"Kyne's breath, it's cold as balls." Luka trudges up the snow-covered hill where the Dark Brotherhood's campsite is located. "That saying never did make much sense to me," he continues on, happily chattering to himself. "Balls are seldom cold. Chilly? Sure. Warm? Often. Swampy? Occasionally, but that's most unpleasant. Hey—"
Words fail him when he finds the campsite abandoned, all supplies left behind, and a fire dying in the pit.
"Oh, ha, ha. Very funny!" A smile dimples his cheeks as he spins around, looking for any sight of his companions. "Come out! I've got a way in."
No answer. Save for the howling wind whipping through the trees, tearing away the last of the dying leaves. A chill of dread creeps down Luka's spine and settles within the pit of his stomach. This isn't like them. True, Cicero is a practical joker, but his jokes were never cruel. Lumen and Arnbjorn (especially Arnbjorn) wouldn't agree to any practical joking during a mission anyway. Hard to say about Pontius. Luka hadn't taken the time to know him because he didn't want to. The way he's always slithering about, the looks he throws at Cicero, it makes Luka uncomfortable, and he doesn't know how to handle it. So he did what he always does when things get tough— he pretends it isn't happening at all.
"This isn't funny anymore," he says, a thread of panic weaving through his voice. This time, he doesn't expect a response, and when none comes, he stirs the fire and searches the camp. If they had to leave for any reason, they would have left a note at least. But what if they were forced to leave? What if the Markarth guards found them? Or the Thalmor hunters?
The camp is littered with supplies, dinner rations, and bottles of alcohol— and that draws his eye. It's not odd for Lumen to drink. In fact, it might be her favorite hobby next to murder. But Luka doesn't recognize these bottles. The Listener isn't a picky woman. She'll drink her weight in Nord mead or cheap wine and never once utter a single complaint. But these bottles…
Luka picks up a bottle and reads the label. Colovian brandy? Well, that's fancy. A gift, or a peace offering from Pontius, perhaps?
Grasping it by the neck, Luka gives the bottle a little shake, stirring what's left. Most of the liquor spilled onto the ground, judging by the smell of the camp. Bringing the bottle to his nose, he detects oak, citrus, and a hint of spice— a standard bouquet for a brandy. But what isn't normal is the cloying undertone of freshly blooming flowers. It's almost overwhelmingly sweet, and it's a scent he is familiar with thanks to mixing potions and poisons with Babette.
"Sleeping tree sap…"
Luka hits the fire with a blast of frost and gets to his feet. Anxiety gives way to a hot surge of rage that clears his head and sharpens his senses. Casting a Detect Life spell, he spins in place, looking for anything that seems remotely human, dying, hiding, or otherwise. In the trees, he can sense sleeping rodents, an opportunistic fox, and little else.
If Pontius betrayed us— If. What do I mean by "if?" He obviously did. He's with the Thalmor, no doubt. I have no way of knowing where he is without working some seriously complicated magic, the likes of which I have never done because such magic only exists in theory and— Stop. Stop freaking out and think! Oh, by all the gods, the Sanctuary!
Casting an invisibility spell, Luka cloaks himself in shadow and turns back to Markarth. It's time to add "horse thievery" to his long list of crimes.
"Nazir!" Luka stumbles through the Black Door and rushes down the stairs into the Sanctuary foyer. "Babette! Cyril! Eola! Somebody answer me, please!"
"For Sithis sake!" Babette peers into the foyer, glaring fiercely. "What are you shouting about?"
"The Listener has been taken!" Luka says, shedding his wet traveling cloak. "Pontius betrayed us, and now the Sanctuary is compromised!"
"I knew that Pontius was going to be trouble!" Babette huffs. "Well, come on. Let's tell the others. If the Sanctuary is going to be attacked again, we'll have the upper hand this time."
Luka desperately wishes he shared Babette's optimism. But he can't stop thinking about Lumen, Cicero, and Arnbjorn. Yes, they can all take care of themselves, but they are mortal, and they can die like anyone else when faced with the might of the Aldmeri Dominion. When Lumen fought Alduin, Sithis stepped in, He made an exception and allowed the Listener to live. It's foolish to think He'd do so a second time. The Dread Lord is not known for his mercy.
In less than a minute, everyone is gathered in the common room. The grave faces of the assassins grow more menacing by the second as Luka tells them what he knows— which is admittedly very little.
"Pontius poisoned the Listener and the others, and took them..." Nazir scratches at his chin while he stares at the point of nothing just over Luka's shoulder. "How could one man drag three people across Skyrim?"
"Probably had reinforcements waiting nearby," Eola supplies. "That's what I would've done."
