A/N: Yes, once again, it's been too long. Seven and a half weeks, no matter how good the end result is, can only be described as 'too long' unless I have a very good excuse, and all I can offer is crippling writer's block. At least I seem to be past that, having written 4000 words in the last two days, but I'll still offer apologies for the delay. Anyhow, thanks to all those who reviewed:
Underpaid Critic: I think you can now; at least that's one improvement they've made, though I still prefer the old system. Anyhow, I do make sure never to rush, but I can't help feeling bad that my own inadequacies are keeping my loyal readers waiting. As for real fiction... I do intend to write a book at some point in my life. I have half-formed ideas right now, nothing solid; it's going to be hard to think up a detailed plot, a detailed world, etc. And one thing is for certain; it'll come AFTER I've finished my planned projects here. I've said I'll do a DB fic, so I'll do a DB fic, and after that will be my Skyrim fic, however long that takes. So I'll be here for a while... it's through FF that I discovered this occupation of mine, so I feel I owe it.
Bob Reincarnated: Odd; I felt sure I'd replied to you via PM, but my outbox is showing nothing... ah, well. Anyhow, yes, Orcs seem powerful, for two reasons; a) because they ARE powerful (Gorgoth's racial supremacist theories are not unfounded) and b) because we're seeing so many of their prominent individuals, who MUST be powerful to be prominent. If we went to the Summerset Isles, you could be sure that you'd be seeing a lot of powerful Altmer.
Cecil Redwing: I didn't; I was looking a a map of High Rock on UESP and saw a lake to the north of where Orsinium would be; I couldn't read the name as the print was so small, but it looked like 'Manruga' to me, so... I went with that.
Rokibfd: Well, happy birthday for all those days ago. Good that you didn't invite Malacath. He'd probably do something quite bad. Anyhow, yes, I looked at Gortwog's ingame pictures a while ago, but I don't feel there's anything to explain; much of the change can be put down to the old graphics of the day (And the book featuring him doesn't give much of a description, either), leaving only his clothing and hair to change, which both have simple enough explanations. Besides, Gorgoth only saw Gortwog a few months ago; he's not going to comment on change because there wouldn't be much.
Yarp, Gorgoth's father does pose those kind of questions... and yes, Kharz gra-Shagren gave her son her name, given that it was her and her alone who brought him up for the first ten years of his life. Nova Orsinium is not the original Orsinium, for sure... Gortwog's more civilised than that. And it'd be easy to explain away the corrupt mine owner's death as bandits or something... it's not like he murdered a diplomat. But anyhow, yes, I've planned a oneshot to cover Orsinium's downfall in the future...
Random Reader: I haven't read the two Elder Scrolls books by Greg Keyes, but I plan to before I write my Orsinium oneshot to get a better understanding of what actually happened; I've got only sparse knowledge, myself. And while I wouldn't mind Bethesda paying me... well, we can all dream. ;)
Guest (avik)?: Well, it's no real question to him, not with what his father's done in the past, but he definitely gives it much thought. Though I should note I've never played Warcraft and have utterly no interest in Warcraft fanfiction...
Yet another massive author's note, but I don't mind as long as the reviews I'm replying to are good. ;) Speaking of reviews, you can only help me by leaving one. It's simple enough... now, read on.
Chapter Forty-six: Shadows and Discontent
Snow had fallen in the night, brought down by the brutal north wind. Orsinium lay under a moderately thick blanket of snow which the cold day of winter would not melt. The storm had long since passed on, however, and the home of the Orcs shone white under the light of the rising sun. Conditions for travelling were not perfect, but neither were they bad. Gorgoth grunted and turned from his window, padding across his bedroom to throw open his wardrobe. Overnight, King Gortwog had sent various servants to his house to stock him with clothes fit for his new station, but he ignored them and instead pulled on his usual simple, well-made travel-stained furs. There would be no sense in donning finery for a hard, fast journey across Tamriel.
As he was pulling on his boots, there was a sharp rap on the door. At his invitation, one of his skeletons opened the door and signed that there were three Orcs outside awaiting an audience. Knowing exactly who to expect, the warrior-shaman told it to show them to one of the living rooms. Pulling on a pair of leather gauntlets, he buckled on his sword belt – which at the moment held only the Thornblade and a few potions – before picking up a ring from his bedside table.
It was a signet ring, very similar to the one he had destroyed months ago in Could Ruler Temple. This one, however, had been given by the hand of the King to a deserving new Orcish lord, rather than a casual hand-down from a father to his son. It was a wide gold band, solidly made, with a dark ruby as the gem with an engraving of his sigil – a clenched fist – in the centre. Sliding it onto the ring finger of his right hand, Gorgoth suppressed a smile.
Looking up, he glanced at the new banner hanging over the head of his bed. It was the banner that – alongside the sigil of Orsinium – would lead his forces through High Rock and Skyrim down to Cloud Ruler Temple and the decisive battle of this war. A large gauntleted fist coloured the grey of steel was clenched in the centre of a field of dark red, bordered in the same grey of the fist. Feeling pride swell in his chest, Gorgoth forced the emotion down and turned away. There was business to attend to.
Moving downstairs, the Orc entered the smaller of his two living rooms, nodding to the skeleton who was standing guard outside. Three Orsimer sprang to their feet as he entered, all offering the salute of fist to heart. "Lord Gorgoth," greeted Kharag gro-Kurz, who was – as always – clad in full battle armour. He wasted no words. "These are Gurbol gro-Rugob and Burza gra-Sharz. They lead the contingent of heavy cavalry the King has detached for you."
Gorgoth stared the two cavalrymer in the eyes, analysing their dispositions and abilities. Gurbol was a tall, proud, muscular warrior of Orsinium, straight-backed but very slightly bow-legged, testament to his long years on the back of a horse. A long cavalry mace was strapped to his back and he was wearing full battle armour that was simple in design yet bore the scars of many conflicts. His comrade was shorter and less imposing, but Burza had clearly seen her fair share of combat as well; the battleaxe on her back was pitted from hacking through bone, and her challenging gaze reminded him of someone who would willingly bite through rock to get what they wanted.
Gurbol – the overall commander of the force - stepped forward. "Lord Gorgoth, I can report three hundred and seventy-eight mer and one hundred and twenty-two womer ready to fight under your standard for as long as you deem necessary. Orcs and horses are all well-rested and fully equipped, ready to leave within the hour with supplies on packhorses." His voice was deep and hard, used to giving orders.
"I am not usurping you, Gurbol," Gorgoth told him. "You will command your mer and horses again once this battle is past, but for now you will send them where I point. Do not worry about missing any glory; we will be fighting in the most decisive battle in this war." The seasoned campaigner gave a short nod as though satisfied. "Is there anything else I should know?" Both cavalrymer shook their heads. "Good. Get your Orcs ready to leave. I will meet you outside the East Gate within the hour."
They saluted, bowed their heads slightly, and left. The sound of their boots heading towards the exit – escorted by the skeleton – faded from hearing as Kharag turned in a circle, admiring the various trophies lining the otherwise bare stone walls of the room. Apart from several armchairs, a carpet and a fireplace, they were the only ornament in the room, but many were notable; the head of a frost minotuar, the sword of a bandit lord, a few ragged banners from the Battle of the Bjoulsae Delta and many other mementos from Gorgoth's time as the captain of one of the most respected mercenary groups in Orsinium.
