Chapter 33: The Decoy

Portia removed the sphere from her ear for the first time since the ball that she'd attended with Gilthan. She couldn't see the earring, but could feel it in the palm of her hand, and what a strange feeling it was for her ear to lack the extra weight. The orb was still warm, but her ear tingled uncomfortably, and a thick, churning sensation was building within her. She tried to understand why such a feeling should be affecting her so soon after removing the sphere, and the deeper she delved, the more she realized that she wanted to wear the sphere, which did not please her on any level.

She ran a thumb over the sphere, and a responding spark ran down her wrist, making her more aware that the tomb was colder without the magic. Goblin's gall, but the place even felt emptier, for she was no longer aware of the lingering presence that had become a part of her life—his presence. It was Mehrunes that had been displaced, and it unnerved her to be ignorant of his emotions and activities, for she'd grown accustomed to sensing his moods. Now he might be furious, raging at her, and she'd never have a warning of impending danger, which should have been comforting since she'd frequently been assured that ignorance was bliss, but it wasn't. He was severed from her, and while that might be refreshing in its own right, the unease of a quiet void wouldn't leave her.

"It's so damn isolated down here," Portia complained, distracting herself. She hadn't realized how much the sphere had encircled her until it was removed, and now she wondered if she should ever wear it again. She felt bound to the physical world, which wasn't unusual, except that she'd been unconsciously slipping between body and spirit as of late. Each night, she drifted somewhere beyond this tomb, aware of it, but equally aware of other places—sometimes Oblivion, sometimes the city. There was a draw toward the Deadlands in particular, as there always had been, and it made her question whether her past trips to spy on Mehrunes had merely been her own plotting or the results of a subconscious pull.

Two feet on the ground, she assured herself. That's better than floating around.

And it was, but something still felt so very wrong.

"I shouldn't..." But how else would she keep track of an invisible artifact if not by wearing it? Portia reluctantly hooked the jewelry back through her earlobe, causing an instantaneous charge to ripple through her body. Her blood seemed to ease back into a steady flow, frustration easing as liquid orange coursed through her veins and into her being, making her mind much more aware of everything around her. No, she corrected herself, it wasn't the tomb that she was more aware of, but things beyond it. Somehow she knew that a dremora had recently been summoned in her vicinity, and probably by an errant mage practicing in the seclusion of night, but there was more, for Mehrunes was there as always, watching the stars.

I wish that I could see stars, Portia wistfully thought, glancing toward the stone ceiling, and for a second, she was sure that she'd caught a flash of night sky. Damn, but he had felt that, and she withdrew, nearly smacking herself in the face for unwarranted familiarity with the sphere's connections. Life had been much simpler before returning to the Blades, but she supposed that it had also been far less worthwhile.

Suddenly the tomb door opened, and Portia was on her feet, clearly remembering Arelius's instructions to be ready to leave the tomb at a moment's notice; however, it wasn't Arelius that appeared to escort her to freedom, but Lucretia, the woman cloaked in plain blue as she held aloft a lantern in the otherwise dark underground.

"Good evening, Portia. There's no time to talk. We must leave quickly before anyone realizes that I've left the house."

"You're still being watched?" Portia questioned as she shouldered her bag.

"By the mages and less favorable nuisances," the woman answered. "My magic will not prevent them from casting detect life if my absence is long, and we cannot risk them sensing us returning. This way." The lantern's flame evaporated into smoke as they climbed the stairs and opened the tomb door, Portia locking it behind them, and relishing the feel of freedom. The night was still, and it was theirs to take advantage of as the white tower loomed over them.

"Why the secrecy if the mages have been put in their place?" Portia whispered, tombstones on either side of the women as they walked.

"There's a decoy," Lucretia quietly explained. "But not for the mages, and a Council order will not keep Traven from snooping where he doesn't belong."

"Decoy?" Portia muttered, but Lucretia was moving faster, her cloak billowing as they navigated streets and alleys, the woman's knowledge of hidden paths surprisingly thorough as they neared the manor. Using the servant's entrance, the door was sealed behind them, and Lucretia threw off the hood of her cloak, mouth drawn in a tight line.