"What about the Sanctuary?" Luka asks. "Pontius knows the passphrase and—"
"The Sanctuary is safe," Cyril says, oddly calm. "I've told you before, I cast a glamor to hide it. Pontius knows where it is, and he knows how to get in, but unless he leads the assault in person, the Thalmor will never find this place. And if they draw near—" His eyes meet Eola's, and he cracks a smile. "I'll welcome the meal."
"I have a contact in Dawnstar," Nazir says. "A guard. I'll send word about a possible Thalmor attack on Dawnstar. That'll put the guards on alert. If they see anyone strange around the town, they'll give them trouble."
"That means you'll have to leave through the secret entrance," Eola says with a smirk.
"Leave?" Luka's toes are still numb, and his body is aching from stress. He needs to rest. Sleep won't come easy, and his mind won't give him any reprieve from the barrage of all the potential, horrible things Lumen and his brothers are suffering. But he must rest, or he'll be of no use to anyone. "Where am I going, exactly? I don't know where Pontius took them!"
"Karthspire, obviously." Eola rests her hands on her hips. "Honestly, you're supposed to be the smart one. Is your brain suffering frostbite, Nord?"
Luka blows out a breath in a vain attempt to decompress. He is in no mood for any familial teasing. "And what am I doing in Karthspire?"
Eola looks around at her fellow assassins. But they all look as lost as Luka— save for Babette. "It's good business, isn't it? This happened during Madanach's contract. He should be informed of the delay," Eola explains, all seriousness now. "And, who knows? Maybe he'll help us somehow? The Forsworn are everywhere. Maybe someone saw something."
"Yeah, maybe—" There is a distant part of him that quails at the very idea of walking into a camp of Forsworn with news their leader really does not want to hear. But he's all out of ideas. "All right. I'll go."
"Not so fast." Nazir steers him toward the dining table. "You're dead on your feet. A warm meal will do you a world of good." He guides Luka to a chair and says to Babette, "do you have any potions that might help?"
"I've been working on something new," Babette says. "It should stave off the need to sleep for a few hours. It'll get you to Karthspire. Hopefully, Madanach will offer you a bed once you're there."
Luka slumps in the chair. "Or he'll remove my head. But I guess sleep won't be much of a concern at that point."
"Such optimism," Eola says, lading strew into a bowl and placing it in front of Luka. "Things might go south, but I doubt Madanach will actually kill you. He's not a fool. He won't compromise his alliance with the Brotherhood."
"I need a moment with Luka," Nazir says, his gaze sweeping the room. "Help Babette. Gather supplies. I don't care. But go find somewhere else to be." The assassins scatter, giving Nazir the privacy he desires.
Luka pulls the bowl close and shovels stew into his mouth. His stomach is in knots, and the sudden flood of warm food is painful at first. But he keeps eating if only to give himself something to do.
Nazir takes the chair next to him. "You've done good, kid," he says, his voice softer than Luka has ever heard it. "Don't let your worries get the better of you and don't give in to doubt. The Dark Brotherhood has been betrayed before. But this time we can prepare. If the Thalmor come, we'll be ready. And that's all thanks to you."
"I'm just worried about them," he says, unable to say their names. "I'm so scared. What if—"
"Worry is a luxury we cannot afford." Nazir squeezes his shoulder. "You need to believe they are alive. Hope is all we've got to go on right now."
Some people are born leaders. But Luka is, and always has been, a follower. Give him a task, and he'll see it through to the end. But don't ask him to come up with his own, or he'll flounder about like a fish out of water. Without his leader, his Listener, he is lost. Adrift. But Nazir somehow knew or sensed it, and he stepped in and filled the role when Luka needed it most.
"Thank you," he says, dropping the spoon into the empty bowl. "For— this."
"Don't go telling anyone I was kind, it'll ruin me," Nazir says, laughter in his words. "Now get up, and get ready. You've got a job to do."
With a warm meal in his belly and purpose in his heart, Luka crawls out of the secret door that puts him just on the edge of town. He kicks snow over the hatch and stumbles out of the gnarled copse of dormant trees. There's a fresh cloak around his shoulders, and a pack of supplies in his hands, and he's ready to brave the elements and the mercurial tide of Madanach's moods to save his family… And he's never been so frightened in all his life.
Luka spots Shadowmere standing nearby, pawing impatiently at the snow. "How did you get out of the paddock?" The horse is fully capable of escaping the rickety paddock built near the Dawnstar stables, but he never tried. But perhaps he never needed to— until now.
Shadowmere's ear flicks backward as if to say, quit asking stupid questions and get on!
"Shouldn't I get a saddle?"
The horse grunts and flicks his tail wildly about.
"Right. I'm wasting time." And horses can't talk. Luka leads Shadowmere close to a nearby rock and uses it to boost himself onto the horse's back. Once settled, he grabs a handful of Shadowmere's mane and says, "I— I think I'm ready."
