A/N: No, it's not dead; this fic will never die, though I don't blame you if you thought it was dead. It's been far, FAR too long since my last update; ten weeks is simply not good enough unless you have a perfect excuse, which I don't. So all I can do is beg your forgiveness and do my best not to let you - my loyal readers - down in the future. At least it's good to know I haven't been abandoned by my reviewers, much as I deserve it:
Mr. Right: Ah, the good old D&D alignments... I nailed Gorgoth down as Lawful Evil, myself. Lawful because he has a very strict code of honour that he won't violate, and evil because... well, he's not inherently evil, but he is willing to do very evil things (e.g child sacrifice) if he thinks it would benefit him, so that puts him down as evil in my book.
Random Reader (first review): Yes, that sounds about right, though it doesn't look much like Skyrim's Orcish armour. And yes, Gorgoth as a leader of heavy cavalry could be regarded as 'True Gorgoth'; his allies haven't seen the extent of his martial power yet. And as for Bethesda's placing of Orcs in light armour... well, that's Bethesda. Remember the debacles of blue Dunmer and Agronak's incomprehensible name?
Underpaid Critic: Well, given the close nature of the Gates and the battleground they'd create, cavalry wouldn't have much freedom of movement, and I doubt the city's Town Guards had much cavalry training. Orcish horsemen, however, are of course extensively trained. And if my updates take as long as this, you'll have long finished Skyrim before BaS is finished... here's hoping that's not the case, though.
Rokibfd: There are no adequate reasons for MY tardiness either, so you are completely excused. Anyhow, as for Gorgoth, it's semi-clear where he gets his abilities; I'll quote UESP for this: 'A Hero (or Heroine) is a mortal blessed (and cursed, from another point of view) with a special fate and the ability to rule his or her own destiny. Heroes are closely related to the Elder Scrolls. They often grow to become far more powerful than most other mortals.'
Gorgoth, like the Nerevarine and the other Heroes, is more powerful because he's a Hero. So, essentially, he was born that way, though the brutal training of his father and the shamans definitely helped. As for the 'most powerful illusionist', I'll quote: 'some of the shamans had told him that he might well be the most powerful Illusionist' - some of Orsinium's shamans (a province not noted for its skill in Illusion) think he MIGHT be the most powerful Illusionist. They could quite easily be wrong (in fact, they probably are).
Ah, Necromancy... it's definitely got potential. As for the Dark Brotherhood, there's not much more to tell about Gorgoth's participation, but he'll probably go into it later. As for Aerin's reaction... wait and see. ;)
'memories of long dashes across rolling plains with a strong warhorse between his legs' is the quote you're searching for, and it doesn't seem too bad to me... 'between his legs' just means he's riding a horse normally. And as for 'episodes', that word was invented long before TV; it might have come to be closely identified with TV, but it's not used just for TV.
Random Reader (second review): Ah, yes, I thought someone would notice that... yes, there are definite similarities, but note that I only started reading ASOIAF AFTER I started writing BaS, and I'd thought up Gorgoth's armour a long, long time ago, so any similatiries (including a fair few between Orcs and the Dothraki) are entirely coincidental.
And I'll end that massive Author's Note there.
Chapter Forty-five: Empowerment
Dawn was still only a pale grey tinge to the eastern sky when Gorgoth woke. His bedroom was large, but it had to be; the space was filled with the massive bed, the numerous overflowing tables and several wardrobes, along with the large weapon rack that currently held all the weapons he would ever need at any one time. Light from crystals embedded in the ceiling and stone walls would provide illumination even when the sun wasn't streaming through the three windows, all of which faced east. Three armour stands stood naked where previously they would have been holding his armour in position; he hadn't bothered bringing his suit up from the basement the night before.
Swinging his feet onto the cold bare floor, the Orc rose and walked naked to the window, looking out over the city. In the distance, the Iron Walls were standing tall and proud as they had been ever since King Gortwog had built the city from the ground upwards, naming it for the ancient city of the Orcs destroyed in the First Era. Once again, the Orcish people had a nation to call home and a city to proud of. While the borders of Gortwog's rule had expanded far beyond the city, this would forever be the beating heart of the Orcish nation. It might be little more than a glorified collection of mud huts for the most part, but it was home. A home that the weaker races had tried to deny them for centuries.
"Worth fighting for," grunted Gorgoth to himself. "Worth dying for." His eyes fell upon the Royal Palace, a colossal structure of iron and stone. Many bad memories would await him in that place, but good memories as well. He closed his eyes and took himself back to that fateful day three years ago. The stabbing pain of his shattered ribcage was still vivid all these years later, and his punctured lungs would have killed him quickly if shamans had not been on hand to heal him, but his father had come off worse. Gorgoth's lips curled slightly at the memory of Blood King rolling from his father's grasp, dark smoke rising from the ancient weapon as it left its wielder and chose another, the victor of the combat. After that, none of his father's men had dared challenge the wielder of Blood King, and he had finally gained true freedom.
His father had been a mighty warrior, but Blood King looked past the surface and looked deeply at the Orc inside. Malacath's weapon had studied Gorgoth and decided that it liked what it saw. Over the years, wielders had seen the weapon wax and wane in strength depending on their own abilities; while his father had only been able to awaken part of the destructive power of the massive mace, many shamans agreed that Gorgoth was one of the strongest wielders of the weapon in history. Fitting for the Hero of Kvatch, the Orc who would apparently save Tamriel.
Shaking his head, the warrior-shaman turned away from the view and walked over to the wardrobe, jerking it open and looking over the clothes held within. Wolf and bear fur was prominent, as expected in the Wrothgarian Mountains. Dressing himself in clothes far finer yet just as practical than those he had taken to Cyrodiil, he took a dagger from one of the smaller tables and sat down at the biggest table to work his way through the several letters he'd been left.
Most were unimportant – notes from his former comrades-in-arms wondering where he was, or requests for his services that would now be out of date – but there was one that bore the royal seal. Opening it, he nodded slightly in contentment as he read the words that absolved him of any blame in the mission that had seen him captured and taken to Tamriel. The mine's corrupt owner had since been dealt with. The meaning of that was left ambiguous, but Gorgoth was under no illusions; as soon as King Gortwog had heard of the ambush and Gorgoth's capture, he would no doubt have wasted little time in making sure the Imperial had a slow and agonising death, no matter what the Empire said.
Thrusting the letters aside, the Orc rose and left the room, nodding to the skeleton standing guard at his bedroom door before heading down to the dining hall. Yagorz, fitting seamlessly back into his old routines, had left his master's breakfast prepared on the large central table. The brain-dead slave silently brought his master tankards of beer as he ate his way through enough food to give him the energy he'd need, but not enough to trouble his wounded stomach. There were no windows in the dining hall – torches and crystals illuminated the cavernous chamber – but Gorgoth judged that the sun would soon be rising by the time he had finished. Pushing back his plate, he drained his tankard and told his slave to follow him down to the basement.