"They should be back well before dawn if everything goes well."

*****************

The trap had been artfully constructed, and so Arelius was certain that he was being followed as the cart beside him lurched forward, the horse's hooves clattering off of the stone streets. He'd covered every possible angle in ensuring that the Mythic Dawn would be aware of his activities tonight, which had included leaking a rumor, having this cart appear outside of his home at an odd hour, and finally, putting a damned cat in one of the cart's large barrels. If the enemy used detect life, it would appear that someone was hiding among the transport, and if not...well, the cat would be a little cranky. No harm done there, and if nothing else, the fact that a captain and suspected Blade was personally escorting the cart, even disguised, should have been a tipoff for whomever had been spying on him for weeks. The mages would miss the subtle signs that he'd lain out, but for his other enemies—the ones that were so clever at avoiding detection—they would not be so blind.

"They say that Imperial riders were dispatched to Chorrol to make way for someone very important—some woman. Lady Fellio's son was one of the riders, but no one seems to know what's actually happening." Lucretia had discreetly circulated the news around certain elite circles, and Arelius knew for a fact that the Mythic Dawn had contacts among those people, so surely the wings of gossip would have reached them by now, for that had been days ago. If no one took this bait, then the Dawn was either very smart or very ignorant, and he dismissed both options, the former since his tactics had been very subdued to lend an air of credibility, and the latter because he knew better. Lucretia, with her talent for misdirection, would never be traced as the rumor's source, and his home's watchers had proven tactful, but also rash and violent, the last trait being very useful in this plan.

Arelius kept a hand resting on the sword pommel beneath his cloak as he walked, his other hand rising in greeting as two guards opened the city gates for him. The massive doors parted to reveal a road sloping downward toward Lake Rumare, the city's grand, Imperial bridge stretching across the waters toward Chorrol and hill country at the slope's bottom. It was the largest bridge of its size in Cryodiil, having been carved from enormous marble boulders whose quarry had been lost, and its towering archways spellbinding as they glowed white in the moonlight. From the city gates, the fires lit along its length were only sparks of orange in the otherwise dark countryside, for once the doors closed behind him, Arelius was cut off from the city's lighting.

"Come on, girl," he encouraged the horse. Trees swayed with the night wind, and crickets fiddled as Arelius patted the horse's side and nudged her forward. He could have ridden in the cart, but he didn't fancy the idea of being attacked while sitting down, so he walked, his cloak tied loosely about the neck so that it could be thrown off at a moment's notice. He glanced upward at the moon, which would soon be full, and smiled fondly as he thought of his wife, who was probably at home right now, pretending not to be worried. If he was injured tonight, he'd be pampered nonstop for several days on end, so there would be advantages to any minor wounds incurred in this gamble. Such light, habitual thoughts were his prerogative, and they lessened the threat at his back.

An owl hooted, and Arelius glanced to his left, seeing nothing, but wondering what lurked beyond his vision. The enemy had a golden opportunity to attack out here, on the edge of safety, and he was counting on that to lure them out, but not yet. Several guards were standing and chatting by the door at his back, and so an attack would be delayed until the cart was out of convenient earshot. If the Mythic Dawn waited to spring until the bridge, that would be perfect, for Arelius didn't want them running for cover. On the bridge, they'd be forced to fight until the end, and an enclosed space gave a heavily armored opponent like himself a distinct advantage.

The horse's front hooves hit the bridge, and Arelius resisted the urge to look for Tamil. She would be waiting behind the second archway, far enough away that magic wouldn't affect or reveal her until the trap was sprung, but close enough for aid. He mentally counted the paces from the first arch to the second, knowing that he would be on his own to fight for a brief span that could cost a man his life, but he was the picture of calm and collected as he moved. It had been some time since he'd been directly involved in a sword fight, the last having been in the throne room, where he'd battled assassins while the emperor escaped.

That had not been a good day.

