A/N: I would like to apologize for such a long absence. I came back to this story over and over again during the past few months, and it was always to this chapter, and I just couldn't do it. I hate this quest in the game, and I hated writing this, but I finally forced myself to so...here it is. Thank you to anyone who's reviewed, or followed, or favorited this since I last updated. I hope that you haven't lost interest during the long hiatus. And of course, many thanks to my beta reader (and sister) GrowlingPeanut. Reviews are appreciated.
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Bethesda Softworks and George R. R. Martin except for Dar'Jazha himself. In particular, about 90% of the dialogue in this chapter was written by someone who works for Bethesda.
Rating: T for vague references to violence and drug use.
"Alright, prisoner. Eyes front. You're in Cidhna Mine now and we expect you to earn your keep. There's no resting your mangy hide in a cell in this prison. Here, you work. You'll mine ore until you start throwing up silver bars. You got it? Maybe once you reach that point you'll be lucky enough to earn your freedom."
At the command of the burly female Orc in charge of the prison, a pickax was thrust into Dar'Jazha's hands and he was ordered to start mining.
The time between his arrest and where he now stood had passed in a blur, but there was one thing that he remembered distinctly, one name: Madanach. His snooping at the Treasury House had led to a meeting with Thonar Silver-Blood, but in the midst of the man's reluctant confession, his wife had been slain by two Forsworn agents and only after getting his revenge had he cursed the man who was behind all the madness of the streets of Markarth: Madanach. The king of the Forsworn, controlling his agents from his cell in Cidhna Mine.
After this information had been gleaned, Dar'Jazha's arrest was almost a gods-send. Here he was now, rotting in the very same prison where the King of Rags was leading his army in the conquest of the Reach. He only wished it had been Drogo in this place instead of him, if only because the Redguard had always been better at both fighting and negotiating than his partner, two skills that would undoubtedly prove useful in close quarters with a pack of criminals.
Moving to a silver vein in the wall, the Khajiit began to mine, disguising his attempt to discreetly scan his surroundings. In the middle of the room in which he was working, a large fire was burning, and the sounds of mining echoed through the chamber as the other prisoners worked.
Sighing to himself, Dar'Jazha returned to the ore before him and set to work once more. For the time being, he would lay low. Drawing attention to himself too soon could prove dangerous, and he would be of no use to his Khal or Khaleesi as a corpse rotting in the depths of Cidhna Mine.
For five long days, Dar'Jazha kept his head low, watching and listening, but speaking to no one. It was as he returned to the main chamber with an armful of silver ore that he saw his chance. Beside the central fire and a sole prisoner was warming himself by the flames. Apart from the two of them, the room appeared to be empty. Setting the ore aside, Dar'Jazha moved toward the Breton prisoner and cautiously sat himself on the scuffed dirt floor beside the fire.
At his arrival, the other man looked up and appraised his companion for a moment before speaking. "What are you in for, new blood?"
Dar'Jazha considered his answer for a moment. He wasn't sure if saying that he was innocent would gain him any friends. "Theft."
The Breton nodded knowingly and rubbed the toe of his boot in the dirt absentmindedly. "Petty thieving, eh?" And then, more to himself, "Just like poor Grisvar." He glanced back up and gave the Khajiit a pointed look. "I hope you learn your lesson faster than he has."
Dar'Jazha nodded in acknowledgement of the statement.
"Say, what's your name, new blood? I'm Uraccen."
"Dar'Jazha," he responded warily.
"Well, Dar'Jazha, you want my advice? Serve your time at the pickax and get out. You don't want to end up getting a shiv in the guts over a bottle of Skooma." He noticed the Khajiit perk up at the mention of the illegal drink and he smirked knowingly. "Aye. Skooma. It's the only sort of currency we've got down here. Have to make friends somehow."
He digested the statement for a moment before tracing a pattern in the dirt with one of his claws. "What are you in for?"
The Breton snorted. "A Nord nobleman I served was stabbed in the night. Wasn't me, but I knew I'd be blamed, so I ran; joined the Forsworn. Started killing. Got caught. Now I'm here."
"The Forsworn?" Dar'Jazha inquired innocently. "I heard their leader is here. A...Madanach?"
Uraccen gave him a pointed look and sighed. "If you're asking about him, that means you're the new lifer. Tough luck, friend. Those guards sold you out but good. No one talks to Madanach, I'm afraid, not without getting past Borkul the Beast..."
Dar'Jazha flicked his ears back. "Borkul the Beast?"