While the warrior-shaman could put his armour on himself, it took a long time alone and it was difficult to get right, so he let Yagorz and his skilful hands equip him. As the heavy layers were placed over his body, he suppressed the urge to smile. Being properly armoured after making do with inferior plate for so long gave him a sense of security. The comforting weight was familiar to him, and his long training combined with his formidable strength enabled him to move quicker than many would think possible. A skilled, fast foe in light armour would outmanoeuvre him, but even if they could dodge around him, penetrating his defences was a daunting task. In the past, the Orc had been able to deflect many sword-swings with nothing more than a flick of his forearm.
His slave finished and stepped back. Gorgoth rolled his shoulders and took a few steps, testing the weight. This time, he didn't suppress the small smile that twitched at the corners of his mouth. "Get back to your duties," he told Yagorz. "I am going out soon. I might return." The Orc nodded expressionlessly and shambled out.
The warrior-shaman returned to his bedroom and pulled his belts on. One was a strap that ran across his breastplate, through which he firmly slotted Blood King and Sinweaver, the head and hilt protruding out behind his shoulders. Around his waist he tightened a heavier belt, securing the Thornblade to his right hip and the Akaviri dai-katana to his left. Also hanging from the tough leather were several powerful healing potions and an enchanted wallet which held several thousand Septims along with a few enchanted rings which he used periodically when the time called for them. His helmet also hung from his belt, held by a small ring near where his ear would be, specially designed for the purpose. When not in combat or travelling, he couldn't afford to sacrifice one hand to hold his helmet all the time. It could be removed from the hook on his belt and donned within seconds; essential in any ambush.
It was time. The Orsimer walked briskly to the hallway, undoing the magical locks that secured his front door before stepping out and securing it behind him. There was no doubt that his father – who had almost definitely found out that his son had returned - would have eyes watching his every move; he'd rather not risk them breaking into his house while he was at the Palace. Turning from his doors, he stepped away from his house and took in the sight of the city of Orsinium at dawn.
For all of the city's vaunted glory, Gorgoth was never one to deny a truth; most of the city was a haphazard slum of small hovels and muddy streets where the snow had long since turned to slush. He had spent his own childhood in that sprawl, beating those weaker than him and being beaten in turn by those older and stronger than himself. Despite the poverty, however, the slums bred a hard people, and the strength of the Orcs was the foundation of the kingdom. There were pockets of affluence, however; there were many markets in the city, and various Orcs had become rich enough to build themselves fair-sized houses similar to Gorgoth's. Barracks and other training yards were commonplace; while not every Orc was expected to be a warrior, most of the population could swing a weapon well enough to defend themselves. Weakness was despised; despite the recent reforms, the old beliefs of Malacath still ran strong in places.
Surrounding the filth and the mud were the formidable – and famous – Iron Walls of Orsinium. When the land had been reclaimed by King Gortwog, he had ordered the construction of walls that would keep them safe from the massive hosts of enemies that would inevitably besiege the city. They had taken years to complete, but they were widely regarded as even stronger than the walls of the original Orsinium; stone foundations reached deep into the ground, and the wall itself had a core of stone, which was stiffened and covered by thick layers of the dark iron of the Wrothgarian mines. As the shadows receded, the snow-capped west wall shone in the rising sun's light, towering high above the city, so thick that twelve Orcish soldiers could stand in line abreast and still have enough room to swing their weapons. King Gortwog was no fool; knowing that the original Iron Walls had been reduced by heavy rain, he had included the most powerful shamans of the young nation in the building, laying on spells and enchantments that would make the wall effectively impervious to the elements. The Iron Walls were not impregnable – no fortification was – but Nova Orsinium would not fall easily.
Turning away from the sight which had been ever-present for most of his years, Gorgoth strode away from his home, out into the street. His house – easily recognisable by its formidable iron-and-stone construction – rose up in the midst of a slum similar to the one he had grown up in. The street was unpaved, the ground cold and hard from the winter's chill, the ankle-deep snow not yet crushed underfoot. Around him were windowless mud huts, fires within springing into life to bring some warmth to the inhabitants. Many Orcs were already going about their business, heading to the market or to their workplace. Guards in heavy chainmail or plate armour were patrolling with their weapons – mostly halberds or large two-handed battleaxes – slung over their shoulders. Several gave Gorgoth more than a second glance as he passed them on his way to the Palace.
King Gortwog's Royal Palace and its grounds occupied a large area, the walls and structure overshadowing much of the surrounding area. Like White Gold Tower, it could be seen from most of the city, being built on the highest point of the mountain that Orsinium had been built on. From the tallest towers of the Palace, the King would be able to see over the Iron Walls and gaze across the sizeable domain that he ruled. He might be a subject of the Emperor, but here, in this remote and savage land, few would ever dispute his authority. His palace itself looked formidable; there was none of the artistry of Akaviri or elven buildings, merely simple stonework reinforced with iron, build to withstand storms and sieges.
The streets remained much the same until the warrior-shaman drew close to his destination, becoming paved and lined with better-built houses. Statues of old Orcish heroes were visible everywhere; King Gortwog had forbidden any statue of him made while he was still alive, but no doubt many would be erected as soon as possible; he was truly the best ruler Nova Orsinium could have hoped for. Some day, Gorgoth himself might have a statue here. They might even make a few of him in Cyrodiil despite never truly knowing the mer behind the title of Hero of Kvatch.
Ahead of him, the Palace gates were open, the paved entrance between the two massive iron gates guarded by a squad of twenty soldiers, alert despite the early hour. As the warrior-shaman moved to enter the courtyard beyond, the sergeant moved to block his path, plate-clad fist clenched and held upwards as the other hand gripped the haft of his battleaxe. "What is your business?" he asked in a gruff voice, raising an eyebrow as Gorgoth continued his advance before blinking in shock as he recognised him. "You... you're back?"
"Clearly," responded the warrior-shaman, looking around at the squad. Most showed some form of recognition, and all were clearly experienced soldiers; in contrast to many courts around the world, King Gortwog never used inexperienced troops to secure his place of residence. Several were muttering amongst themselves, but from behind the helmets of a few Gorgoth thought he could detect some pleased grins. "Where is the King?"
"He'll be meeting an emissary from Daggerfall in about two hours in the throne room. Before that... well, the King's private dealings are none of my concern." The sergeant shook his head. "I guess you'll want access to the grounds now. I'm not one to stop you, though some inside might... question you."
"An understatement." Gorgoth snorted. "I know the risks. Step aside."