Arelius passed closely to a flaming brazier, and the heat fell across his face, clearly revealing his features to anyone watching, but it didn't matter. The enemy was not to walk away from this battle, and sensing eyes on his back, he laid a steadying hand on the horse's side. The animal was a testy brute, being a war horse and unaccustomed to pulling carts. The servants had a terrible time getting the old girl to accept her load, but she was calmer now, feeling her master's reassurance, and he smiled, pleased that she wouldn't bolt when swords were drawn.

"Easy girl," he soothed, taking a moment to appreciate how Lake Rumare reflected the night sky with its stars and thick clouds, and then he gently drew his weapon, the ebony blade held before him so those following would not see it. They were there, somewhere in the dark, and he didn't question the intuition as his grip steadied in preparation. It had been a long time since an enemy had paid for the empire's condition—too long.

The horse snorted, and Arelius carefully began untying his clasped cloak, the night utterly silent but for the soft lapping of water against stone pillars, the crickets having been left behind on the shore. The second archway was just ahead, no more than fifteen paces, and that's when Arelius heard the soft scraping of a weapon leaving its sheath.

Now.

Arelius spun while tossing his cloak aside, revealing his armor and ready sword, the blade rising quickly to face a shadow lifting from the bridge's railing. Cast against a flame, the person appeared to be wrapped in black, the orange silhouette dropping as the figure leapt to the ground and lifted a short sword. Arelius was prepared to fight such an opponent as he advanced beyond the cart, but then the person's figure was encircled by flickering red orbs that vanished to leave a hulking, red and black, armored foe in its place.

Daedric armor, Arelius noted, pleased that his enemy had chosen heavy armor like his own. It would be easier than dealing with a faster, lighter opponent, but daedric plating was also notoriously difficult to penetrate.

"I've seen this trick before," he coldly state. "Let's see if it saves you." Their swords crossed, and while his opponent was not overly skilled with a blade, Arelius felt a ladening of his limbs beginning in his left side. Drain strength, he inwardly frowned, wondering where the second enemy that had cast the spell was hiding. There had to be a second one, for the one he faced had yet to land a hit, and as he deflected his enemy's sword to the left, he took his chance to slice across one of the man's exposed thigh.

There was a hiss of pain, and a red sheen spreading across greaves as the man retreated, the killer still facing Arelius, but keeping his distance and pressing a hand to his wound. Was he healing it? Arelius worked to close the distance before restoration was put to use, but he felt slower, his armor a burden, and it was only sheer willpower that prevented complete paralysis from overtaking him. He had to kill this one quickly, before the other could take advantage of the situation.

Sfffft.

Damn. Arelius knelt as an arrow hit his shoulder, the deadly point harmlessly glancing off of his thick armor, but the next promising less luck as he swept eyes over the darkness. The enemy with the sword was fast approaching now, and Arelius's muscles tightened to fight gravity as the man drew near, for the weight of his own equipment was dragging him downward. Thank the Nine that he hadn't worn greaves or gauntlets, for lifting his sword and legs was already difficult.

Wait for it, he told himself, anticipating more arrows as he readied his own attack, but the arrows never came. He thrust upward with a grunt as the swordsman closed, blade blocking an overhead swipe, but his arm quivering with the effort, and his ears detecting the sound of arrows hitting off stone. The archer was indeed firing, but not at him.

"Tamil!" Arelius yelled. "Take the archer alive!" There was no reply, but he could scarcely concentrate on hearing one as the scraping of metal against metal resounded in his ears. He parried another attack, but his weakened limbs could not hold his blade steady enough to completely repel the strike, his opponent's sword sliding down the length of his own and glancing off to the side. The proximity of weapons and his hampered reactions didn't grant him enough space to properly maneuver, and so the counterattack came too fast, catching the outside of his sword arm.

Searing pain spread across his limb, and Arelius barely managed to retain his sword, blood running down his arm and gathering between knuckles and pommel as his face hardened. He was too weak for direct combat, but he could still win, and with that confidence, he fell to his knees, breathing heavily, and sword resting on the ground.

