Chapter 3 SUCK ON THIS BITCHES!
The first thing Leif noticed upon exiting the godsforsaken sewers of the Imperial dungeons was the smell. Grass and flowers had never smelled so good before, so alive. The only things waiting for him in the prison had been boredom and death, as well as those long since dead in the tunnels he had escaped through.
But now, the air was filled with the smell of opportunities.
The second thing Leif noticed was the moonlight streaming through the sky, reflecting off the calm waters of Lake Rumare, the great body of water that protected the Imperial City from invasions as much as its Guard did.
The Breton took a few steps forward, allowing the rusted grate covering the sewers to swing closed. He found himself on a hillside overlooking the southwestern walls of the Imperial City, although he only knew that by reading the stars. His own constellation, the Thief, was shining with extra radiance, and the Emperor's words ran through his mind again. Leif found that he was not at all surprised by Uriel Septim's seemed omniscience.
The waters of Rumare lapped gently against the sandy shores, and the effect was calming after his witness of the deaths of several Blades and his Emperor, Uriel Septim himself. Overcome with a sudden fatigue, Leif cast aside his bow and quiver and sat himself down on the hillside and stared unthinkingly at the dark, star-speckled night sky. The dampness of the dew on the grass seeped through his leather greaves, and he embraced the cleansing sensation, shifting his position to lie eagle-spread on the ground.
He stared at the stars, bewildered and delighted by his newfound powers of decision. What would his next step be? What was he going to do now? He was still by all means a fugitive, but with the death of their ruler he assumed that the guards would have better things to do than waste time and resources chasing him… Still, he would have to be wary. He had better avoid major cities and towns for a couple weeks, until his face had faded from the memories of the enforcers of the law. Even more importantly, he didn't want himself associated with the Emperor's death.
He had promised Baurus that he would take the amulet to Jauffre immediately, but that was several weeks' west by foot. And if he wanted to buy a horse, that would mean months of hard labor, provided there were even jobs available for unskilled workers like himself. So traveling by foot was his only option.
Which brought another tricky subject up; provisions. If he was going to set foot on a journey, he would need food and supplies to see him through. Chorrol was a large town nestled at the foothills of the Colovian Highlands, prone to harsh winds and storms, especially in the spring.
He looked down at his bare feet. His soles were tougher than hardened leather after years of working his parents' farm in the fertile flatlands of the Nibenay Basin. The farm had been passed down through generations of his family; his great-grandfather had cleared the land with the aid of his brother and wife, and it had passed to his mother, who had put in years of her life to learn about and utilize soil-preservation techniques.
It had been his lifelong assumption that the farm would one day be passed down to him, since his eldest sister had joined the Mages Guild to explore her talent with magic, and his younger sister had always wanted to travel. His youngest brother, the baby of the family, had had no interest in farming. In fact, Gavin had never developed an interest in much of anything, farming being only one such example in a sea of many.
Of course, when the bandit company raided and pillaged their farm, leaving nothing but flames and desolation where orchards and wheat fields had once been, everything had changed. The raid had been right before the harvest, in early Frostfall, and had left the family without food for the upcoming winter.
Even worse, the bastards had murdered his father. Now his soul was with the Nine, although these days Leif didn't take much comfort in that. The presence of the Nine was a fickle thing at best to depend upon, and enough sorrow had plagued his family over the past year that he was half-convinced that the gods had given up on Cyrodiil entirely.
First bandits had killed his father. While Leif had never managed to see eye-to-eye with his old man, he had nevertheless cared deeply for him. His loss had harmed the entire family, but by far the worse afflicted was his mother. She had taken sick that very same winter, in large part because of the grief. To make matters worse, the winter had been long and difficult, and they had very little food. He had been forced to kill all of their plow horses over the three-month winter in order to keep their bellies full, although hunger had still been a constant companion.