The sergeant bowed his head and stepped to the side, allowing the warrior-shaman to stride purposefully through the open gates. He cast a critical eye around the vast courtyard and the numerous buildings as he walked, various memories conjuring themselves. The Orc had spent much of his adolescent years in this place, learning as much as his father and his men could successfully teach him. Misery, hate and anger had almost claimed him in those dark times, but his natural reserve and stoicism – along with support from the few who had genuinely loved him – had seen him through until the shamans came for him.
At the far ended of the courtyard were the stone steps – wide enough to march an army up – that led to the throne room's enormous, elaborately-engraved doors, but the Orsimer turned aside. Ignoring the inquisitive stares of the numerous guardsmen and the other residents of the Palace, he made for one of the smaller entrances, a small doorway used mainly by guardsmen and servants. He wanted to wander the halls and take in the feeling of what it was like to be home, even for such a brief time. And, of course, within half an hour most of the Orcs in the Palace would know where he was; he fully expected to be approached within minutes by someone with guarded motives.
He had walked the stone-walled corridors for mere minutes before being approached by someone whose motives were most definitely not guarded. Gulak gro-Kharag's presence was heralded by the clinking of his armour, crafted in the same triple-layered construction as Gorgoth's. While the Orc wasn't as tall or as physically large as the warrior-shaman, he was still bulky and was devastating with the massive double-axe strapped to his back. He had to be; as Bloodguard to an Orcish lord, he would have to be prepared to paint himself black with the blood of his enemies before letting his master come to harm. At the moment, Gulak's helmet was swinging from his belt, and his heavily scarred face – he had been fighting for over a century – wore a small, knowing smile.
"I knew you'd be here before long," he grunted, falling in beside Gorgoth, his voice harsh and gravelly. "My lord wants to see you. Immediately."
"Is it a Lord of Orsinium summoning a warrior-shaman, or a father summoning his son?" the Orsimer asked, keeping his face devoid of all emotion. Gulak was the Orc his father had used to teach him many of his basic combat lessons, and his old teacher had always been good at reading people.
"I don't give a shit," growled the Bloodguard. He never had been one to waste words. "You know he doesn't like to be kept waiting."
Gorgoth nodded shortly and followed the other Orc through the Palace, ignoring the various second glances he was given by the guardsmen and servants. He'd intended to see his father at some point anyway; better to get it out of the way with sooner rather than later. The only sound as they walked was the ring of their boots on the stone floor; conversation would achieve little and Gulak had never been much for talking, due to one of his numerous scars pulling his mouth into a permanent lopsided sneer. He rarely bothered to string many sentences together unless asked to recount the story of how he gained any one of his dozens of scars.
After several minutes, they eventually arrived at the entrance to the chambers his father used whenever at the palace, Gulak motioning the warrior-shaman inside with a jerk of his head. Ruthlessly crushing down any emotions or nervousness that might threaten to affect him, Gorgoth shoved the door open and stepped inside, letting it swing closed behind him. The entrance room was as sparse as it always had been; cold stone walls adorned only by the banners of enemies defeated in battle, some of which were splattered with dried blood. A few chairs and a carpet were arranged in front of the roaring fire in the hearth, which lent warmth to the room as shadows flickered on the walls.
The mer standing in front of the fire – clad in full battle armour with his helmet swinging from his belt, as was his custom – was a giant even among Orcs. He was two inches taller and slightly wider than Gorgoth, who himself was regarded as very large for an Orc. A pair of black war braids hung loosely to his lower back, and his face was similar to the younger Orcs; the angular lines, the square jaw, the determined set to his features. Many had commented over the years of the similarity between father and son. Upon hearing the warrior-shaman's approach, his father stopped his study of the flames and turned to regard his son.
Lord Gornakh gro-Nagorm, younger brother to King Gortwog, Lord of Wrothgaria, known to many as the Iron Fist of Orsinium and the Bloody Reaver, folded his arms and silently studied his son. The warrior-shaman stopped three paces in front of his father and studied him in turn, making sure Blood King was within easy reach. A battleaxe and long mace – which was the size of Blood King, making it effectively a light warhammer – were strapped to the larger Orc's back, but the warlord was making no move towards them. A good sign. Seeing his father again after so many months brought conflicting emotions up to the surface, threatening to boil over, but Gorgoth ruthlessly quashed them. This would be no time to show weakness.
His father finally spoke. "I hear you've been making a name for yourself," he rumbled, his voice as deep and powerful as the iron mines of the Wrothgarians.
"They call me their hero. The Hero of Kvatch." Gorgoth shook his head. "The Emperor of Tamriel appears to think that the Nine have chosen me to be their champion to defeat Dagon." He raised a hand to preclude Gornakh's laughter. "It might be true, it might not be. But I swore an oath to that Emperor to return within ten days, reinforcements or no reinforcements." His eyes narrowed. "I did not come here to be delayed by you."
The warlord's face twisted into a grimace. "You've been gone for months," he growled. "Is a father not allowed to see his son when he returns home after so long?"
"There will soon be a time when you will regret seeing my face. I assume you know of the trick Grat gro-Yarzol used to escape?" The slight stiffening of his father's features told him all he needed to know. "I found him in Chorrol, of all places. He took two days and two nights to die. I never stopped." The murderer's unceasing agony was a pleasant memory to him.
"So you've killed all six," muttered Gornakh, exhaling slowly. "Good. They deserved it. She was the mother of my only son. She didn't deserve to die like that."
"Don't pretend you cared about my mother," growled Gorgoth, stepping closer. "You sent those thugs to take me from her. Do you really think they'd have stopped at a simple abduction?" He shook his head. "It might as well have been you that raped and tortured her to death in front of me."
"That again?" The warlord sighed and turned his back, walking over to some of the stained banners lining the far wall and examining them. "I see you're still-"
"Don't deny it," interrupted the warrior-shaman, his voice cold and quiet. "A few years ago, my aunt – her sister – told me how I was born." His eyes bored into the back of his father's skull. "My mother had run out of the herbal tea she normally drank to prevent pregnancy, and it would be some time before she could get some more. She wasn't willing to provide her services, yet... you forced yourself on her anyway." He felt his mouth twisting into an involuntary snarl.
"I paid her double," replied Gornakh with a casual air that made anger flare within Gorgoth until he forced it down. "Besides, it's a good thing I had, or the Nine wouldn't have their Hero." He turned, a smirk plastered across his face. "You have a lot to thank me for, son. Think about it."