"Good times, they were," sighed Kharag, his face creasing into a nostalgic smile as he gazed at the bloodstained banners. Gorgoth had torn them from the hands of Breton standard-bearers himself. "And it seems there's not going to be any peace for a while yet, at least. Can an old warrior offer you some advice?"
"Of course." Advice from an Orc who had lived over a hundred years as a Bloodguard and killed thousands – finding glory in dozens of battles – was not to be disregarded lightly.
"I can vouch for the ability of Gurbol and Burza, and I can tell you that all five hundred of their Orcs are loyal, brave and dedicated to a fault. You will find no trouble there. But the fact remains that you will be riding hard across ground likely to be scarred by Oblivion." The Bloodguard turned to regard the warlord with a weighing gaze. "I know you're a powerful warrior, Gorgoth, and I know you won't turn aside to close Oblivion Gates or anything foolish. But always remember that the mightiest warrior can be felled from behind."
"That was one of the first lessons I ever learnt, and I have not forgotten it."
"I knew you never would. But as far as I can see, you have no one particularly designated to watch your back." Kharag's stare grew intense. "You know that King Gortwog is a mighty warrior, but I have saved him from backstabs several times. You need a Bloodguard, Lord Gorgoth."
"I have one in mind. But he is in Bruma, and there are no suitable Orcs that I know of within a day's journey from here." The warlord shook his head. "What you are saying is right, but I cannot divert just to get a Bloodguard. But I do not have to." A knowing gleam entered his eyes. "I have three powerful warriors with unquestionable loyalty who can act as my Bloodguard until I reach Bruma."
The older Orc's eyes narrowed. "Who?" he asked. "I can't think of anyone... unless you mean to take your skeletons, but-"
Gorgoth held up a hand. "Their names are Xilinkar, Chaxil and Medraka."
Understanding sparked in the Bloodguard's eyes, and a hearty laugh burst from his throat. "Ah, Gorgoth, for someone without a sense of humour you're certainly humorous sometimes," he chuckled, shaking his head. "Using Dagon's own minions to protect one of his greatest enemies... was there ever anything more ironic?"
"Probably, though I have not heard of it," responded Gorgoth, his face utterly humourless as usual. "We should leave. I still have to retrieve my horse from the Palace stables."
Kharag nodded and fell in beside the warrior-shaman as they left the room, still grinning. "That old beast of yours? He gives everyone but the stablemaster a good kicking if they come within five feet. Probably why no one ever claimed him in your absence."
"Good. He's a fine horse, and he's served me well. I can think of no better steed to carry me towards a Great Gate." They reached his heavy oak front doors. "Return to the King," he told the Bloodguard. "No doubt he will be seeing me off. I know him. I have to settle things here and then move out."
The older warrior place a thick gauntlet-clad hand on his fellow Orc's shoulder. "It's been good seeing you again, Gorgoth," he said, a slight smile touching his eyes. "May your enemies quake in terror, and may your mace be stained with the blood of many."
In all his life, Saliith had never ventured further north than the Imperial City for more than a few days, and even then he had only endured one Cyrodilic winter before. It had been a mild one; up in the north, the Nords of Bruma were quite at home in this harsher winter, but the Argonian merely found himself wishing that the fire in the Snowdrift Inn was bigger. Even this early in the morning – it was barely past dawn – it was roaring and crackling angrily in the hearth, but the cold-blooded lizard still had to force himself to stop shivering.
Ironically, his young protégés were better suited to the weather than he was. Huzei and Neesha might be relatively thin and scrawny, but they had lived most of their lives in Cyrodiil and had long since adapted to the winters. Even they, however, found themselves edging as close to the fire as they dared every night. Despite his numerous exhortations, the two younger Argonians had declared that he would have to send them back to the Imperial City tied up in sacks to stop them fighting alongside them, and so he had reluctantly agreed to let them sleep beside him in the Great Hall of Cloud Ruler Temple. He and Agronak had even kept up their training.
Now, however, they were impatiently waiting for breakfast after spending a night at the Snowdrift Inn at Aerin's invitation. The Bosmeri ex-gladiator had taken an instant liking to Huzei and Neesha – though she had only recently overcome the common difficulty of telling them apart – and had insisted on trying to teach them how to use the bow in the spare time that she had so much of. It was a source of much hilarity; the Wood Elf was an excellent shot, but one of the worst teachers that Saliith had ever seen.
The Grand Champion shifted his chair an inch closer to the fire and sighed, looking around. The only company they had for the moment were a few drunkards slumped over the tables, four of the Orcs in Gorgoth's service having an animated but rather quiet discussion, and a pair of mercenaries eating breakfast. Most of the rest of the inn's patrons were sleeping upstairs or already out practising, sharpening their skills for the impending battle. There was fighting every day – Oblivion Gates were appearing with regularity – but they were relatively small affairs, taken care of within hours by companies of a few hundred men. Saliith had taken Huzei and Neesha through one yesterday, where they had performed admirably given their ages; it was little wonder that they had risen through the ranks of the Arena so quickly.
To alleviate the boredom, he decided to put his thoughts into words. "Do you remember when we first met?" he asked, his rasping voice stirring them out of lethargy. "You were over-eager fans without a clue as to who I really was. Now..." he chuckled "You've come a long way."
"Well, we had a good teacher," replied Neesha, flashing a grin at him. The young Argonian – at sixteen, barely out of childhood – was leaning back in her chair with her feet up on the table with a carefree expression that was very reminiscent of her new Bosmeri friend.
Her brother – as ever – was more insightful. He was idly twirling a dagger around in the palm of his hand, the leather hilt rasping against his scales occasionally. "You told us once that it was the Hero of Kvatch that put you on the right path." His hand snapped closed, bringing the dagger to a halt. "Well, you put us on the right path, so you're twice as successful as him." He grinned expectantly at his mentor.
Saliith suppressed a grimace; Gorgoth, in fact, had been just as 'successful' as him. He'd never told them about Branwen specifically, merely that he'd just lost a good friend in the Arena. They were happy, idealistic, eager; they deserved what happiness they could find. They didn't need a jaded Grand Champion pouring out his regrets and and grief on them. His wound was his own and there was no reason to tell them about it. They would never go through the same thing; Agronak had made sure of that when he'd put them on the same team.
A loud clattering spared him the discomfort of answering as Ilend strode down the stairs, wearing a thick cloak over his chainmail. The Imperial nodded to them on his way out; he would get breakfast over at the barracks he'd be teaching in. Fortunately, the guardsmen from the expeditionary forces sent by the cities of Cyrodiil were attentive and quick learners; losses from Gates were decreasing as their knowledge and experience grew.
"Seeing him head off makes me feel lazy," rasped Saliith. "At least the sun seems to be out; we can train without risk of breaking every table in the place." He glanced sideways then grinned as he saw Neesha turn over a small hourglass. "I don't even have to ask..."
Only a few grains had fallen by the time a bleary-eyed Aerin appeared from upstairs and slowly made her way over to slump down in a chair opposite the Grand Champion, stifling a yawn with her fist. "Bed started to get cold after Ilend left" was her mumbled explanation. She was wearing a thick brown cloak that covered her from neck to ankle, but the Argonian was willing to bet that she wasn't wearing anything underneath. The Wood Elf had gradually acclimatised to the climate during her stay in Bruma; she still complained about the ever-present cold outside, of course, but at least she no longer felt the need to dress up for an expedition to Skyrim before entering the relatively warm common room.
