It had been ages since I'd organized a caravan myself. Normally, that job was left to officers, and it took "dereliction of duty" levels of incompetence within the chain of command before someone as lowly as myself had to take charge. That never happened, thankfully. What happened instead was I wanted extra money and agreed to run supplies to Vvardenfell… during the Blight. One of the biggest mistakes of my career, yet also a blessing in disguise.
"Seems everything's in order," I announced. "We'll meet up in Cropsford. Now remember, if anyone asks, you're a group of couriers delivering alchemical and agricultural implements there. Manifest's with Rughash. Safe travels."
"You're not coming with us?" Gooey asked. "Don't tell me you're leaving me with these people."
"Sorry, buddy," I apologized, "but unless the Nords are informed, we might end up with a massive case of fratricide on our hands pretty damned fast. And we don't want that, do we?"
"Halt!" a voice demanded. "Who goes there? Friendly or enemy?"
I couldn't see the sentries, but I knew a minimum of five arrows were aimed at me: one on each side, one in front, and two behind. It was one of the new Mazken tactics developed in response to zealot and heretic raids on Dementic towns.
"I'm no one," I responded.
Here came part two. "Advance and be recognized!"
I took a few steps forward and stopped as the voice ordered me to hold again. "Crystal?" it asked.
"Dust," I answered.
"Pass," it ordered.
By the Nine, how I hated the Isles' new challenge-response protocols! It may have saved the Saints and Seducers a lot of people, but for every hundred Daedra lives it saved, a mortal needlessly lost his or her life due to some slip-up in the system. Daedra respawn; mortals do not.
I walked into the encampment with the Mazken silently escorting me. From the look in her eyes, she had a message for me. From the massive scroll that suddenly appeared in her hands, I knew it would be a long one.
"Lord Sheogorath, Autkendo Dylora's compliments." She unrolled the scroll and began reading the outline. "We've successfully taken Cadlew Chapel, Fort Aurus—"
I raised a hand to interrupt her. "Let's forget the point by point and condense it some more, shall we? I have to run back and forth between you folks and your reinforcements, and you're just the first stop. And don't call me 'Lord Sheogorath' 'round here, okay? This ain't the Isles, and even if it were, we fought in the Greymarch together. You've earned the right to be informal."
"Very well, General." She skimmed through the dispatch. "All objectives taken and held. Main body is garrisoned just across the river at Fort Cedrian. Casualties are six wounded, one killed in action. Supply status is unknown."
"The casualties," I inquired, "what were the circumstances?"
"The Golden Saint forces encountered unexpected resistance from necromancers barricaded within the chapel. One of the Nord men revealed his squad's position too early when he brushed against a thistle and botched a flanking maneuver. He was executed afterwards for his error." She shrugged. "Males. Always whining."
I mentally punched myself for not expecting this. "I'm going to take a scientific wild-ass guess here, Kiskedrig. Tell me if I'm right or wrong." A pause. "Staada did what I always threatened to do and crucified Hroar Glory-Hound."
"Close enough," she said. "She also ripped out his eyes and replaced them with another pair of orbs."
"Ouch," I winced. "I knew I shouldn't have let her take lessons from Verenim. And those orbs happened to come from another part of his anatomy?"
"No, General. Staada used white fire salt charges." She winced as well.
Well, that was even worse. The red fire salts I'm used to tend to ignite from friction, and they're considered safe. White salts? The stuff of nightmares—they ignite at room temperature. Their burning particles stick to skin, a whiff of its smoke can cause major breathing problems, and eating a small spoonful of it can torch internal organs. Even the variant of Enemies Explode I created for my jewelry, Massive Heartburn, doesn't do as much damage.
Yes, I named it Massive Heartburn. What am I, in the naming business?
"It could have been worse," she reminded me, as if she'd read my mind. Wait, maybe she's psychic and can read minds and—no, no… she's much older than you are; of course she's seen worse.
I decided to tempt fate. "Yeah? How so?"
"It could've happened to a lady or a Mazken," she replied.
Oh, for the love of—
Cedrian was just across the Corbolo, and while it had been easily secured as a supply dump and a base, neither of the duchesses were anywhere in sight. It seemed, despite explicitly telling the force to not kill everything they came across, an earlier order of killing or being killed superseded it. Staada was using that as an excuse to wander off and shed some more blood. Naturally, Dylora followed so she wouldn't lose face.
That's the official reason, of course. I know the true reason: Both of them are claustrophobic. Can't say I blame them; being a helpless prisoner of war while a desperate battle for your home rages all around you is one of the worst forms of torture. And I should know; I spent a night as a guest in the infamous caged inn known as the County Bruma jail for punching that bigot Senarel… and that extortionist Logellus… and Cecia. I also clubbed a Khajiit named J'Ghasta to death, but no one cares about that one.