"Thank you?" It took an effort for Gorgoth to restrain himself. Now would not be the time for petty, useless, futile attacks that accomplished nothing. He had learnt that before he'd left his teenage years. "You tore me from my mother when I was ten. You attempted to make me your minion until the shamans came for me. And even then you restricted-"
"I made you what you are!" barked Gornakh, whirling and thrusting a finger in his son's direction. "Deep down, you know it, but because you hate me so much, you won't admit it. That hatred is one of the few weaknesses you have." The warlord spat. "You know that growing up as the child of a prostitute in a shithole in Orsinium wouldn't have prepared you for what you face right now. You wouldn't be the force you are now. I gave you that. I made sure you had training, I made sure you saw the worst that life could throw at you, I made sure you matured into a fearsome warrior. It was me who forged the Hero of Kvatch, Gorgoth, and don't you forget it!" The Orc bared his teeth in a furious snarl. "You might hate me, Gorgoth, but it was the life I gave you that made you strong. When you cast me aside that day-" his eyes twitched towards Blood King "- I knew that you could face anything. And so it would seem Tamriel has much to thank me for."
The warrior-shaman glared at his father, his eyes deep yellow pits of frozen fire. His thoughts turned to the years he'd spent in this palace, the years of harsh, hard training under his father's teachers. Relentless physical and martial training had moulded him into a powerful warrior, and academic teachings had ensured that he was learned, well able to rule his own land. Would he have got the same education under his mother? The answer came back, the same as it always had been: No. His father was right, but that took none of the hatred out of Gorgoth's gaze. "You didn't have to kill her," he growled.
Gornakh snorted. "You were an unwanted bastard, Gorgoth, but she loved you. Even I saw that. She would die to keep you. It had to happen." He turned and started pacing from one end of the room to another. "And even if it hadn't, you were best away from her. Losing her made you strong. You know that as well."
The younger Orc bit back a furious response. Now would be the worst time to shed his stoic demeanour; behind his apparent casual air, he knew that his father would be watching him for any weakness. And, as he always had been, Gornakh was right once again. "Yes, father," admitted Gorgoth through gritted teeth. "You made me who I am today. And you know that will be your downfall, because you know I will always hate you."
"I know you will... and for what?" The warlord spread his arms. "A father wanting the best for his son?" The Orc shook his head. "Admit it, Gorgoth. You would have done the same thing."
His son was silent for a few moments. "No," he finally muttered. "I wouldn't have fathered a bastard with some random prostitute in the first place. I'd have done the proper thing."
"Ah, yes, that Breton you raped..." Gornakh smirked. "That was different. You snapped the neck of a half-Orc, half-Breton bastard that would have been good for nothing. Yes, you did the right thing there. But you... no, you were a strong young Orc. I could tell you'd be great one day."
"And this strong young Orc will kill you one day." The warrior-shaman reached down to his belt, opened his large enchanted belt bag and felt around inside. "Ironic. You view me as your greatest achievement, yet I will be your downfall."
"Then when I die, I can die in the knowledge that I have done my duty to Orsinium," grated Gornakh, folding his arms. "You finally found the courage to destroy your ring, I take it?" Gorgoth nodded. "Then nothing of the title I tried to give you remains. I suspected that would happen..."
"Everything coming from your hand is poison, father. Burzukh never learnt that." The warrior-shaman removed Burzukh gro-Ghash's magically preserved head from the bag and threw it down at his father's feet. "I told you once that I would bring you back his head. It took longer than I thought, but I have done my duty." He moved closer to his father. "The gold you gave him has been spent wisely."
"I knew he would fail. I just didn't want you plagued by any more unfinished business." Gornakh's sly wink betrayed the dark, devious mind that lay behind his brutal exterior. He prodded Burzukh's head with the toe of his boot then ignored it. "Now. You say you have to be back in Bruma within ten days with reinforcements. I'm no fool, Gorgoth, I won't delay you." He stepped closer, his eyes meeting his son's. "When I next see you again, you will have defeated Dagon and so will be free to... finish your business." A smirk plucked at his mouth. "I hear the Lord of Manruga has died in battle with no heir worthy of inheritance. The King holds his lands now, but he'll want to find another lord soon enough." He chuckled. "When we meet again, Gorgoth, I suspect we'll be equals, so you can get vengeance for your mother in the proper place rather than a brawl in the corridors like it was last time."
"If I was trying to kill you then, you'd already be dead," responded Gorgoth, his gaze reminiscent of cold steel. "But you deserve a good death. For what you've done for Orsinium, you deserve to die with honour." He strode past his father, heading towards the door before pausing with his hand on the handle, looking back, giving the barest of respectful nods. "Lord Gornakh." He wrenched the door open and walked out without waiting for a response.
The corridor outside was empty save for Gulak, who was casually leaning on the wall opposite the door with a carefully neutral expression on his face. Gorgoth quickly chose a direction and walked swiftly away from his father's chambers, keeping his face as unreadable as always. Inside, he was ruthlessly crushing the swirling emotions that had threatened to break through; Lord Gornakh gro-Nagorm and his fate would wait until after the Oblivion Crisis was over. The fate of Tamriel demanded his attention more than vengeance for his mother. Steeling himself, the warrior-shaman turned a corner and started off towards the throne room.
Messenger duty was not something that Callia generally liked; hardly surprising, given the outcome of her last such assignment. However, delivering a message to General Adamus Phillida was unlikely to leave her bleeding to death with an arrow in her chest, and it was an excuse to temporarily escape the freezing northern winter, so she had offered few complaints when Grandmaster Steffan had assigned the duty to her. Then she had realised that she needed a new horse, her previous one having been killed in Azani Blackheart's ambush on her last messenger duty. Given that most other horses in the Temple stables were already taken, she had a choice of either buying one or taking Gorgoth's.
Taking Baluk was logical; the warrior-shaman would be returning from Orsinium with a new horse anyway, and she was far more suited to the Cheydinhal black than he had ever been; the horse had been bred for speed rather than strength and stamina. Once Callia had got past her initial reluctance to ride the horse of a mer she hated, the sheer exhilaration of traversing Cyrodiil at extreme speeds had planted a firm smile on her face. She'd left the mare at the Chestnut Handy Stables with the finest stall and the best hay she could afford; she'd deserved it after having to haul that overweight, heavily-armoured Orc around Cyrodiil for however long he'd had her.
The sky was grim and bleak as the Knight Sister made her way towards Phillida's residence in the garrison at the Imperial City Prison, with clouds from horizon to horizon. In the far distance to the west, she could just make out a red tint on the horizon that signified an Oblivion Gate. The Crisis was getting worse; on her journey down, she had almost been unhorsed by a pair of roaming clannfear unexpectedly leaping out of the bushes by the side of the road. If Daedra were freely roaming the province, then the war had to be ended, and soon: already the Imperial City was filling up with refugees from outlying farms and settlements, and food prices were starting to soar.
Shaking her head, the Breton put domestic matters out of her mind and focused on the task at hand. The guardsman at the entrance to the prison had told her that Phillida had his office in the second barracks from the left, so she made her way over there, removing her helmet and releasing her hair to flow down to her shoulder blades. Martin's message to the General was secured firmly in her belt bag, and he had made it clear to her that it was of great importance; without an experienced general to lead them, their forces might not win the decisive battle that was looming on the horizon.