"Good morning to you as well, Aerin," responded Saliith, inclining his head. "Do you intend to laze around all day or do something constructive? Hard to tell the difference sometimes." He scratched the end of his snout to hide his smirk.
"Fuck you, Twitch-tail." Even though her eyes were still heavily encrusted with sleep, there was the usual sparkle of laughter in them.
The Grand Champion snorted but said nothing. He hated the nickname – his tail most definitely did not twitch, at least not purposefully – but for her he was willing to let it slide. After all, he knew that in her time at the Arena she'd had far worse nicknames attached to her. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and let her slowly come fully into the world of the waking. "Anything much important happening that I should know about?" she asked after a few minutes, rubbing her eyes.
Saliith aimlessly glanced out of one of the windows. "Dagon's sent one of his wake-up calls, but that's nothing unusual." The Oblivion Gate that had opened shortly before dawn had probably been dispatched already. "Nothing to stop you lying around in bed all day thinking horny thoughts."
"I'm not Dralasa," snorted Aerin, folding her arms. "Though she's more likely to-" She was cut off by the inn's door swinging open. A cold gust of wind cut into the room before the doorway was filled by large, heavily-armoured bodies.
"Get some food and beer. You've all earned it." Lurog's deep voice was the same as ever despite the blood splattering his mace and chainmail as he directed the four Orcs he'd taken with him into an Oblivion Gate towards their comrades. Mazoga stood beside him, her face looking even more grim than usual due to the crimson liquid covering half of it. She was ignoring the small slash just under her left ear as she methodically wiped her blade clean with a dirty rag.
"Anything out of the ordinary?" inquired Saliith as the two Orcs made their way over and dropped into protesting chairs. Aerin discretely moved her chair further towards Neesha to escape from the stench of dried blood and sweat that was emanating from both of them.
"Nothing much. Lost three guardsmen out of the thirty-odd that come in with us." Lurog eased his much-dented shield off his back and laid it against the edge of the table. "In other news, a fair few more Guildsmen entered their section of the camp last night. Looks like Gorgoth's call to arms worked well enough. They're not even brawling with the gladiators too much."
"Let's hope they've still got that energy when they're facing down four open gates," snorted Mazoga, sheathing her longsword. "That's if Lurog leaves any Daedra left for them to have a crack at. What were you doing when I was away in Skyrim?"
"Always best to keep in training," replied the Orc, a slight smirk plucking at a corner of his mouth. In the absence of Gorgoth, his abilities as a warrior were now not being overshadowed, and Saliith was willing to bet that he could have cleaved his through the Arena to reach Champion rank with ease. "But enough about that. Nothing out of the ordinary to report. Do you have any news?"
Saliith shook his head. "None of us have put our noses out of the door," he rasped. "This might be mild to you Orcs, but it's winter out there and the sun's barely up."
Lurog grunted. "I should have known," he said, pulling off his gauntlets. "But I saw a squad of soldiers marching through the gates just before we left to deal with the Daedra. I had wondered if..." his deep voice trailed off as the door swung open and rapidly shut again.
"I was told Ilend Vonius was staying in this inn?" The speaker was an Altmer, tall and slender yet still unusually muscular for his race. His long golden hair was slicked back from a weathered, battle-worn face, and he was dressed in grimy chainmail that had seen better days. A helmet was tucked under his left arm, leaving his war axe within easy reach of his right, and a simple but powerful recurve bow was slung across his back. Apart from his race, however, there was nothing to set this mer apart from the thousands of soldiers in Bruma apart from the black wolf's head on his small round shield.
Aerin surged to her feet, taking a few steps toward him and peering intently at his face, frowning and ignoring the fact that her cloak seemed ready to expose half her chest. "Merandil?" she asked incredulously.
The soldier from Kvatch returned her gaze, his eyebrows drawing down before a look of recognition crossed his severe features. "Aerin," he greeted, nodding civilly. "It's good to see you again. I'm-"
"You're alive!" The Wood Elf unceremoniously flung her arms around her fellow archer, prompting a fleeting look of alarm to spread over his face while the Orcs smirked knowingly to each other. "I thought everyone in Kvatch would be dead by now, ya know, what with all these Gates around," continued Aerin, pulling back from the Altmer and beaming up at him.
Merandil shook his head, a slight smile appearing briefly before vanishing. "Captain - no, Count Matius accomplished much before the invasion started in earnest," he told her, looking over the Bosmer's head to glance around the inn, whose patrons were obviously interested; there wasn't much word from Kvatch these days. "He got everyone back inside the walls and rebuilt them the best he could. You know our city is a natural fortress, and the Daedra have largely passed us by after that first assault." A grimace twisted his features. "The only attacks they attempted were half-hearted and up the mountain road. We repulsed them easily enough. They clearly had bigger fish to fry..."
Lurog stood, giving the High Elf an analytical gaze. "Gorgoth told me the Kvatch City Watch had been all but destroyed in the fighting," he observed. "It is good that you are here, but is it only you?"
"No." Merandil shook his head. "We had a few recruits from the civilian survivors of the battle, and a fair few of our wounded were healed. When Count Matius heard of Bruma's need, he was determined to do what he could to stop another Kvatch happening. So he sent a squad of fifteen. It's a full third of our force, but insignificant compared to the other contributions, and yet..." he laid a hand on his axe head, his chest swelling with pride. "Let it never be said that Kvatch shrank from its duty."
Gorgoth was wearing one of his extremely rare small smiles under his helmet as he rode out of the grounds of the stables near the Palace. His unusually good mood was due in part to the magnificent black horse he was sitting on; since the Orc's capture and extradition to Cyrodiil, Rauzkh had been returned to the stables and been doomed to a life of restriction. The stable's pasture had been sizeable, but not comparable to the vast plains that the warhorse had been used to galloping over in previous years. His foul temper and possessive protectiveness of the master who had trained him from a colt so long ago meant that few others could go near him without losing a finger or breaking a rib, let alone ride him.
The warhorse was a perfect example of the type of horse favoured by the Orcish heavy cavalry; huge and muscular, he was built for sheer strength and stamina rather than speed. He would need it; in battle the horses had to bear the weight of their own plate armour in addition to their heavily-armoured riders. Rauzkh was starting to get old – Gorgoth had first ridden him nearly ten years ago – but he was still a mighty horse, fiercely loyal and devastating at full charge. Both had been together long enough to know each other well; indeed, Rauzkh knew his rider better than most Orcs did, in his own way.
As he rode towards the East Gate, the Orcs going about their business seamlessly cleared a path for him, well-used to the comings and goings of horsemen. Most would recognise him; even with his helmet on, his armour and horse were both distinctive, and word was already spreading about the new Lord of Manruga. A few called out to him, but the warlord ignored them and urged Rauzkh forward. He had no time to listen to every Orc who wanted to ask him something, much as he would value the opinion of the common mer.
The East Gates were open halfway, not unusual in times of relative peace. They were massive doors of iron and steel, opened by a system of chains that required entire squads of Orcs to operate. The gateway was big enough for an army to march through twenty abreast, and the road was well-paved to make their passage smooth. No enemy had ever breached these gates, and nor would they. Nodding the the guards on duty, Gorgoth passed through the gates and left the city of his birth. He did not know when he would return, if ever, but at least he knew that he was bringing some small part of the nation with him towards the climatic battle against Dagon's forces.