The Night Mother must pity him because Shadowmere takes off at a trot rather than his usual leaping gallop. Lumen may be perfectly at ease on a horse, but Luka is not. He trusts his own two feet more than he trusts a continuously defecating beast. But Luka has to give credit where it's due. Shadowmere is more intuitive than any horse— he's more intuitive than most people, to be quite honest.
The journey to Karthspire passes without incident. Over the course of the day, the vast expanses of snow covered fields morph into the rocky slopes of the Reach, and Luka arrives at Karthspire camp by eventide.
A guard peers down from the tower. Luka recognizes him as Faolán, the Forsworn guard who loves to tease the Listener. He expects to deal with a fair amount of harassment before he's allowed in. But to his surprise, Faolán vanishes from sight, and the gates rattle open. Shadowmere trots inside the camp and stops just inside the gates, where Luka clumsily dismounts.
"Come with me." Faolán leads Luka through the camp, heading straight to Madanach's quarters.
Luka follows after him. "I can't remember a time where you've been so cordial," he says, although he's never had a problem with the guard, personally. Faolán might enjoy teasing and taunting Lumen, but he's always been kind to Luka.
"Madanach's been chompin' at the bit for an update from you people, and I'm not of a mind to make him wait any longer than he has to." Faolán cuts a glance in Luka's direction. "Though I am rather disappointed the Listener isn't with you. I'm always up for a bit of verbal sparring with her."
"Maybe next time," Luka says, his feet feeling heavier the closer they get to Madanach's tent. He doesn't want to do this. But Eola's right, it is good business, and the Forsworn King might be of a mind to help.
When they reach the tent, Faolán announces Luka's arrival, and Uraccen ushers them inside. The large, dome-like tent smells of leather and virulent herbs. There's a crackling fire in a brazier and a powerful witch-king sitting at a desk, pouring over official documents of some kind.
"Well?" Madanach doesn't bother looking up. "What's the word?"
Luka takes a breath. "Igmund is still alive," he says. "We— the Dark Brotherhood has been betrayed."
"I don't see why your problems have to be my problems, too." Madanach looks up. "You're here. So the Brotherhood isn't in shambles, as far as I can tell. So why, pray tell, is Igmund still breathing?"
"Because the Listener is gone!"
That gets Madanach's attention, and though his face is a mask, Luka can read the emotions flickering behind his eyes. Irritation flashes to anger, and in a voice as quiet and calm as a swift death, he says, "remind me of your name, boy."
"It's Luka, sir."
"Uraccen, get Luka a drink. A strong one, I think." Madanach motions for Luka to sit. "You're going to sit down and tell me what happened."
Luka does as he's told and gratefully accepts a glass of unknown, highly intoxicating liquid from Uraccen. "We were in Markarth. I was sent to scout ahead, and I left Arnbjorn, Cicero, Pontius, and Lumen at our camp. When I returned, they were all gone. Pontius dosed them with sleeping tree sap and… took them somewhere. But I don't know where and that's why I am here."
Madanach pours himself a generous helping of alcohol and asks, "why would I know where he took them?"
"I've read theories of magic, old magic, that can be used to track people down. I was hoping you, or someone here knew how to cast such a spell."
"I'm familiar with the theory. Never tried it, though. I do know we'd need a piece of the missing person. A strand of hair would do it, but I've never collected hair from the Listener or her companions. Sorry to say, the thought never crossed my mind."
Luka takes a drink, wincing at the way the alcohol burns his throat. He'll likely suffer brain damage or go blind if he drinks enough of the stuff, so he sets it down and tries to think. "You have blood, though! Remember? That was Liadan's payment for removing that horrible collar from the Listener! Arnbjorn's blood!"
"Unfortunately, the blood is gone." Madanach leans forward, folding his hands on the table. "Even with frost magic, it doesn't keep for long."
Luka exhales and tries to think. He's trying to be brave. But the truth is he's scared out of his mind. He has no idea where his closest friends are, and if they're even alive. And he's fairly certain he's going to have a heart attack because his last and final option is lost. It all feels so hopeless and he feels so helpless— and he hates it.
He's no leader. But he is capable. To be helpless is not in his nature.
Anger surges through him, white-hot and quick as lightning. In moments like this, he thinks he's close to dying because he feels like he's going to explode at any second. He is going to kill Pontius. Slowly. A fireball to the face would be far too kind for that snake. But a frost spell to the lungs, melted with fire, so he suffers a lifetime of pain until he finally drowns in his own fluids...
"Get ahold of yourself, kid," Madanach snaps, his breath coming out in a plume of vapor. "We're not the ones who stole your Listener."
"What—" Luka's hands are covered in a layer of hoarfrost that has spread across the table, and up the sides of the tent. Uraccen and Faolán have their weapons in hand, ready to strike him down at Madanach's word. "Sorry— I'm sorry. I'm not angry with you. So the blood's gone. It's fine. I'll find another way."