An Imperial in the armour of a legionnaire was standing in front of the door to the General's barracks, spear leaning against the wall within easy reach, his longsword prominent on his hip. Behind his helmet, his cold brown eyes studied her without any emotion. Those eyes and his posture – along with his armour, which had a few battle scars that the armourer clearly hadn't been able to erase – suggested that this man had been bloodied in battle, and recently. It was good to see that General Phillida didn't put entrust his protection to novices. "State your business, Blade," he grunted as she approached, one hand moving to the hilt of his longsword in a show of open hostility.
Resisting the impulse to raise a questioning eyebrow, Callia merely returned his gaze levelly. "I'm here to deliver a message from Emperor Martin Septim to General Adamus Phillida," she replied, noting how his eyebrows twitched upon hearing the name of the Emperor.
He stared at her for a few seconds before turning to beckon another legionnaire over, ordering the Imperial to take his place. "Follow me," he muttered to Callia, jerking his head towards the doorway before pushing it open and striding through. Barely catching the heavy oak door before it hit her in the face, the Knight Sister frowned briefly before following him down the dark corridor, blinking rapidly to help her eyes to adjust.
Instead of a barracks, the building in fact appeared to be some kind of administrative building, with doors to small, paper-strewn offices lining the corridor. Only one door had a guard outside, however, and it was that one that the legionnaire led her to, leaning forward for a whispered conversation with the guard. Callia leaned on the opposite wall and waited with arms folded, noting that this other legionnaire also had less-than-pristine armour as well as a notch in his shield. To the untrained eye, there would be nothing to distinguish them from the hundreds of thousands of legionaries currently serving in the field legions, but the Breton could tell that these two, at least, were veterans of the Oblivion Crisis. Even if they hadn't been through a Gate, they had at least fought Daedra.
After a short discussion, the legionnaire who'd been guarding the office door nodded and entered while the other leaned on the wall beside it, relaxing as much as he could with a heavy steel shield strapped to his left arm. His gaze, however, never left the Knight Sister, and now there was definitely tangible dislike in those eyes. As the silence stretched out, the Breton finally ended it. "Do you have a problem?" she asked, her voice icy.
The Imperial grimaced before removing his helmet, revealing brown hair cropped short in the standard military fashion and a hard, bluff face marked by the lines left by near-constant wearing of a helmet. "Yes, I do, in fact," he growled. "If you Blades had actually done your job properly and kept Emperor Uriel alive, we wouldn't be in this fucking war." He pursed his lips as if to spit at her feet, then apparently thought better of it and contented himself with another hard stare. "We went to Fort Sutch with over three hundred men," he continued, his voice dropping. "And now what's left? About eighty, most of them crippled or scarred for life. We've done our duty, Blade, many times over. Why couldn't you do yours?"
Shock initially paralysed Callia. She'd heard about rumours of animosity towards the Blades in the Legions, of course, but she'd had no idea that it had run this deep. As she was struggling to find some response, the legionnaire spoke up again. "Aren't you lot meant to be his eyes and ears as well as his bodyguards? Even if you did learn anything about the plot against him and his sons, you clearly didn't do enough! Why not?"
Callia desperately tried to form some kind of response, but under that furious stare an embarrassed flush began to creep up her cheeks. Her planned furious retort died on her tongue as she realised that what the legionnaire was saying actually had some element of truth to it; the Blades might have done the best they could, the Blades might have fought and died to protect the Emperor and his sons, but in the end, the Blades had failed. Pride prevented her from admitting that to his face, of course, so she angrily took a step in his direction. "You think the Blades have bled any less than you?" she snarled. "Yes, you've had losses: so have we. We might have made a mistake, but we paid for it in blood many times over. We-" The rest of her response was cut off by the door to the office swinging open. Stepping back, the Breton hastily stood straight and attempted to regain her composure.
"If you're done screaming, the General will see you now," the guard told her, holding the door open. Tossing her head and pointedly not looking at the other legionnaire, the Knight Sister walked into the office. The guard shut it behind them before taking up a position in the corner of the small room.
The office was small and compact, a tiny barred window illuminating a large desk that took up most of the available space. It was covered in neat, orderly piles of paperwork, but it was the man sitting behind the desk in the only chair who Callia had come to see. General Adamus Phillida was doubtlessly an old man, with deep lines criss-crossing his face and a head devoid of any hair, but his back was straight and his blue eyes were as sharp as any man's. He seemed completely comfortable in the enamelled plate armour that his station provided, and his purple-plumed helmet - along with several swords of varying length – was within easy reach. His expression was carefully neutral as he gave the Knight Sister an analytical glance, looking her up and down as she saluted. "You say you have a message for me?" he asked, his voice gruff and gravelly.
"I do, General," responded Callia stiffly, taking the sealed message from her belt bag and holding it out. The old Imperial leaned forward and took it, giving the seal a quick glance before breaking it with his thumbing and unrolling the small scroll. His face gave nothing away as he scanned the text. The Knight Sister didn't know exactly what was written, of course, but nearly everyone in Cloud Ruler Temple knew that the old, experienced campaigner was being invited by Martin to lead the forces of Tamriel into one last battle before his imminent retirement.
"He'll expect a reply, I imagine," remarked Phillida as he finished reading, placing the scroll on his desk and letting it roll up. He sat there considering for a few seconds, eyes gazing out into space. The Blade didn't reply, giving the old man time to think. Strictly speaking, there was nothing tying him to the Imperial City; he could ride out to inspect or take personal control of any of his legions at any time as long as he was the Commander of the Imperial Legion. Ocato might have already refused help to Bruma on some pretext or another – politicians were good at that – but Phillida was his own man, able to make almost all of his own decisions regarding military matters. And he was no fool, either; he had to see that the biggest threat that Tamriel had ever faced was fast approaching, and he had to see that his services were required. As the silence dragged on, Callia's fingernails curled and dug into her skin. She barely stopped herself from biting her lip in a mixture of nervousness and impatience.
Eventually, Phillida grabbed a blank piece of parchment, dipped a quill into his inkpot, and started writing. The Knight Sister forced herself not to look at what he was writing. A messenger who looked at the messages she was carrying wasn't a very good messenger. Instead, she waited in impatient silence, listening to the scratching of the General's quill and conscious of the guard's eyes boring into the back of her head. After a few minutes, the Imperial straightened and reached for a stick of red sealing wax, heating one end over a candle before pouring a glob of boiling wax onto the parchment and pressing his signet ring into the centre of it. Letting the wax cool for a few seconds, the General folded the letter into four and pressed another seal to ensure the security of the message.