"You've failed, Blade," his enemy spoke with the voice of a dremora, but Arelius knew the disguise for what it was. He looked upward at the red and black helmet scornfully angled toward him, counting the seconds as a sword lifted to strike and shatter his crown, and the moon granting him enough light to see the small opening between breast plates that his enemy's raised arms exposed.

"For the emperor, whom we failed, but whose will lives on!" And Arelius thrust forward, his sword sinking into the soft tethers of material between hard armor, and watching his weapon pierce his opponent's gut. He drove the blade deep before releasing the pommel and tumbling backward, out of range as the enemy dropped his own weapon and crumbled, hands frantically clutching at the sword in his middle, and the illusion fading.

Arelius found himself staring at a cloaked Breton, the man's face twisting in pain as the Blade gripped his blade and pulled it free amid a gush of red. Dark, dying eyes stirred with hate as Arelius stared down at the man, whose brown pools reflected a malice that he'd rarely witnessed. It bordered on madness, but he would have no pity on this fallen foe, and with a quick slash, he finished the man, blood running across stones and creating a mess that would only be found with the morning light. He was grateful that the short battle had not been detected by the distant guards, who were probably still shooting the breeze.

"Sir!" Tamil called with a smug undertone to her voice. "Look what I found." She walked out of the darkness as Arelius sheathed his weapon and held his injured hand, fingers slick with blood. Tamil was hauling an unconscious body behind her, but she stopped, and her smile fell when she noted her superior's wounded state.

"It's not deep," he told her. "Just a graze." But he moved to lean against the wagon, body still recovering from the spell that was making him wish for a nap, and he never took naps. Lucretia would get her wish of having him home more often for a few days, and she'd tempt him to do so again with her attentions. "Is he alive?" Arelius motioned toward the man at Tamil's feet.

"Basically, although he might wish otherwise" she smiled. "Here, sir." She removed a small bundle from her waist and tossed it to him. "A healing potion." Arelius drank the entire bottle, and relief immediately set in, his skin closing but leaving a jagged scar that would take hours to heal. Useful as they were, potions always left the drinker a bit drained from the energy required to heal, and it didn't replenish blood loss, leaving him craving an end to the night's affairs.

"Fetcher almost got me with one of those arrows," Tamil was saying. "And he's got an eye for cruelty." She held up an arrow and pointed to the jagged head. "These are the worst to try and remove, because they tear up the skin."

"You're unharmed then?" Arelius checked.

"Yes," Tamil assured, eyes falling on the dead man that lay nearby. "Although this wasn't as satisfying as I'd hoped." The man at her feet stirred, moaning as Tamil used her foot to turn him onto his back. "On your knees," she commanded. "And if you try anything, you'll be dead before you can blink." The man rose as ordered, but reluctantly, and his hood fell backward to reveal a young dunmer, which caused Arelius to inwardly sigh. It was a shame how such young lives were drawn into these plots, but he was sure that this boy was neither naive nor innocent, at least not any more.

"If you answer our questions, we won't kill you," Arelius promised. "But if you refuse to cooperate, my assistant here will be all too happy to dispose of you." Tamil tapped her toe against the stones as if impatient, and she probably was, but she did love to intimidate since her work so often denied her that.

"I'll tell you nothing!" the dunmer spat, earning a swift kick to the stomach from Tamil.

"You will or your life is forfeit," she ground out.

"Tamil," Arelius cautioned, and the elf stepped backward before Arelius shifted his attention back to their enemy. "We already know that you're with the Mythic Dawn, so there's no point in denying that, and we also know that you've been watching the house. Who gave you the orders to do so?" The dunmer kept his eyes warily on Tamil as he pursed his lips, eyebrows knitted together as he shifted uncomfortably.

"My master gave me the orders."

"And who is your master?" Arelius pressed.

"You know the answer to that."

"Mehrunes Dagon," Tamil voiced.

"Who gave the word to his speaker, who gave it to me."