His mother had died the day he killed his favorite horse, Rose. He remembered coming into their small wooden cabin, horse blood frozen across his face and pieces of skinned horseflesh slung over his shoulder, to see the empty stares and tear-stained cheeks of his family. It had indeed been a hard winter.
Then when the snow finally thawed Gavin simply left the farm. He had said nothing, yet Leif had awoken one morning to his empty bed and missing shoes. He and Lessia, his youngest sister, hadn't known what to do.
His eldest half-sister from his father's previous relationship, Neemia, had been granted access to the Arcanum of the Imperial City two years prior to that and hadn't even known of the horrors that had torn apart her family until Leif could pay a messenger to take a letter.
Leif blinked, bringing himself to reality, and held his hand before his face. Those miseries were behind him, although they were hardly all of it. He had no idea where his brother was. His half-sister had recently killed herself playing with her abilities, and his younger sister… Lessia, was...
Lessia. Even now the name brought a stab of pain to his chest, as if someone had punctured his heart with a blade. She had always been the closest of his siblings, the one whose company he kept after a hard day of plowing, when the sky was lit golden as the sun sank below the horizon and the children had a few precious minutes to themselves…
The hand he held before his face clenched in anger, and he felt the hot prickle of tears behind his eyelids.
He would deliver the amulet, as he had promised. If his time had come to play the hero instead of the victim, then so be it. But after that he had was going to switch to a more personal vendetta, to finish what he hadn't been able to before…
Back to provisions. Currently, Leif had on him only a rusted iron cuirass, a pair of leather greaves, a dulled iron shortsword, a wooden shield, and a bow and a small quiver of arrows. He had no shoes, no food or water, no potions or blankets or money. The only thing he had of value was the Amulet of Kings, and there was no way any fence he tried to sell it to would believe it was the real thing.
No matter what way he looked at it, his situation was bad. His only option was to stake it out in the wilderness; even if he made it to Chorrol, he couldn't show his face in the town, or even venture any further towards it than Weynon Priory. He would have to rely on himself for food. While he had a solid knowledge of edible plants due to his upbringing, he wasn't sure how different the woods west of the Imperial City were. And if he wanted meat, he'd be getting it himself. Leif grimaced at memories of his performance in the tunnels- he could barely hit rats the size of dogs. The possibility of hunting deer, who were far fleeter of foot than he was, and rabbits, who were much more agile, was slim.
On top of that, the roads were dangerous. The areas between the seven major cities within Cyrodiil were scarcely populated and filled with all manners of dangerous creatures. The roads weren't an option, as guards often traveled them, and the last thing he needed was to encounter a guard. Still, someone as unskilled as he traveling solo through the wilds… Well, he had always been a quick learner, at least.
Nevertheless, his only option was to move forward. He sighed at the moon before climbing to his feet and reclaiming his shabby weaponry.
Then he turned to face west. He would travel until he found a suitable place to sleep, he decided, and he would do his best to avoid the creatures of the wilderness. With the determination of one who has no other options, Leif set forward into the night.
Three hours of quiet walking took him from the shores of Lake Rumare into the shadowed woodlands of the Great Forest.
Leif lifted his head to the sky and appraised the stars. From the moon's position against the horizon, he judged that it was about two o'clock in the morning. Fatigue was creeping upon him, slowing his movements and thoughts, yet he had wanted to put as much distance between himself and the sewers as possible. The woods had been quiet, and he had not encountered any beasts or humans so far. He had been very fortunate in that manner…
The only warning he had was a faint buzzing sound from behind. Leif didn't question his instinct; he just threw himself forward and hit the ground with his chest and hands. He quickly rolled sideways, taking refuge behind a lichen-covered log. His breath was coming in short gasps, he realized distantly.
When he looked over his shoulder, he saw an arrow embedded several inches into a tree trunk where his chest had been seconds before.
With quivering hands, he removed the bow slung around his shoulders and drew an arrow from his quiver. Nocking it with painstaking slowness in order to remain silent, Leif peeked over the top of the log, straining his eyes.