"Your Emperor will get his help," he told her, holding out the message. Thankful for the satisfaction of her curiosity, Callia took it and secured it in her belt bag. "I will gather what men, horses and equipment I need before setting off, but expect me at Bruma in four days, if the roads are still safe." The General grimaced and stood, this action straightened the backs of both other soldiers in the room. "It's evident to all how much the..." he trailed off, frowning, as the door swung open. "Varius, I-" The door closed again. Nothing had entered the office, not even a breath of wind. Except...
"Down!" screamed Callia, throwing herself across the table at Phillida as she realised exactly what the barely-visible shimmering in the air was. The table overturned, showering the two of them with parchment as they hit the floor, but there was a hiss of frustration as a throwing knife embedded itself in the far wall, having flown through empty air where the General's throat had been second's previously.
"Assassin!" roared the legionnaire in a voice loud enough to wake the entire prison, his sword rasping from his scabbard as he stepped forward, his eyes desperately trying to find something to kill. His throat was promptly slashed open by an enemy he'd never even seen, blood splattering the walls as he staggered back, sword dropping from his hand as he vainly attempted to stem the flow from his severed jugular vein. He had, at least, bought enough time for Callia to regain her feet. Realising that her long katana would be less useful in the tight confines of the office, she snatched her dagger from its sheath and planted herself between the shimmering and the General, slowly rising to his feet with a short infantry sword in hand.
"I should have known the Brotherhood would make another attempt soon enough," growled Phillida from behind her as the legionnaire from outside burst into the room, still without his helmet but with his sword in hand. "Fortunately, after last time, I'm ready for tricks of this kind..." In the corner of her eye, Callia saw the old Imperial tap his signet ring twice.
A bright purple flash briefly filled the room, forcing the Knight Sister to blink at the painful afterimage. But whatever enchantment the General had in his ring had worked; the assassin in front of them was now visible. He was an Argonian dressed entirely in leather as black as midnight, a snarl making his red-scaled reptilian face seem all the more threatening. He was crouching in a combat stance, twin daggers with blades even darker than his armour clutched in his fists. "Do not let those blades cut you," warned Phillida, moving to stand beside Callia, waving for his legionnaire to circle around to the assassin's flank. "We'll outnumber him soon. Don't do anyth-"
The General was cut off as the Argonian twisted, flowing around the room almost too quick for their eyes to follow. He slammed his foot into the legionnaire's knee and sent a dagger plunging down towards his unprotected face, but Callia got there first, barging him away, attempting to crush him into the wall using the weight of her plate armour. The lizard tore free and pushed her away, sending her crashing to the floor as she slipped in the blood pooling around the other legionnaire, whose death rattle was sounding in his throat.
Pounding feet in the hallway did not deter the assassin, who leapt up onto the desk and launched himself at Phillida. The old soldier was ready, bracing himself and not moving until the last second, spinning to the side and delivering a kick to the Argonian's ribs. Spinning with unbelievable agility, the lizard landed on both feet and jumped upwards, both daggers flashing towards to General's face. Raising one shoulder, the Imperial deflected one off his pauldron and blocked the other with his shortsword, a deft riposte that sent the dagger flying from the assassin's hand.
As the door flew open to show several soldiers attempting to enter without putting the general's life at risk, the legionnaire – Varius? - pushed past Callia and threw his shield at the Argonian, putting him off balance and allowing the legionnaire to slash downwards at him, attempting to open him from throat to groin. The assassin simply sidestepped and cut Varius's face open with one deft move, already turning away as the Imperial feel back, screaming in agony as the dagger's enchantment started working.
Growling in frustration – the Emperor's chosen commander wasn't about to get cut down by the Dark Brotherhood while she looked on – the Knight Sister stepped forward and stabbed upwards at the Argonian with all the power she could muster while he was preoccupied with Phillida's assault. He somehow twisted to avoid her attack and grabbed her arm, using her as leverage to put his entire body's strength into a powerful thrust aimed at her armpit. The thin, dark blade hit her plate armour awkwardly and snapped off at the hilt.
The lizard instantly reached for another dagger, but it was too late; he stumbled forward, the crimson point of Phillida's sword poking through the front of his chest. "Not this time," whispered the General in his would-be assassin's ear as he withdrew his blade, shoving the dying Argonian to the bloodstained, paper-strewn floor of his office. Callia took a deep, relieved breath and realised that the entire encounter had taken under half a minute.
"That's the third time-" the General cut off abruptly as he knelt beside Varius, who had seized a potion from one of the soldiers and downed it in two gulps. A sharp intake of breath told the Knight Sister that it was bad; realising that she had come all too close to being impaled on one of those daggers, she knelt beside Phillida to take a closer look. She winced. The would would be ugly enough without the enchantment: it stretched from his left temple to the edge of his mouth, barely missing his eye, a deep gouge that would disfigure him forever. But it could have been healed easily if it didn't seem to be in an advanced stage of festering; the area around the wound had already gone black, with pus mixing with the dark blood. Despite not liking the Imperial, Callia felt a pang of sympathy; what had once been a marginally attractive face was now ruined beyond repair.
"You need a healer," Phillida was saying as he motioned for Callia and the soldiers in the room to help Varius to his feet. "Potions might save your life, but they won't save your face. Hurry up." Varius growled something unintelligible but let himself be hauled to his feet, his movements weak and uncoordinated. As two of the legionnaires helped him from the room, the General sighed and put his hand on Callia's shoulder.
"Every time the Brotherhood has come for me, they've taken the lives of my soldiers," he grunted, barely-restrained rage making his voice quiver. "And people wonder why I hate them so much." The old Imperial snarled and directed a kick at the cooling body of the Argonian assassin.
The Breton sighed. "I'm sorry about your men, General," she told him, the compassion in her voice genuine. After all, she knew exactly what it felt like to unexpectedly lose comrades. "But I have to be getting back to the Emperor..."
"Yes, yes," muttered Phillida distractedly. "My thoughts haven't changed. I'll be with you in about four days." Callia nodded respectfully before withdrawing, leaving him alone with the bodies.
The hallway was now crammed with soldiers, most giving her suspicious stares as she made her way out. She ignored them and squeezed out through the open door, wincing as she trod in the streaks of blood and pus that Varius must have left behind. Feeling the parchment through the leather of her belt bag, she knew she should feel satisfied with the near-completion of her mission, but the attack – not to mention what Varius had said beforehand – had left her in a less-than-cheerful mood. The light rain that had started when she was in Phillida's office seemed somewhat fitting.