Anyway, I was at Fort Cedrian to inform the rather small garrison of the incoming friendlies from the north and to wait for Jon's special delivery, no matter how long it took. I ended up staying for several hours before the Redguard finally arrived with the goods—disassembled, I should add. All I wanted was our equipment delivered cheap, fast, and in good condition, but the Gods have sick senses of humor.
The walk back to Cropsford was short in distance, but I was physically and mentally weary from trying—and failing—to put the secret weapons together. The recording stone was slowly sapping my strength, but there was no way to deactivate it. Leaving the damned thing behind would've been suicide; who knows what damage might result from the equivalent of an unfinished, unencrypted Elder Scroll falling into the wrong hands?
Gooey, Rughash, and the mages wouldn't be too difficult to find; Cropsford may be a boomtown, but it still has only one inn secretly owned and operated by a Thieves Guild fence. Of course, it wasn't set up to be a way station for thieves; I had this place built to block off a popular smugglers' trail. The smugglers countered by establishing the Greenmote Road, and with no further use for the inn, I turned it over to an old Thieves Guild and Legion buddy from Morrowind.
Business was… slow, though there'd evidently been a spike in patronage earlier that day. The exhausted landlady sat behind the counter of her deserted establishment, resting her head on her forearms.
"Wow," I remarked, "looks like you finally found someone stupid enough to drink all the two-gold wine around here. So, how ya doing, Boss?"
She mumbled something unintelligible. It was probably best that I didn't try to translate it.
"Well, that's… unfortunate," I said. "Look, Boss, you know the caravaneers who came through earlier? I'm in charge of them. I was wondering if—"
"You could get a room?" she sleepily finished. "No vacancies, Sarge. Sorry."
Aw, damn it all.
One of the first things you learn in the military is how to sleep. Sure, it sounds stupid, but it's absolutely vital for survival. Anyone can sleep in a bed, but there ain't no beds in the field. Even worn-out cots are luxuries.
I've slept in places that make the late Valtieri's stone slab seem fit for an emperor, but then, I've also fallen asleep standing up because I would've drowned otherwise. A mudcrab-infested strip of beach wouldn't be too bad.
Only… I wouldn't get to sleep, not tonight. There were people milling about. Armed people. Only a trio, but their shimmering silhouettes sure didn't look friendly. And they were headed in my direction. Here we go again!
"I take it you're here to kill me," I said, stating the obvious. "How convenient. I'm here to kill you. Shall we begin?"
As they drew their weapons and advanced, I clasped my hands behind my back and stood my ground. With a few discreet motions, I slipped over twenty rings onto my fingers.
I let the first attacker stab me with her pike. It hurt—a lot—but as soon as she removed it, it completely healed. Within a minute, there would be no scar left where I'd been wounded, no evidence save for the blood on her weapon.
Too bad I wouldn't be able to say the same about her. She screamed in utter anguish as seven times the pain she'd inflicted upon me was returned to her. Seconds later, she vomited blood and tissue as the rings' auxiliary enchantments liquefied her internal organs. Massive Heartburn was apparently a bit excessive, but it was either that or waste a bunch of grand soul gems and gold on inferior effects.
"Heh," I chuckled, repeating a boast I'd heard from Jayred once, "is that all you got? I need an honor guard into Oblivion, and you're it, fetchers!"
One little statement managed to break their will. Pathetic. "The Champion's gone mad, Sigismund!" one of the others cried. "We have to run!"
Sigismund, the ghostly figure farthest from me, grabbed his comrade and ran him through with a longsword. "If you will not serve in combat, you shall serve as slaughterfish food!"
That voice! "You again," I grumbled. "Sigismund, is it? Shouldn't you be freezing your ass off in a jail cell up north?"
"I posted bail," he said simply.
Oh, brilliant idea, Tamriel! Everyone's guilty until proven rich—how can that possibly go wrong!
"Why are you doing this?" I demanded. "You don't even worship the Nine!"
"The Nine Divines have nothing to do with this," he countered. "The Brides of Saint Martinus have been very generous in their payments. I warned you to escape with your life while those fanatics purged Cyrodiil of their enemies. Now, it is too late. It pains me to raise a hand against my best client, but you leave me no choice."
Mercenaries. Scum of the earth, murderers and rapists and torturers all. Animals who knew no loyalty but to septims and their baser instincts. Damn them! Damn them all!
I gritted my teeth as I felt my temper rise. "Then let's settle this right now, mercenary dog!"
"Do you truly believe I would be so stupid?" He gestured at the two corpses. "Why do you think I had the little bitch stab you? So many decades of the Legion's training and experience wasted on you. For shame,Sergeant." He produced a scroll and disappeared in a flash of light. "We shall meet again soon. Until then, look to the north."
I was left on the beach with two corpses, a bloodied weapon, and damaged clothing. Considering people got executed for less, tonight was a good night.