There were two bandits in his line of vision, a dun-colored Kajhiit and an Orc easily seven feet tall, steel battleaxe in hand. While he could barely make them out- the only source of light was the moonlight filtered through the leaves- he saw that the Kajhiit held a bow. As his gaze rose to the Kajhiit's face, the flickering orange gleam of the bandit's catlike eyes made Leif realize that they were looking for him.
Then the orange eyes alighted on him and narrowed, and at that unfortunate moment Leif remembered that Kajhiits could see in the dark.
He ducked back down under the log, crawling to the right a few feet to escape the archer's aim. He couldn't let that Orc get close to him. If he did, it was all over.
Leif inhaled deeply, his fatigue replaced with the hot current of fear. He counted to three, rose from his place behind the log, adjusted the arrow's direction, and loosed it at the Kajhiit; the Orc's heavy armor would protect him from mere iron-headed arrows.
To his surprise, the arrow sailed true, sinking itself into the Kajhiit's stomach. With a strangled cry, the bandit dropped his bow, his hands clutching at the wound, trying to smother the dark stain discoloring his fur cuirass.
Leif was about to offer himself a word of silent congratulations when he heard the crunching of leaves and branches underfoot. The sound was rapidly approaching him. He looked up in alarm to see a giant shadow above him, silhouetted in the moon's glow.
With a yelp, Leif threw himself backwards just as the Orc's battleaxe split the log he had been hiding behind, sending a spray of wood chips flying through the air. Leif threw his arms in front of his face to protect himself, and he felt a line of fire across his forearm as a result.
The Breton hastily crawled backward, ignoring the pain in his arm. With a stab of repulsion he saw the wine-colored smear of his own blood against the axe's thirsty edge.
The Orc heaved mightily, his huge arm muscles bulging under his steel chainmail, and the battleaxe was freed from the log. The Orc lifted it above his head, preparing for the final blow.
"You killed my partner!" he yelled, baring his yellow fangs like a savage wolf. "You will die for that, scum!"
Then the battleaxe descended from the sky, seeking his lifeblood. Time seemed to slow as Leif rolled to his right, desperately scrambling to his feet. He unsheathed the iron blade at his waist, knowing that there was no way it could withstand a blow from the battleaxe.
His only true defense was his magic. Leif exhaled and reached inwards, his elder sister's face flashing across his mind's eye as he did so. The fire flickered to life within his open palm, at first small but growing in size and intensity until it consumed his hand, white hot with his fear and magicka.
Then he looked up at the Orc, whose lengthy recovery time left him full of openings for a warrior more adept than Leif to exploit. Nevertheless, the Breton recognized his only opportunity and seized upon it.
He threw his blade at the Orc with his free hand. It clanged harmlessly off the chestplate of the Orc's armor, but its momentum caused the bandit to take a surprised step backward.
As the Orc recovered from the momentary delay, Leif swallowed his fear and sprinted towards the Orc, leaping off the ground and throwing himself directly towards the Orc's face.
Shock-and then fear- flitted through the creature's yellow orbs before Leif's hand, enveloped in white-hot flame, closed around the creature's thick throat.
The Orc dropped his axe and reached for Leif with two huge hands, his mouth a snarl of defiance-
And then Leif channeled all of the fire he possessed into his right hand and pulled.
Purple Orc blood splattered across his face and torso as he ripped out the bandit's throat. A wheezing sound escaped from the Orc's trachea as his yellow eyes dimmed and slowly filmed over with the glaze of death.
Then the giant began toppling forward onto Leif. The Breton had no opportunity to escape, and the much larger corpse of the Orc forced him roughly to the earth. The full weight of the body slammed him against the ground, causing the air to leave his lungs and his muscles to scream in protest. He grunted as his back hit a hard rock, and he heard a rib snap. Lights danced before his eyes for a long moment before he came fully back to himself.
Grimacing against the cut in his arm and his aching ribcage, he planted his hands on the shoulders of the massive bandit, straining to shift the weight enough to slide his legs from under the corpse. It was futile; he was well and truly pinned.