Waiting to the north of the road, away from the outbuildings, were the five hundred cavalrymer that King Gortwog had entrusted him with, the plate armour of Orc and horse glimmering in the sunlight. As Gorgoth rode towards them, he looked up; silhouetted against the blue sky were the two banners borne at the head of the force. Beside the green-and-black banner of Orsinium was his own Steel Fist, the grey gauntlet on the field of blood-red. Pride surged within him, but he forced it down, instead turning his attention to the riders coming to meet him. He reined in Rauzkh and waited, responding to the impatient snort by gently stroking the warhorse's mane while removing his helmet.
King Gortwog and his brother motioned for their Bloodguards to wait as they drew up a few feet from Gorgoth. The warrior-shaman's father gave him a searching look before pursing his lips and nodding in something that seemed to be approval. The King, on the other hand, openly wore a small smile. "I don't think I need to say much, Gorgoth," he said as his nephew saluted and bowed his head slightly. "You're not the kind who needs inspiring speeches. I know you'll do us proud." He paused, his chest swelling. "Make sure it's known that Orsinium answered the call in Tamriel's time of need. Make sure that people know of the honour of the Orcs." The King's hand reached out and clasped the warrior-shaman's shoulder. "You're the saviour of Tamriel, Gorgoth. With Orcish steel in your hand and Orcish warriors at your back, what force could hope to stop you?" He withdrew his hand and moved his horse sideways, out of the way. "Go, and slaughter all who would stand in your way."
The Lord of Manruga responded with another salute and moved forward, only to rein in again. "Gorgoth, wait." Gornakh's voice was intense with urgency as his son turned to regard him expressionlessly. "You're a warrior-shaman, one of the most powerful in Orsinium, if not the most powerful." The warlord moved his horse closer, drawing up beside him. "You know how to fight. You know how to devastate armies. You know how to see things few others would. You know-" Gornakh cut off, shaking his head. He could have gone on for a lot longer, but Gorgoth knew exactly what he meant. "But more than all that, you're my son," continued Gornakh, his voice now laced with pride. "You might think otherwise, but I always did love you. Gorgoth... I am proud of you." A savage smile split his rugged face. "Now go. Go onwards to victory. And when you return..."
"...we'll conclude our business," replied the warrior-shaman, finishing his father's sentence for him. He saluted, as one lord would to another. "Farewell, father. I will make sure that your efforts have not been in vain." Turning Rauzkh, he walked the horse over to the head of the large company he would be leading, suppressing the odd feeling of respect he now had for his father. He would think it over later; for now, he had Orcs to lead.
Gurbol rode out to meet him, his long lance thrust through a secure loop on his saddle to leave the rider's hands free for the long journey ahead. "Twenty packhorses are carrying everything we need, and we've got forty remounts," he reported, saluting. "We're ready to leave whenever you are, Lord Gorgoth."
"Good. We'll be heading east across the plains of High Rock and then through the mountains to Skyrim. We'll head to their flatlands and then make directly for the pass through the Jeralls to Bruma. No doubt their armies will be too busy with Oblivion Gates to worry about a relatively small foreign force riding across their land."
"And what if we come across any Oblivion Gates, Lord Gorgoth?" asked Gurbol as they rode to the head of the force, reining in beside the bannermer.
The warlord shook his head. "We cannot afford to waste the time to turn aside," he replied. "But we will cut down anyone – anyone – who tries to stand in our way."
Gurbol nodded in grim understanding. "The command is yours, Lord Gorgoth," he said, bowing slightly from his saddle as he verbally transferred direct command of his soldiers.
Walking Rauzkh forward a few paces, Gorgoth turned him to observe the mer and womer now under his command. Five hundred hard, determined faces stared back at him from behind their helmets. They would know exactly what was expected of them, know exactly where they were going and how. The warrior-shaman nodded to himself. Better warriors than these were nearly impossible to find.
Standing in his stirrups, he addressed them, his booming voice echoing off the Iron Walls. "Orcs of Orsinium! We ride ahead to blood and death, to victory and glory!" He raised a clenched fist, staring into their faces with a savage intensity that he hadn't felt in years. "War calls us. Battle is our destiny. Your armour will be splattered with the blood of your enemies, your weapon arm will be heavy from cleaving through flesh and bone, and still we will fight on with fire in our hearts! Orcs of Orsinium, this is a time for heroes!" He dropped back into his saddle and span Rauzkh, pointing towards the east. "Onward! Onward to our destiny!" A wordless roar erupted behind him as he spurred his warhorse onto the road.
The heavy paving stones shook under the hooves of five hundred Orcs riding to war.
It had been six days since Gorgoth's departure from Bruma. Since then, the reinforcements had flowed in; the remainder of the Fighters Guild had arrived and quickly set up camp next to a strong delegation of Imperial Battlemages. The latter had been led personally by the new Arch-Mage of the Mages Guild, a Altmer of considerable ability who seemed to be – at best – half-mad. But allies were allies, and the battlemages meant that casualty rates for dealing with Oblivion Gates were much lower. The Imperial army in and around Bruma now numbered over five thousand, including nearly a hundred well-trained battlemages. Many were already saying that it was powerful enough to handle at least one Great Gate, but the Emperor was adamant that they had to wait for the Hero of Kvatch to return.
"Do you reckon he'll do it?" asked Ilend, his breath puffing out ahead of him into the cold northern night. A clear sky was above them, and the stars were shining brightly as the last memory of the sun faded from the black horizon. "Get back in time, I mean?"
Aerin laughed. "Course he will, ya idiot. He's Gorgoth." They were leaning on the city wall near the South Gate, looking out over County Bruma towards the Imperial City. The spire of White Gold Tower was just visible, a pillar of grey stone blocking out some of the stars. "Since when has he ever broken his word, eh?" She looked sideways at her lover and winked. The Bosmer was wearing her thick cloak over her leathers to keep the cold out, but had at least kept her hood down.
"I don't doubt his word, merely his ability to wrangle troops out of his king and get them here in time," responded the Guildsman, folding his arms as he looked down at the shattered ruins of several Oblivion Gates around the city.
"Not an easy feat at the best of times," grunted Merandil, who was leaning on the wall on Ilend's other side. "If he goes east, he'll have to cross the mountains of Skyrim and a fair few rivers before tackling that often-treacherous pass through the Jeralls. It's not an easy route, but..." the Altmer shook his head. "If he goes south, he'll either have to skirt around the Alik'r or go through it, which would probably cost him half his force. And then he'd have to cross into Cyrodiil far to the west and go through thick forest to get here." He grimaced and rapped his gauntlet-clad hands on a crenellation. "Either way he goes, he's got a tough journey.
"How do you know so much geography, Merandil?" inquired Aerin, arching an eyebrow.
The High Elf smirked. "I've been in the Kvatch City Guard guard for eight years, as Ilend can tell you. But I wasn't always a guard." He looked across his ex-comrade towards the Bosmer. "I'm two hundred and four years old, Aerin. I think you can assume I did a fair bit of travelling before settling down."
"Please, spare me," muttered Ilend, rolling his eyes. "Ask him about the places he's seen and we'll be here for hours." He turned from the wall and looked down into the city, starting to regret leaving his cloak back at the inn. Both he and Merandil were both clad only in their chainmail armour. All of them had their weapons and potions at hand, of course; everyone in Bruma went around in a state of at least semi-readiness these days. "We should be getting back. Dralasa told me she was interested in the goldenrod." He shot an apologetic glance to his ex-comrade. "Her words, not mine."