"And he's here in the city?" Arelius merely wanted to see if the man would admit the already known fact, but the figure made no reply, only flinching when Tamil took a threatening step forward. "Where is the Dawn staying in the capitol?" Arelius tried. "If you tell us, things will be easier for you."

"Our lord, Mehrunes Dagon is here," the man finally spoke. "And he will have the woman and his treasure. You cannot stop us, and I don't want your kindness." Tamil was ready to pounce, but Arelius held up a hand.

"If he wants her so badly, why doesn't he just kill her? I'm sure he's had his opportunities." The man smiled in a very unpleasant manner that showed far too much wicked delight, and Arelius could tell that it made Tamil's annoyance spike.

"Kill her? He wants her alive." And he doesn't know where the sphere is, Arelius added, but he wondered how true that statement was. Mehrunes had to have some idea, and he didn't know what the prince had been doing this whole time, but surely spying had revealed many facts that Arelius would have preferred to keep hidden. "You cannot keep his property from him."

"He considers Portia his property?" Tamil questioned, the comment directed toward Arelius, whose blank face carried a dark overtone.

"Why does Mehrunes want with Portia besides the sphere?" he asked.

"It is not my place to know, and that is all I'm going to tell you, unworthy unbelievers."

"You'll tell us where you scum are staying, or we can drag this out all night!" Tamil threatened, grabbing the man by the front of his tunic, red eyes meeting red as the two glared at one another. A knife appeared in her hand, and the man stared at it, teeth nervously biting his lower lip as he fidgeted.

"I cannot betray my master!" he burst. "Never." Shaking his head as if in a trance, Tamil released him and frowned. He was babbling about the future, and coming days of glory, and how only the faithful would be rewarded.

"What is he talking about?" Tamil asked, but Arelius was more concerned with the man's wild eyes. There was no predicting what the man would do, and as they waited for his ranting to subside, a small knife appeared in the man's hands, making both Blades snap into action.

"Quick!" Arelius ordered, but it was too late, the man had plunged the knife into his own heart, ending his life with a gurgle of choked words as he fell sideways.

"Shit!" Tamil cursed, hands pulling the dagger free and throwing it aside. "I gave my last healing potion to you. Damn it." She tried to stop the flow of blood, but the man was already gone, the warmth leaving his body, and Tamil's hands now covered in red. "Stupid fetcher." She released the body and stood, a disgusted expression plastered on her face. "To think that they're so dedicated to someone who probably doesn't give a shit, and now our source is gone."

"Such a pointless sacrifice," Arelius said, staring at the body by his feet. The man really had been young, and Tamil was right: Mehrunes Dagon wasn't very tender or caring.

"Now may I test my sewer theory, sir?"

"Calm down, Tamil," Arelius ordered. "It is an option now that two of the Dawn are dead. You said that you only remembered seeing two on the docks, so perhaps the greatest dangers have been removed."

"No, there is another," Tamil darkly stated. "And not just because he said so." She was staring off into the dark. "He's still out there." Arelius didn't need to ask for clarification as he retrieved his cloak and tossed it into the cart, a soft meow sounding from inside the closest barrel.

"No more work tonight, Tamil," he ordered. "We'll start with this new turn tomorrow when the sun rises, but for now, we should leave before anyone sees us."

"No clean up?" the elf questioned.

"Leave the bodies as a message," Arelius said to her approval. "Our work here is down." Tamil grumbled, but hopped into the cart and wiped her hands clean of blood as the horse and wagon was turned around.

"Come here, kitty," she called, lifting an orange feline from the barrel beside her, and setting it on her lap. The large, fluffy animal squirmed before settling down, large, green eyes examining Tamil's hands.

"Don't let him loose," Arelius cautioned. "Or my sons will never forgive you. Jasper's a family favorite." The cat purred, completely oblivious to the absolute victory that had been stolen from the woman petting it, but its presence seemed to sooth her. The ride back to the city seemed much longer than usual, and when the tired heroes arrived, warm beds and relieved arms waited for them.