Leif relaxed his efforts, panting in short gasps. The hot blood of the Orc was still flowing, and he could feel its sticky heat across his chest, trickling down his sides and pooling in the dirt.
He stared at the hand that had channeled his fire; it was unburned, unblemished. He had felt no pain, yet the surface of his skin was still smoking slightly. He looked at his other hand, his left hand. It was drenched in blood.
Was this what his second life was to be? He sought revenge, sure, but that was a natural cycle in his world. These people, the Kajhiit dying slowly from a fatal wound to his internal organs and the Orc who had died quickly, had tried to kill him. But he had slain them first. It was so different than that time on his farm. So different. He had been but a boy of seven then, too young to act, too young to prevent it…
Death was all around him. It always had been. The Emperor had died before his eyes that very night. And now he had cut short the lives of two with his own hands.
The scariest part was, besides the fear and the sense of being overwhelmed, Leif didn't feel much different. That was the part that sickened him the most.
He had only wanted to be a farmer.
A slow clapping startled him from his reverie, and he twisted around to see a shadowy figure emerge from the trees, almost as if the forest had spit him out. The man was clad in a dark green shirt and laced leather pants. Despite his casual wear, a deadly looking silver shortsword was strapped to his waist. Leif could tell from the way that it glowed softly that it carried some sort of enchantment, probably a frost spell.
"Well done," the man said, and his voice summoned to mind images of black silk. "Well done indeed. I was going to dispose of them, but you did a fine job on your own."
Leif tensed as the man approached. He gritted his teeth and pouring all his remaining energy into freeing himself from the corpse's weight. He had barely survived the encounter against the bandits, and he would be damned if all that was only to be killed by a stranger now.
The man chuckled softly as he watched the Breton's useless struggle. Crossing around the escaped prisoner, he knelt beside the corpse. "We both push on three. One, two, three."
The man was stronger than his slim stature hinted, Leif realized dully as their combined strength forced the corpse to roll onto its back, off of the Breton. The steel suit of armor clanked in protest, but finally the deed was done.
Leif climbed unsteadily to his feet, wincing at the razor-sharp stabs of pain radiating from his ribs. Knowing he had no choice, he called forth the healing light incumbent within his being, feeling its drain on his meager strength. He released the healing magic across his ribs and arm, savoring the sensation of cool water.
The man who had aided him watched with sharp, interested eyes. When Leif was done healing himself, he barely had the strength to stand. He stumbled, but the man caught him and pulled Leif's arm over his shoulders, supporting some of his weight.
"They left their campsite," the man informed Leif. "It's just up ahead."
The Breton looked at him, only half comprehending. In the light of the moon, the man's facial structure identified him as an Imperial. His black hair was drawn back into a long ponytail, tied off with a strip of red cloth. His eyes were an inky black, and his long nose was slightly crooked, as if it had been forcefully broken and hadn't been reset properly.
Their progress was slow due to Leif's uncertain steps. For an inexplicable reason, he felt the Amulet of Kings grow heavy and hot in his pocket, as if it were trying to tell him something. He was too tired to think on it, however, and it took all of his concentration simply to keep walking. The man didn't seem to mind the pace, however, and after a time they made it to a clearing with two canvas tents set up around a dying fireplace. If he had been less fatigued, Leif would have wondered how exactly the Imperial had known that the campsite was here. As it was, however, the only thing he saw was the bedroll under one of the tents.
The man, uncannily perceptive, noticed the direction of his gaze. With silent consent he helped the Breton towards the bedroll, lowering him enough that he could sprawl onto the rough blankets without falling.
Without ever saying a word to the mysterious man, Leif felt the currents of sleep reach up to embrace him. Desperate to escape the horrors of his night, he allowed them to.
As his world faded, he thought he heard the man whisper to the sky, "Sithis, I have done your bidding."
But it could have been the beginnings of a dream.