"If that mercenary friend of yours was telling the truth, I'll forgive her a lot," snorted Merandil, starting off towards the tower that contained a spiralling stairway down to the ground. Aerin and Ilend exchanged knowing smiles and followed.
They were crunching through the snow and heading towards the Snowdrift Inn when the door of a nearby pub flew open. The sounds of laughter and drunkenness spilled out into the street, along with two burly Nords who dragged an old Imperial out by his arms and bodily threw him across the street before rapidly retreating indoors. The light and laughter was shut off and the old drunk man was left sprawling in the slush, his rasping laughter grating in their ears. "I told you!" he shouted as he attempted to struggle to his feet. "I told you he didn't have..." his voice trailed off into incomprehensible slurring as he slipped in the slush and fell flat on his back.
Merandil grimaced and moved to go around him, but Ilend frowned and moved closer, looking down intently at the prostrate drunk, who was gazing up at the night sky with oblivious, bloodshot eyes. His clothing was entirely unsuitable for Bruma; his shirt and trousers were threadbare and his unhealthy sallow skin could clearly been seen through several rips. A leather belt around his waist was loose and frayed to the point of almost breaking, and the sheathless shortsword it held was showing signs of rust. The soles of his leather shoes were so badly worn that his bare, frostbitten feet could be seen underneath.
As Ilend moved closer, the drunkard's eyes flickered to him, unfocused and slightly confused. "Who you...?" he asked, his speech barely intelligible. His nose had been broken, his head was completely bald apart from a few white tufts around his ears, and wrinkles covered his face. Old muscles had wasted away, and his previous large build meant that skin now sagged from his bones. But despite all that, the Guildsman recognised him, even if his old comrade did not.
"Menien?!" he gasped, recoiling, shocked at just how far his old friend Watch Sergeant Menien Goneld had fallen. The old, experienced soldier who had fought by his side through Oblivion had been replaced by a useless old drunk who would probably be dead within a few days. Merandil's head snapped around and he hurried to stand at the old Imperial's other side as Aerin looked on, wearing a look of slight confusion until realisation dawned on her face as well.
The old soldier's eyes were still unfocused as he mumbled something up at the ex-guardsman, so Ilend motioned to Merandil and the two of them grabbed his arms and hauled him upright, ignoring his slurred complaints. "We can't leave him here on the street," growled Merandil, frowning down at his former superior. "He'd freeze to death. How he managed to get here is beyond me..."
"Get him to the Snowdrift. I doubt Hjoldir will like it, but he won't turn him out if we pay well." The Guildsman heaved Menien to his feet and between them they started dragging him down the street, Aerin trailing in their wake. "How did it come to this? Did you know anything about it?"
"Nothing," muttered the Altmer, looking down at Menien with pain in his eyes. "He'd been different ever since he came back from that Gate, of course – harder, more bitter, angrier – but that would be expected, really. Then when we finally got some more alcohol, he started drinking to drown his past..." He shook his head. "He did it more and more often, until he was paralytic most of the day. That's when Count Matius – he's still head of the Watch as well – decided he couldn't do anything but dismiss him. Menien left Kvatch that same day... must have been three weeks ago."
"How did he survive with all these Gates around?" asked Aerin, now walking alongside her lover. "Surely any Dremora worth his sword could put this poor sod out of his misery?"
Ilend turned his head to frown at the Bosmer. "This 'poor sod' saved my life at one point, Aerin," he told her. "I owe him that. And that's why I'll do whatever I can for him."
"I remember him for who he was, not what he is now," added Merandil. "He was a good Watch Sergeant, a pleasure to serve under. He deserves better than dying in a puddle of his own piss."
"Fine, fine," muttered Aerin under her breath, darting forward to hold open the door to the inn for them. At this time, it was almost full, but their usual table near the fire had been reserved by Lurog and Mazoga, both of whom looked up from an animated conversation to frown at the half-unconscious Imperial being dragged in by two of his former comrades. The innkeeper, Hjoldir, looked up from the customer he was haranguing and snorted, no doubt mentally adding a fair few septims to the cost of their staying there.
"Who in Malacath's name is this worthless old drunk?"asked Mazoga, rising from her seat and glaring down at Menien, who was blinking stupidly at the light of the fire.
"An old friend of ours," grunted Ilend, managing to wrestle the drunkard into a chair, where he slumped forward and rested his head on the table, starting to snore loudly. The Guildsman grimaced and eased himself into the chair beside him. "He used to be a fine soldier, once... he fought at Kvatch."
Lurog snorted, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms, disapproval evident in his face. "Any man who will let something like this happen to him is unworthy of my respect." He leaned forward and sniffed at the sleeping Imperial, wrinkling his nose as he sat back. "I'm not sure what smells worse; the stale alcohol or his own piss."
Merandil glared at the Orc. "All he needs is-"
"Someone to to open his skull and do him a favour," muttered Mazoga, sitting back down and fingering the hilt of her sword. Her heavy ebony plate armour was absent at the moment, but even in nondescript leather armour it was hard to tell that she was of a different gender to the Orc sitting to her right. "He's no use to anyone right now and letting him live on like this just adds more disgrace to his memory."
"I... don't think these two think like Orcs, somehow," pointed out Aerin, who was sprawled out in her chair on Ilend's other side, clearly relatively unconcerned. "He'll be fine in the morning, apart from his head, I'll bet."
"Get him sober and on his feet and he still knows how to hold a sword," Ilend told the two Orcs, looking between them with hostility in his eyes. "Menien saved my life once. He went into Oblivion beside me and came out again. He fought through Kvatch. He's a hero and deserves another chance." There was steel in his gaze and a hint of pride in his voice. "What would you do if it was Gorgoth sitting there?"
Mazoga laughed bitterly. "Gorgoth would never do something like this to himself," she claimed, looking down at Menien with distaste evident in her eyes. "And he's been through more than this waste of space."
"Gorgoth could drink this entire place dry and still not get drunk, knowing him," snorted Aerin. Sensing the mood, she sighed, rolled her eyes, and got to her feet. "I'll be up in the room," she murmured in Ilend's ear, giving his shoulder a squeeze before sauntering off towards the stairs, smiling at the inevitable lewd comments she received from most tables she passed. Ilend barely reacted, focused on the Orcs across from him, keeping his anger in check.
"Malacath demands strength," rumbled Lurog, tapping the table with his bare fingers. "There is nothing strong about this. If he recovers to become what he once was – which I doubt – there will always be memory of this time of weakness. Any true Orc would be shamed by this."
"Not everyone is an Orc, you know," pointed out Merandil, his eyes narrowing. "Menien still has hope. He can still be of use. And he was – and is – my friend. That's all that matters and I'm willing to do whatever I can to help him, no matter what you would do for a so-called friend in the same situation." The Altmer's grey eyes were full of fiery determination as his gaze flickered from Orc to Orc. "If you're not going to help, then at least remove your distraction and get over to some place where your company is more appreciated."
Mazoga rose from her seat so quickly that it toppled over, but Lurog swiftly put an arm up to prevent her diving across the table at Merandil. "Peace!" he urged, a warning glinting in his eyes as he slowly stood, looking down at his compatriot. "I won't have you throttling our allies on the eve of battle. Get to bed. You of all people need rest."