"Oh, aye. Madanach's guard. Big, even for an Orc. Heard he ripped a man's arm off and beat him to death with it. He's old-fashioned like that."
His stomach gurgled unhappily at the thought, but before he could dwell on it for much longer, one of the guards strode in and narrowed his eyes at the two of them. "You. Khajiit. You have a visitor. You get two minutes, and then you'd best get back to work." With that, he gestured for him to follow and Dar'Jazha scrambled to his feet, murmuring an apology to Uraccen for his hasty retreat before hurrying after the guard.
As he had expected, it was Drogo waiting for him on the other side of a set of thick, steel bars. The guard gave him one final look and a gruff "remember, two minutes", before leaving the two of them alone.
The two friends were silent for a moment before Drogo sighed. "I'm sorry I couldn't be here sooner, but I thought it safer to bide our time." When his partner nodded in agreement, he returned the gesture. "It doesn't look like you were given too much trouble by the guards."
Dar'Jazha shook his head. "They're only trying to keep us quiet. Dar'Jazha isn't quite worth killing yet. You though, my friend." He gave Drogo a toothy grin. "You're the one who will be in trouble once Ahkari gets to you, no?"
The Redguard groaned in agreement and they both laughed, the nervous tension between them breaking. As soon as their mirth subsided, Dar'Jazha grew serious and moved closer to the bars, lowering his voice.
"Dar'Jazha has been speaking with the Forsworn. And they say no one can see Madanach without going through his guard, a 'Borkul the Beast'."
Drogo nodded thoughtfully. "I think I've heard of him. Went in for a brutal murder twelve years ago. It would be best if you talked to him." The Khajiit's ears flattened against his head and Drogo shrugged. "If it's the only way to get to Madanach, then it has to be done. Just try to avoid a fight. Neither of us can afford you dying in there."
Dar'Jazha snorted and flicked his tail. "No? What difference would it make? You have heard what they always say. "No one escapes Cidhna Mine.""
As vivid of an imagination as Dar'Jazha had, not even his worst nightmares could have prepared him for the sight of Borkul the Beast. The Orc was huge, with taut muscles that made his rough skin bulge and shift when he moved. His gaze turned to the newest prisoner when he approached and his eyes narrowed behind the fearsome war paint that masked his features.
"Mm...The new meat. So soft. Tender." His tongue slid out to lick the sharp teeth that protruded from his lower lip and he grinned at Dar'Jazha's obvious discomfort. "What was it like killing your first one, eh? Exciting?"
He held his ground. "Dar'Jazha is no murderer."
The Beast grunted and crossed his massive arms over his chest. "Dar'Jazha is a liar."
He ignored the mocking tone of the reply and changed the subject. "I'm here to see Madanach."
The booming laugh that met his request made his resolve falter slightly and Borkul grinned menacingly before taking a few steps toward him. "You want to talk to the King in Rags? Fine. But first you got to pay the toll. How about you get me a shiv? Not that I need one, but it's nice to have in case I need to do some…shaving…" He laughed again and Dar'Jazha repressed a shiver.
"Madanach is expecting me."
The Orc's laughter quickly faded and he shook his head, backing up to the gate behind him again and resting a hand on the pickax at his hip. "The only thing Madanach expects is a bottle of Skooma in tribute every so often. You're not getting through."
Unwilling to push his luck, Dar'Jazha retreated. It wouldn't be too difficult to find a shiv in a prison full of murderers and rapists. To avoid drawing attention to himself, he spent the next few days mining, watching his fellow prisoners carefully before choosing his mark and casually moving to a vein of ore beside a burly Nord.
Getting straight to business, he slammed his pickax against the vein and used the resulting noise to cover the low murmur of his words. "I need a shiv. Now."
The Nord raised his eyebrows in surprise and looked around furtively before leaning closer. "You want protection? I can get you what you need. Bring me a bottle of skooma and we can do business. Duach has some you may be able to get him to part with."
It wasn't too hard to find the dark-skinned Breton, and convince him to hand over one of his bottles with a sympathetic "Getting the shakes, eh? Alright. Take it. Old Gods keep you."
Once the skooma found its new owner and Dar'Jazha had a shiv tucked against his side beneath his ragged tunic, he returned to Borkul the Beast, who greeted him with a toothy grin.
"Did you get what I wanted, Khajiit?"
Nodding silently, he handed it over and the Orc opened the gate behind him before waving him through. "Alright, head on in. But don't try anything in there. Madanach is smarter than you think."
Dar'Jazha took a deep breath and walked inside, ready to meet the King of Rags, for good or for ill. Even if it cost him his life.