Putting her helmet back on, Callia sighed and turned towards the massive gates that led back to the city. It was late afternoon, too late to reach any further than Weye, and Baluk deserved a good night's rest. She would do the same; a reply wasn't as urgent as the initial message now that she knew the basic content, and she hadn't allowed herself much rest on the ride down. Ignoring the rain dripping from her nose guard, she signalled to the guardsman to open the gate and stepped out onto the causeway that linked Prison and City. Thunder rumbled in the distance; a storm was coming. A deadlier storm is already upon us, thought Callia to herself as she marched along the bridge, hand unconsciously gripping the hilt of her katana.
The throne room of the Palace of Orsinium was a massive, cavernous room, long and wide with enough space to hold a thousand Orcish warriors with room to fight. Leading to the courtyard was the main door, its wood reinforced with bands of iron thicker than most walls. Only the four gates of the Iron Walls were thicker. The system of chains and pulleys used to open it were rarely used, however; to save time, most visitors to the King – even on official business – used one of the numerous side doors.
It was from one of these side doors that Gorgoth had stepped. Nodding to the guard, he paused and looked around the throne room, taking in the majesty of it. Vast stone pillars supported the stone ceiling, which was engraved with numerous depictions of glorious battles in the history of the Orcs. In the shadows behind the pillars were numerous side doors and servant's entrances, but the centre of the hall led only to the throne at the end. Statues of Orcish heroes were evident between some of the pillars; there was Makor gro-Dumag, the mighty warrior who had slain Gaiden Shinji in single combat; Khargol gro-Umag, who had forged and led an independent Orcish state in the Dragontail mountains for several decades; Durz gro-Gurakh, the shaman-armourer who had forged Blood King; Lorga gra-Bashuk, the legendary leader of her feared mercenary band that had decided the victors of several Breton wars; Grommok gro-Brag, who had fought for several days and nights to secure the safety of his tribe. There were more, their faces staring down at those who would approach the King of Orsinium. Gorgoth found himself wondering if he would ever join them before shaking his head and stepping out of the shadows, looking towards the throne.
The throne was simple yet magnificent; made of stone and steel, it would not be comfortable for any but an armoured Orc to sit upon. Shaped to host a large body clad in chainmail and furs, the seat was tall and wide, with steel spikes jutting outwards at various angles to make it appear more intimidating. It was raised up on a high stone dais with ten wide steps from the floor to the throne, giving the King a commanding position. The wall behind was covered in an enormous tapestry showing various stages of the nation of Orsinium.
However, it was not the throne that Gorgoth had come to see; it was the Orc sitting in it. King Gortwog gro-Nagorm, King and Warlord of Orsinium, known as The Sword of Trinimac and numerous other titles, looked as threatening and imposing as his titles suggested. He was not as massive as his brother Gornakh, but he was still tall and wide for an Orc; his face was as hard and strong as the nation he had built, and his war braids – which had never been cut – would fall to his knees when standing. The King was wearing heavy black chainmail of the kind favoured by many Orcs, but nothing was common about his attire. His fine leather belt was woven with heavy gold, his steel boots were worked with even more gold, and the pins holding his heavy bear-fur cloak in place were silver. Gems and precious metals gleamed on rings worn over his leather gauntlets – some were enchanted – and around his neck was a heavy gold chain studded with rubies. The crown on his head was a broad steel circlet worked with yet more gold and studded with onyx, topped with spikes of steel sharp enough to cut. Gortwog gro-Nagorm looked every inch a king.
He had not noticed his approaching nephew; instead, he was leaning on the throne's arm, half-turned and talking to one of his Bloodguard. The six Orcs he was choosing to guard him today – he had a total of twelve in his Bloodguard – were arrayed behind the throne in full battle armour, complete with enough weaponry to equip a sizeable detachment of Imperial Legionnaires. Of all the Bloodguards of the Orcish Lords, the King's were the finest, numbered among the best mortal warriors in the known world. Should any enemy attempt to slay the King of Orsinium, they would have to hack their way through twelve blood-sworn guards before facing Gortwog himself.
As Gorgoth approached, the sound of his boots ringing on the stone floor brought the King's head around. The first expression visible on that bluff face was one of curiosity, but as his eyes narrowed, it abruptly turned to delight as he surged to his feet. "Gorgoth!" he boomed, his deep, regal voice filling the hall as he swept down the dais, heavy cloak trailing through the air behind him.
The warrior-shaman knelt before the King could reach him, left knee pressed against the floor, his right fist resting down beside his right foot, his left fist clenched over his heart. "My king," he greeted formally, a small smile tugging at his lips.
Gortwog strode rapidly over to his kneeling subject, the stone quaking slightly at his approach. "Rise," he commanded gruffly, a welcoming smile splitting his face. Gorgoth slowly obeyed, rising to straighten his back and look his king directly in the eye. The two were of a height, but the warlord's sheer presence and regal aura made him appear even bigger. He wasted no time in throwing his arms around his nephew, pressing their bodies together. The warrior-shaman returned the embrace warmly, the long-dormant tug of affection felt deep in his chest; he genuinely loved Gortwog, both as a king and an Orc. "It's good to see you again, Gorgoth," muttered the king in his ear.
"And you, my king," responded the warrior-shaman as they drew apart, his voice slightly less formal than before. "But we must waste no time. I have important business to discuss."
"Yes, so I have heard," responded Gortwog, stepping back and motioning to his Bloodguard. Two of their number promptly walked out of the throne room to attend to duties elsewhere, while the other four moved from behind the throne to stand in a loose semi-circle behind the King. "We can talk in complete privacy in my chambers. On the way there, you can explain to me what exactly you have been doing in Cyrodiil, Hero of Kvatch." A smirk plucked at the warlord's mouth as he turned to lead the group through a side door, starting towards his quarters deeper in the Palace.
On the way, Gorgoth told him everything; it was the most he had talked for as long as he could remember, and he left nothing out. King Gortwog already knew more than anyone about the life and experiences of his nephew, and the warrior-shaman trusted him absolutely despite his heretical religious beliefs. By the time they reached the door to the King's extensive quarters, almost all of his tale had been told; Gortwog had listened in silence for the most part, interrupting only for short, curious questions, his face thoughtful. The warrior-shaman finished telling him how Martin had given him leave to return home and took a breath, stopping in front of the heavy oak door. "So now you know why I'm here," he finished.
The King nodded and motioned to his Bloodguard. Three of them took up guarding positions in the corridor, while the Captain of the King's Bloodguard – an old Orc named Kharag gro-Kurz, the father of Gulak gro-Kharag – preceded them into the room to make sure there was no assassin lying in wait. It was highly unlikely that any assassin would ever penetrate this far into the Palace, but the death of the King on their watch would bring disgrace and dishonour to his Bloodguard; they weren't prone to taking unnecessary risks. Gortwog followed his bodyguard in, with Gorgoth entering close behind, nudging the door shut behind him.