"I'm sorry for your loss, kid, I truly am—"
"They're not dead!" Luka shoots to his feet, the wooden chair clattering behind him. "Nothing is certain! I just need to figure out where Pontius took them! But I have no idea where to start…"
"You know what I do when I have a problem I can't solve? I sleep on it. Sometimes a good night's sleep is all I need. I'll wake up with a fresh perspective on things. So why don't you stay here for tonight? You look like you've been awake for days."
"I don't think I can possibly sleep. But I'll take you up on the offer."
Madanach nods to Faolán. "You know where the extra tents are."
Sensing his dismissal, Luka stammers out a "thank you," and follows Faolán through the crowded camp. They walk another familiar path. One that leads to where the Dark Brotherhood always camps when they stay at Karthspire. It looks like their campsite is now a permanent fixture among the Forsworn. Only it's so different now. Three animal skin tents are situated around a fire pit, but tonight there's only one, lonely occupant.
"We have potions that can help you sleep," Faolán says. "But something tells me you wouldn't be interested, considering…"
"You'd be right." Luka haphazardly lobs a fireball at the fire pit, sending sparks and wood chips flying as a fire roars to life. "I'll be fine."
"If potions are out of the question, how would you feel about company?" Faolán rests his hands on his hips, watching Luka. "It wouldn't be difficult for you to find a warm body to distract yourself with. Many in this camp would fancy a romp with a Dark Brotherhood assassin."
"What—" Taken aback, Luka drops his pack of supplies near his tent. "Why?"
"Oh, you know." He shrugs. "Assassins are dangerous. Some of us like a little danger."
"I, um—" Luka wishes he had Lumen's steady supply of insults in times like this. Or Cicero's ability to make a joke of everything. Or Arnbjorn's talent of glaring everyone into submission. But he is lonely and lost, and he doesn't feel like being a smartass, which is often his only line of defense— next to fireballs. "I'm not really in the mood for that."
"That's a shame," Faolán says, lighthearted as ever. "If you change your mind, or need anything at all, give a holler. I'll be just down the hill."
Luka watches him leave. "What the fuck," he mutters under his breath.
Crawling into his tent, he sets to work spreading out his bedroll and quickly eating some field rations to satiate his growling stomach. Once fed, Luka stretches out on the bedroll and stares at the top of the tent, the conversation with Faolán replays over and over in his mind. If that's how the man is going to come on to him, he's got a lot of work to do. He needs to work on his timing, for starters. Luka's three closest companions are missing, why would anyone think he'd be in the mood for sex? It's how some people cope, he reminds himself. He's trying to be nice… I think.
"Don't worry about it," he says to the empty tent. "It's nothing."
After an hour of desperately trying not to think about anything, Luka drifts off to sleep. The sound of the camp and his worries fade away into darkness— and then a burst of cold wind and an even colder voice jolts him back to reality.
"There you are," growls Lucien. "You're very hard to track down."
Luka claps a hand over his mouth to keep from shouting, then lowers it to rest over his pounding heart, as if he could keep it from leaping out of his chest. "You've been looking for me?" he squeaks. "What for?"
"What do you think? I'm going to lead you to where the Thalmor have imprisoned the Listener."
"You… You know where they are?" Luka sits up. "If you know where they are why are they still imprisoned?"
Lucien sneers. "I gave the Listener a way out, but the fool woman wouldn't leave the Keeper and the wolf behind. She told me to find you. Said you'd know what to do. I pray her trust in you isn't misplaced."
That Lumen refused to abandon Arnbjorn and Cicero comes as no surprise. That she claimed Luka would know what to do shocks him like a slap to the face. But there is no time to panic. He cannot afford to delay. "Where are they?"
"The old Sanctuary, just outside of Bruma."
"Bruma?!" he gasps. "How did— oh, nevermind. Okay— it'll take me a day to get to the Jerall Mountains from here, and I think I have a vague idea where the road to the Pale Pass is…"
"Shadowmere knows the way," Lucien says. "Don't worry about the route. Worry about the rescue."
"All right." Luka drops the subject, even though he's dying of curiosity. How could the horse know the way? But now is not the time to ask. He has a rescue to plan, after all. "I've got an idea, but it involves asking Madanach for a huge favor..."
Notes: So here we see what Luka has been up to! In the next chapter we'll have a look in on Cicero. I am trying to get these up as fast as I can, but between school, work, and multiple writing projects, I've been a little busy. However, I have no intention of letting this fic go unfinished. So thanks for sticking with me!
I apologize if there are any tense slips. I've been writing in past tense quite a lot lately, and switching back to present was a bit of a struggle. But I think I caught all my booboo's...