For a moment Ilend thought that Mazoga might draw her sword and attempt to kill her friend, given the anger evident in every line of her face. He and Merandil also surged to their feet, hands on their weapons as conversation in the common room drew to an abrupt halt and all eyes turned to the table near the fire. After brief internal struggle, however, Gorgoth's lover growled something in her own tongue and spun on her heel, striding from the common room and down the stairs towards the basement where the small contingent of Orcs were based. Lurog stared after her, a thoughtful expression on his face, before he too swept from the room without a backward glance, following her down to the basement.
"Orcs!" exclaimed the Altmer guardsman, sounding exasperated as he collapsed back down into his seat. "The Bretons are by far the worst when it comes to politics, but those bloody Orcs are almost as hard to get your head around, what with Malacath and Trinimac and honour and everything else they hold on to." He shook his head. "Well, at least they're on our side and can swing a sword well enough." His gaze softened as he looked down at Menien. "What are we going to do with him?"
Ilend sighed, resting his arms on the table as he stared into the fire. He wished that Aerin were there, rubbing the back of his neck and easing the worries that gnawed at him, but right now she was probably getting herself ready for their nightly activities. At least that thought roused him somewhat. "I'm sure with enough gold we can persuade Hjoldir to find him some place to sprawl for the night," he said, leaning back in his chair. "And in the morning when he wakes up, we can see about making him useful again..."
The sky was overcast with heavy dark clouds as General Adamus Phillida, Commander of the Imperial Legion, rode up the steep road towards Cloud Ruler Temple, surrounded by his personal bodyguard of twenty veteran Legionnaires. Their heavy plate armour – even the General's – all bore scars from past conflicts, some more recent than others. The horses, whose breath was steaming in the cold air, were equally grizzled, with tough leather armour protecting their flanks and chests from glancing blows. Hard faces glared suspiciously from behind the cheekguards of their helmets, their heads ever swivelling to try to detect an ambush, even here on the very approach to one of the most secure locations in Cyrodiil.
Cold was not something unknown to the General – he'd led armies in Skyrim in the depths of the Nordic winter – but he was growing old, and his double-layered armour was not designed for insulation. His thoughts were too active for him to pay much attention to the elements, however; his mind was already analysing the terrain, laying plans, thinking through the thousands of soldiers available to him. He'd seen many of them camped outside Bruma, and many had recognised him as he'd ridden through the city. He'd detached thirty men of his bodyguard to set up camp outside with the rest and find out what they could about the general mood and the situation among the soldiers. A general could never have too much information.
Oblivion Gates had preoccupied them all the way from the Imperial City. There had been two within sight from the road before they'd even reached Bruma, and as they went further north, the numbers of ruined arches that indicated vanquished Gates increased. Phillida had counted over a dozen, and he knew that there were many more out of sight of the Road. The army might have been no field legion, but it was certainly effective. He'd been impressed by the high levels of alertness and the numerous strong patrols that seemed to be everywhere on the roads. Even on the short journey from Bruma to Cloud Ruler Temple, they'd come across several twenty-strong patrols, each with two men on horses to carry messages while the rest would deal with any enemy forces they came across. Phillida doubted that he could have organised them much better himself.
The ancient fortress of the Blades loomed up ahead of them, standing strong and tall against the bleak grey sky. Some of the Blades were down in Bruma, carrying out assigned duties, but most of them would be here, manning the Emperor's last line of defence. Phillida had visited the Akaviri fortress a few times, but he never failed to be impressed by how easily it could be defended; the Blades numbered only a few more than a full-strength Legion century, but they could hold their Temple against an army if they had to. But then, he had also thought that Kvatch's natural defences had made it nearly impregnable. This was a new kind of war.
A challenge rang out from the battlements as the general and his bodyguard halted in front of the massive gates. The leader of Phillida's guard, a battle-hardened Nord called Vignar Fellhammer, bellowed a reply, stating that General Adamus Phillida was responding to the summons of Emperor Martin Septim. After a short period of waiting, the gates swung open and a squad of five Blades stepped out, eyeing the newcomers with the suspicion that Phillida had expected. Trust was hard to come by in war, at east initially.
Their leader, a bearded Nord almost as large as Vignar, looked up at the general and noted the purple plume on his helmet. "Good to see you, General," he grunted, bowing his head slightly. "Head on up. There's no room in the stables for the horses of all your bodyguard, but at least you're here. The Emperor's waiting in the Great Hall."
Phillida nodded and turned to Vignar. "Tell the rest of the men to get back to the camp. You'll stay with me." He dismounted and handed the reins to a Blade who'd come forward. The Nordic Blade beckoned and started off up the stairs, walking faster as Phillida and Vignar fell in beside him.
"We're just about ready for a climatic battle," he told them as they climbed. "Our troops are gaining experience all the time, we've got a whole crowd of battlemages, and the Hero of Kvatch will be back soon with help from Orsinium. But the Emperor will fill you in in full." The General raised an eyebrow but said nothing. As far as he knew, Gorgoth gro-Kharz hadn't left Cyrodiil, but if he was bringing aid from the home of the Orcs, it would be valued. He'd used Orcs in the past, both as infantry and cavalry, and there was no doubting their brutal effectiveness when used correctly.
They reached the entrance to the Great Hall – drawing inquisitive stares from Blades along the way – and entered, instantly feeling the chill of the North banished by the roaring fire at the opposite end of the hall. Phillida grunted in pleasure, removing his helmet and tucking it under his left arm. The Great Hall had barely changed in the time since he'd last seen it, though there were now more katanas adorning the wall in honour of the fallen Blades who had used them. Several Blades - both off-duty and on duty – were in evidence, warming themselves by the fire or standing inconspicuously behind one of the armchairs, which was occupied by the man who had summoned Phillida out of his relatively peaceful existence in the City.
Martin Septim rose from his chair as the General approached. It was obvious as to who he was; despite being dressed in an old blue robe that wouldn't look out of place on a provincial priest of the Nine, the similarities to his father Uriel were numerous. The piercing blue eyes, the set of his jaw, that slightly regal air... this was most definitely a Septim. But rumour had it that he hadn't known that until recently; could a former commoner really learn how to rule in just a few short months? There was only one way to find out.
"It is good to meet you, General Phillida," greeted Martin, approaching the General with his right hand outstretched. His voice was as rich as his father's had ever been; perhaps richer. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties and in good physical condition; that might well be called upon in the dark days ahead. Grasping the future Emperor's hand firmly, Phillida was pleased to find swordsman's callouses. Too many lords and counts had soft hands.
"It was hard to turn down such a summons, and now that I've seen you with my own eyes..." Phillida paused to nod significantly. "Yes, I have no doubt that you are indeed the last Septim. I am at your service, sire."
A small, satisfied smile spread across Martin's face as he motioned for Phillida to take the seat across from him. The General did so, suppressing a grateful smile as his aged bones were relieved of the weight of his armour. He laid his helmet on the arm of the chair as Vignar took his place at his captain's left shoulder, the old Nord's grey eyes alert and watchful, even here.
"Your commitment pleases me. If we can't have legions, at least we have a well-proven commander of soldiers," sighed Martin, sitting back down in his own chair and grimacing, as though recalling an unpleasant memory. "Do you have any idea why High Chancellor Ocato thinks me a fake?"
Phillida blinked in surprise. "A fake, sire?" he asked, eyebrows rising. "I'm not sure why he would think that, but he certainly didn't tell me about it. In fact, when I told him where I was going, he said it was the first he'd heard about you that wasn't rumour or hearsay." Ocato told him most things he was thinking about, as much as he could; he was one of the High Chancellor's closest confidants. Martin had certainly never come up in one of their many conversations; there were many things to be worrying about in the Empire true, but if Ocato had known that a Septim heir was still alive, Phillida was sure that he would have been as supportive as possible; ruling was the last thing the Altmer wanted.