In contrast to his brother's quarters, the outer chamber of Gortwog's residence was lavish by Orc standards; a thick carpet from Sentinel covered the floor, and the walls were dominated by tapestries and murals. Several high-backed chairs were arranged around a long fireplace, and lamps hanging from the ceiling augmented the light provided by the flickering flames. The King sank into the largest of the chairs and motioned for his nephew and his Bloodguard Captain to join him. "Quite a tale," remarked Kharag as he slowly sat down; the chairs were build for heavy Orcs, but any mer wearing triple-layered battle armour soon learnt not to drop into any chair with reckless abandon. "I didn't think we'd seen the last of you."
"You know I'm hard to kill." Kharag knew better than most; widely recognised as the best warrior in Orsinium, he had occasionally passed down a few fighting lessons to his lord's nephew, but the ageing warrior – he was well over a hundred years old – had only ever tested him in a mock duel once, two years ago. The Bloodguard had won, but not easily; his plate armour was nearly as old and scarred as he was, and at least three of the scars criss-crossing the breastplate had been left by Gorgoth.
"Indeed," agreed Gortwog. "And we will not make an oathbreaker of you; you'll return to Cloud Ruler Temple with all the Orcs you want. But first there is another matter to clear up." He leaned forward in his chair, his chainmail clinking slightly as he fixed his nephew with a penetrating gaze. "You know what I mean." As ever, the King was straight to the point.
Gorgoth knew. "My father has many failings, but he made sure I know how to lead," he rumbled. "He tried to force it upon me once, but..."
"And the Fighter's Guild is very thankful for the land you gave them. Their chapter here is thriving." The King smirked. "They might even build a statue of you when they learn you're now the regional Guildmaster in Cyrodiil."
"You know me, my king," said the warrior-shaman, his voice increasing in intensity. "You know my qualities, my code of honour. You know I was always meant to be a Lord of Orsinium."
"And so you shall be," responded Gortwog, standing. Gorgoth quickly emulated him. "Did my brother tell you that Manruga lost its lord recently? He fell to a Daedric spear, and his son was too weak to rule; he was torn apart by those he might have ruled." He smiled. "The time is now right, Gorgoth." Manruga was one of the largest fiefdoms of the Orcish nation; lying in the north of Orsinium, it bordered the south edge of Lake Manruga, encompassing several ranges of the Wrothgarians, craggy valleys and flowing rivers. A powerful country to have under his control. Gorgoth felt a smile attempting to make itself known. "Your taking control can come later; you are occupied for now, of course. But you will lead Orcs back to Cloud Ruler Temple not as a mere warrior-shaman, but as Lord Gorgoth gro-Kharz of Manruga."
The warrior-shaman knelt, bowing his head. "I have already sworn fealty to you," he grunted, keeping his excitement out of his voice. "Should I do it again?"
"No," replied the king, laying a gauntleted hand on his nephew's head. "Gorgoth gro-Kharz, I grant to you the Orcish province of Manruga. You will lead your people in war and in peace. You will protect them with your life and your honour, with your blood and your steel. You will rule your province with your own hand, but you will enforce the King's laws and answer to the King's call in times of need." His hand moved to grip Gorgoth's right shoulder. "Rise now as a Lord of Orsinium."
Lord Gorgoth gro-Kharz rose to his feet, exhaling slowly. Finally, the desire that had driven him for so long throughout his youth had been fulfilled. There was a curious sensation in his chest; some might have called it joy, but that emotion was so alien to him that he couldn't be sure. "It is an honour to serve you and Orsinium, and to lead my people," he told his king. "I will not fail the Orcs."
"I know," replied Gortwog, smiling. "Your father was right; you will go far. One day, I have no doubt that there will be statues of you all over Orsinium, and not just in the Fighter's Guild chapter." He chuckled.
"If I succeed at Bruma," said Gorgoth, reminding them both of important matters at hand.
The King nodded and gestured for his newest lord to take a seat as he eased himself back down into his own chair. "If you succeed," he agreed, his voice implying that he had no doubt of his nephew's success. "You can choose your banner and sigil and other accessories later. I can take care of the formalities with the clan leaders in Manruga. For now, you came here for warriors." He rubbed his chin. "The armies of Manruga are largely mobilised, but you can hardly reach Bruma within ten days with ten thousand Orcs with you..."
"Used correctly, our heavy cavalry will sweep aside a Daedric army," put in Kharag. "I've seen it myself down on the plains when we closed the Great Gates."
"I cannot take over a thousand," responded Gorgoth. "We will have to take our own supplies ourselves and on packhorses. Orc and horse have to reach Bruma well-fed and with the strength to fight." He considered for a few seconds. "Five hundred would be best, I think. Heavy cavalry with all their armour and the necessary supplies could reach Bruma in time if we pushed hard across Skyrim."
"I'll make the necessary arrangements," declared Kharag, standing. "I'll have them ready to move by tomorrow morning at the latest." He inclined his head towards his king before striding for the door.
King Gortwog stood and made his way over to the fire as his Bloodguard Captain closed the door behind him. "Your duty will call you away, Gorgoth, but I know you'll return. You are a warrior-shaman, a Lord of Orsinium, and a Hero to boot. What power in this world could stand against you and Blood King?" He shook his head without turning around. "No, don't answer that. I'm sure you could come up with quite a list. But you will return. And when you do..." The King sighed, abruptly seeming older. The grey streaks in his black war braids seemed more prominent, his back slightly bent. "I might not agree with him on many accounts, but he is my brother. I will not stop you and your desire for vengeance, but..." The warrior paused for several long moments. "He has served Orsinium well. There are few who can emulate his accomplishments. You know it."
The warrior-shaman stood, his gaze boring into the back of his king's head. "I know it," he agreed. "But were you in my place, you would be planning exactly the same thing." He sighed. "I was an unwanted, inconvenient bastard born to a prostitute, yet my mother refused to do anything but love me with her entire heart. How can I not avenge her?" His hands clenched into fists. "And now that this unwanted, inconvenient bastard is now the equal of his father, I can finally give her complete justice."
The King of Orsinium turned to meet his nephew's iron-hard gaze. "You can," he agreed. "But for now, we have much to discuss." The age lifted from him as quickly as it had come. "Much has changed in your absence. It will be good to have you back..."
A/N: Note that all the Orcs in this chapter are speaking Orcish, not common Cyrodilic; naturally, there would be no point in writing all their speech in Orcish because a) I can't invent a language and b) I'd have to translate it anyway. But anyhow, you've finally met Gorgoth's father... let me know your thoughts by leaving a review, which will always be important to me.
And I'll do my best to write the next chapter relatively quickly... ten weeks isn't good enough, and you deserve better. Leave me a review and I'll do my utmost to repay you by stopping at nothing to shatter the writer's block that afflicts me so often...