from Grandmaster Steffan of the-"
"I remember you," muttered the High Elf, cutting him off. "You were in Oblivion. You fought well. A brave man." She plucked the letter from his hand. "Come into my chambers. It has been too long since I was in the company of someone not fussing over my health." When the Nord hesitated - wanting nothing to do with whatever might be happening up in the Arch-Mage's private quarters - she pushed him onto the teleportation pad and climbed on after him, activating it.
The odd squeezing sensation of the spell lasted for less than a second before the Knight Brother found himself standing in Merissa's chambers. She immediately moved away from him, giving him time to take in his surroundings, a habit he'd developed long before joining the Blades eight years ago. It was a single spacious room, with a high ceiling and no windows. Light was provided by multiple glowing crystals and purple flames that seemed to be burning nothing at all. A gnarled old moss-covered tree stood in the centre of the room, surrounded by varying plants in a circle of dark soil. The outer edges of the room were occupied by benches and desks weighed down by scattered papers, alchemy equipment, potions, books... everything a mage might need.
"Take a seat," commanded Merissa absently, waving a hand in the direction of a stool as she took a seat behind one of the desks, breaking the seal of the message. "Have a drink, if you want."
Roliand took a look around at the dozens of vials, mugs, cups and cauldrons scattered around the cluttered chamber. Several smells pricked his nose at once, none of them pleasant. "I'm not thirsty," he said awkwardly. The Arch-Mage made no reply, instead mumbling to herself in an unrecognisable language as she read Steffan's message. He gingerly sat down on one of the stools, wincing as it creaked under his weight. The humid heat of the room – it seemed to be magical warmth – made him uncomfortable under his layers of fur and steel, but he resisted the urge to loosen anything.
"I've only just finished a war of my own," noted the Altmer, not taking her eyes from the letter. "Hurt a lot. We lost many good men. And women. And elves. And beasts." She looked up to meet Roliand's eyes.
"You've seen the Deadlands," he grunted. "Do you want Tamriel to look like that?"
"It would be an interesting change of scenery. I've been bored by the landscape ever since I left Summerset Isle fifty-four years ago. Or was it fifty-two?" She gave a sharp shake of her head. "But I suppose endless death and destruction is less desirable than having duty thrust upon me. Very well. I will send battlemages. I will come myself when I am able."
"Lots of battlemages," insisted Roliand, too untrusting of mages in general to feel too much relief yet. "And you look well enough to me."
She arched a delicate eyebrow. "Tell me, Blade. Have you ever fought the King of Worms before? Not a pleasant experience, I assure you."
"You won."
"If you say so." The High Elf got up and started pacing, robes swishing. "I have over a hundred battlemages here at the University. Or maybe it is eighty. Or seventy. The necromancers cost us. No matter. I will send thirty north now and take another twenty with me when I come myself. Is that sufficient, Blade?"
"It is." Roliand stood and allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. Now he could finally get back to the snows of Cloud Ruler Temple where he belonged. It was too warm and peaceful in the south or his liking, even in winter with war raging in every part of Tamriel. He wanted to feel the snow crunching beneath his boots and for his blade to cut deep into the flesh of a Daedra. It would be good to get back. "Do you have any message you want to-"
"No." She turned and pointed to the teleportation pad. "Go and tell your Grandmaster he will get his aid. Maybe Dagon will even wait long enough for us to arrive."
A/N: So that's the Guilds cleared up. And I'll admit that parts of this chapter seemed weak and designed purely as filler, but... that's the nature of something this big and sprawling sometimes, no matter how much I try to avoid it. Anyhow, you might well be thinking that the Battle of Bruma is going to be within two chapters... well, there's a bit more to come yet. Something unique (as far as I can tell). Hopefully I won't take forever to write it. Until next time... and don't forget to leave a review. You're helping me if you leave one.