"That's impossible. I sent him a letter and got a reply, signed and sealed with his sigil." Martin's eyes had narrowed. "He said that there was so much unrest in the provinces that he couldn't spare a single century to what he called 'a Septim pretender with no legitimacy'." The distaste on the Imperial's face was clear. "Apparently he forbade you to send any men north. I'm surprised he allowed you to come."
Phillida's forehead wrinkled as he frowned, searching his memory for any such conversation with the High Chancellor. "I might be old, sire, but my memory is still good. It has to be." He shook his head. "I never received any such orders from the High Chancellor. In fact, when I told him where I was going and who had summoned me, he quickly hurried off to his eyes-and-ears to find out all he could about you. There was never any mention of what you describe."
The future Emperor rubbed his chin, deep in thought. After a few moments, he beckoned one his Blades over, a Breton in the armour of a Knight Captain. A brief, whispered conversation followed, after which the captain straightened and saluted before marching from the Great Hall. "That matter will be cleared up in due time," said Martin, meeting Phillida's gaze once again. "But we have more important matters to discuss. We have an army of several thousand men that needs a leader and a battle plan."
"Tell me what you need," responded Phillida, leaning forward, eager to get down to business. Politics could wait. The battlefield was where he belonged.
The basement of the Snowdrift Inn was quite large in size, but the sheer amount of space that was used for storage meant that it was small and cramped when occupied by ten large Orcs. Illumination provided by a pair of lanterns hanging either side of the only door cast light over stacks of crates, casks of alcohol and the sleeping pallets barely large enough to accommodate a Bosmer, let alone an Orc. But the Orcs sworn into Gorgoth's service had all endured far worse. The basement itself was largely unchanged by its inhabitants, much to the relief of Hjoldir; the Orcs had few personal belongings, and they always took them with them when they left.
At the moment, the room was only occupied by two of them, though the tension in the air would be evident to any who unwisely entered without invitation. Lurog – in full armour – was striding from opposite wall to opposite wall, unconsciously stroking the head of his mace as he forced his annoyance down. His companion could be trying at the best of times, but now... inwardly he thanked Gorgoth for teaching him something of alchemy. He might not be able to heal his headaches using magic, but he could certainly dull the pain with a few herbs.
The source of the Orsimer's annoyance was sitting on her pallet, dressed only in her underclothes, hugging her knees to her chest and glaring at the cask of mead across from her. Mazoga seemed perpetually angry these days, when she wasn't depressed. Her temper had never been one of her good points, but lately she was forever on edge. The only time recently when he'd seen her back to nearly normal was when he'd been fighting alongside her in Oblivion, but Oblivion was hardly the place for an Orc who was now nearly six weeks pregnant.
"No, Mazoga," growled Lurog, turning to face her with steel in his voice. He'd known about her pregnancy for nearly a week now, but she had gone downhill since then. "Your temper is always frayed. You're throwing up every day. You're always nervous, and those nerves are setting you even more on edge than you were already. In that condition, you can all too easily make a misjudge-"
"You are not stopping me fighting!" shouted Gorgoth's lover, rising to her feet and shaking her fist at him, kicking aside one of her boots from where she'd left it lying. "This is exactly what I wanted to avoid. I know he'll stop me fighting within two minutes when he gets back, but you-"
"I have the perfect right to make these kind of judgements, Mazoga," retorted Lurog, folding his arms and meeting her furious gaze, his thick eyebrows drawing down into a frown. "If you actually bothered to listen to reason, you would know that keeping you and your child safe is the logical course. We have thousands of soldiers here; your blade won't be missed." He had no doubts about her martial ability – she was certainly a fine warrior – but the risk was too great. He did not want to have to explain to Gorgoth how his lover and unborn child had died because of reduced combat effectiveness.
The other Orc made a disgusted sound and sat back down on her pallet, glaring up at him through a curtain of her braids that had fallen across her face. "You have no right to restrict me. I was born to fight, not to-"
"You were born to fight and to breed fighters," cut in Lurog, taking a step closer. "You've done the former very effectively for years; now it's time to put it aside and focus on the latter for a while. Besides..." he paused, not wanting to hurt his old friend, but not wanting to see her killed by her own foolishness. "Gorgoth wouldn't want his child put in any danger. You know he wants a strong heir to follow him. You have no right to deny him that."
"He doesn't own me!" snarled Mazoga, flaring up again as she surged back to her feet and walked up to her compatriot, her mostly naked body not bothering her in the slightest as she prodded his chainmail-clad chest. "I'm a free womer, free to do whatever I-" Lurog's snort cut her off.
"Tell that to him." He grabbed her shoulder and pulled her down to sit beside him on his own pallet, keeping his grip firm until he felt her resistance stop. She glared at him, but he knew she would thank him later. Probably. She wasn't good at thanking people. Or apologising, for that matter. "Stop acting the fool. Carry on like this, and some Dremora is going to take advantage of your weakness – you know they only need the smallest opening – and gut you." His finger traced a line across her stomach. "Would you like it to be cut out of you? Going to Oblivion – or any battlefield, for that matter – in your current state is asking for just that."
Her face crumpled, her attitude changing from defiance to despair in a few moments. "Oh, fuck this!" she sobbed, descending into a foul-mouthed tirade against the powers of nature that gave her vomiting, mood swings and all the other downsides of pregnancy. She angrily shook off his offer of a comforting arm around her shoulders. Lurog glanced towards the closed door; it was evening, and all eight of Gorgoth's sworn Orcs were upstairs drinking their way through half the Inn's stores while snow fell outside. Hopefully, that would keep them occupied for a while. None of them spoke good Common Cyrodilic, but while he and Mazoga could easily swap to that language if any came in, it was inevitable that they'd get the gist of it quite easily.
His attention was swiftly drawn back to the Orc at his side, who appeared to have controlled her emotions. For now, at least. "Lurog... you were there, weren't you? When he..." Her voice trailed off, and she shook her head. "Tell me about his son."
The warrior grimaced. "That was an entirely different situation. It has no bearing-"
"Tell me!" Her head spun to meet his eyes, and from that stubborn look, he could tell that she wasn't about to be distracted easily. He sighed and tugged his gauntlets off.
"Help me take my chainmail off, and I might. I want to try to get some sleep soon enough." Standing, he began to work at the straps under the heavy layers of dark steel rings. Hissing in frustration, she got up and moved behind him, her hands expertly reaching the straps he would find hard to reach. "It was a year ago, about two months after he sent you away. You'd gone to Skyrim with Ra'vindra, if I recall correctly." She grunted in assent, helping him ease his chainmail hauberk off his muscular body and dropping it to the floor.
"You know how careful he is. Me, I've probably got a half-breed bastard running around somewhere, but he either kills those he rapes or keeps an eye on them. Normally his spells prevent the risk, but this time..." Lurog shook his head as his greaves joined his boots on the floor. "It hadn't worked, obviously. She'd been alone travelling on the road, no protection, deserving of rape to teach her that Malacath scorns the weak. Gorgoth was the only one that took her, so it had to be him." They started on the buckles of his leather armour. "We tracked her down just as she was giving birth, just me and him. It was a lonely shack in the hills of Sharoth. Probably didn't want any company, Orc or Breton. I stood outside while he went in and concluded his business."
"What happened?" demanded Mazoga, her voice ice-cold as she wrenched the leather cuirass from his back with unnecessary force.
"I wasn't there when it happened, of course, but when he came out he said I could go in if I wanted." He paused, remembering that dark night, the pounding rain running down his steel plate as he ducked into the tiny one-room shack. He remembered the look of fear and horror and repulsion on the faces of the unfortunate mother and the midwife, and most of all, he remembered the blood. "I'm not sure if Gorgoth's son had ever looked like him. All I could tell was that his skin was slightly greener than a Breton's would be normally." He shrugged, his voice remaining completely level. He was not bothered; most likely, he'd have done the same thing to avoid a half-breed son dishonouring his name. "Gorgoth had crushed his skull with his bare hands. He might have lived for a few minutes after birth, if that. A mercy, really..." That much was true; both the child and his mother would have been spurned and reviled by both societies.
"What then?"
Lurog snorted. "Nothing. I could have raped the midwife, but understandably I wasn't in the mood." Having removed all his leather armour, and clad only in his trousers, he turned around to regard Mazoga with a frown. "Your child will not be a half-breed bastard. He will be proud of it. And of you."
The other Orc sighed, shuddering slightly as she looked away from his gaze. "But what if I fail him?" she asked, a barely discernible tremor in her voice. "What if my baby is... weak, or deformed, or..."
Lurog cut her off by grabbing her shoulders and shaking her roughly. "Don't be an idiot with all those 'what-if's'. You're a strong, proud, fierce warrior of Orsinium and you're more than worthy to give him a child. So stop worrying about it and start loving it."
Slowly, she met his gaze again. Slowly, she nodded. "Gorgoth will be back soon," she whispered. Her voice was full of hope.
"He will. We might even see him smile."
In the six days of hard, relentless travel since he'd left Orsinium, Gorgoth's cavalry force had not been delayed. Several times they had spotted Oblivion Gates in the distance, but had not turned aside even to warn the nearest population. A few bandits had been trampled over, as had the suspicious patrol of Bretons who had tried to stop them just north of Evermor. There could be no delays. Halfway through the journey, Gorgoth had made rounds and did what he could to refresh every horse and rider using magic, exhausting himself in the process but ensuring greater speed, at least for a while. East across High Rock they had ridden, before navigating one of the treacherous passes through the Druadach Mountains into Skyrim and making their way down through the craggy valleys of the Reach. As night fell, they had set up a temporary camp just to the southwest of Lake Ilinalta in the hold of Falkreath. Tomorrow, they would ride hard, not even stopping for nightfall unless they had to.
Gorgoth's tent was near the centre of the camp, not much larger than the tents used by his mer. He did not believe in the opulence shown by so many of the Bretons on campaign; if his tent was largely indistinguishable from the rest, it would not help any raiders who somehow made it past the ever-watchful sentries and into the camp. The two Dremora guarding the tent flap might give it away, but having reliable guardians gave the warlord relative peace of mind. Of course, he knew that he would never truly be at peace – peace, like so many other things, was something for others and never himself – but it was good to have solitude for thinking.
He was sitting on his bedroll, still clad in his full plate armour; he would not remove it until they at least reached Bruma. A map planning their route down past Falkreath into the Jeralls was laid about before him, but he was ignoring it; their plans had already been laid, and they would be riding on after a few hours sleep. Medraka was sitting cross-legged with his back to the canvas opposite Gorgoth, but he was deep in contemplation himself; he would not be disturbing his summoner any time soon. Every time the journey halted, Gorgoth had been quick to summon the three Daedra; Kharag's words of warning and wisdom had not been forgotten.
The last words his father had spoken to him also resounded within his head. He did not doubt that Gornakh had been genuine, but it was the first time his father had ever told him that he was proud of his son. After he had taken Blood King from the warlord, he'd thought he'd seen a flicker of pride in his father's battered face, but outside the walls of Orsinium, he'd seen it in full.
Of course, Gorgoth had known from his early teens that the brutal, harsh training and education he received from his father and his Orcs were beneficial to him; he might have spent entire days and weeks in pain, but that training had made him what he now was; not only a proud, strong warrior, but the apparent last hope of Tamriel. Gornakh had been right; only with his training would Gorgoth had been able to get this far. It appeared that he and the rest of Tamriel owed his father much.
But it changed nothing. Neither his gratitude nor his father's pride would ever prevent Gorgoth's desire for vengeance. Separating him from his mother might have been a wise move in hindsight, but he had loved Kharz gra-Shagren with every fibre of his being. He had been an expensive nuisance; life as a prostitute in Orsinium's rougher areas was hard even without a weak, helpless, unwanted child to bring up. But she had refused to dispose of him despite it being the sensible option; she had refused to even contemplate it, refused to do anything but love him as her son. For that, she deserved vengeance. The six Orcs that had raped, tortured and murdered her in front of his eyes had all died agonising deaths; when he returned victorious to Orsinium, he would challenge he who had been responsible for it all, and her vengeance would be complete. Nothing his father could do would ever change that.
He forced his thoughts away to more immediate matters. The war at hand was more important than his personal dispute, no matter how deep his hatred ran. "Medraka." The Xivilai looked up, his orange eyes meeting the warrior-shaman's. "Knowing Daedra, I wouldn't be surprised if a few of them were lending aid to Dagon. I know I have seen Spider Daedra in the Deadlands before, where they have no business." He paused, leaning back and folding his arms. "That means Mephala has an interest. But who else is aiding your lord?"
Medraka regarded the Orc expressionlessly, clearly debating whether telling him anything would constitute a betrayal of his lord. Unlike many Xivilai, Medraka had firm beliefs on betrayal and was thought of as being unusually loyal; that was probably why the Dremora tolerated him as much as they did. Finally, he responded. "Mephala always has a hand in almost everything, whether you see it or not. Yes, those Spider Daedra were sent by her. Odious things." The Xivilai's grimace indicated that he did not think highly of them. "Boethia has also registered an interest; I do not know if he is merely an interested spectator, but he has ordered a legion of his Hungers to join us. As usual, no one has a clue as to what Sheogorath is up to, but his realm seems to be in uproar."
The warlord nodded slowly. It made sense; Mephala liked to have an interest anywhere, while Boethia might well have a personal interest in seeing Tamriel's natural order overthrown. Something else to make his allies aware of. Hungers and Spider Daedra would not be decisive – they could be dealt with as easily as other lesser Daedra – but it was always best that everyone was fully informed. The warrior-shaman changed the subject. "What will you do if we win?" he asked. He always found it interesting to converse with an enemy so frankly.
A slight sneer plucked at Medraka's purple lips. "You will not win," he replied confidently. "I will not be gladdened by your death, Gorgoth, but Dagon's victory is assured. You cannot stop us." A bold prediction, but the warrior-shaman knew the Xivilai; he was not one to underestimate or make hollow boasts. "We will not lose."
"We will see."
A/N: And so another chapter ends. I'm sorry if it seems like I'm dragging out the pre-battle, but these things can't be rushed; rest assured that the battle WILL come this year, at least (I'm hoping to have the entire fic finished before my birthday, November 16). Remember that if you have any feedback/advice/questions/comments, they're only useful to me if you actually leave them in a review, so do that. Keep the reviews coming, people, and I'll do my best to break that writer's block for good. Here's hoping the next chapter isn't as long in coming.