Chapter Eighteen: An Outsider's Eyes (Part Three)

Brand

I should've seen it coming, but Yamarz's knife catches me off-guard. It's a practiced strike, sliding through my armor and between my ribs. It's only Borgakh's shout of alarm that saves me. I twist just enough to stop the blade from going in straight. I feel it bounce off bone.

I cough. It tastes wet and wrong in the back of my throat.

"Why?" I gasp.

The chief turns on me with a look of rage and hatred like nothing I've ever seen before.

"I will not let some outsider steal my glory!" he snarls. "I triumphed here today and the tribe cannot know otherwise."

He opens his mouth as if to say more, but Borgakh barrels into him in full battle rage. Yamarz loses his grip on the knife in my side and the two of them fall away, snarling and spitting like a pair of sabercats. My legs give out and I fall, catching myself clumsily on one hand. I feel dizzy and the ground won't stay still.

This isn't good.

Yamarz hit something important.

A lung, maybe. It's hard to breathe. I grimace. Healing magic. I just need…healing magic.

I gulp in a breath and summon a pulsing golden glow to my fingertips. It's hard to concentrate on the spell and the magic fades in and out with the shaking of my hand. I settle more fully on the ground and lean my shoulder against a nearby rock.

This next part isn't going to be fun.

"Stendarr preserve me," I whisper. I grip the hilt of the knife, dimly aware of the roar of battle somewhere behind me as Borgakh and Yamarz fight. I suck in a breath and pull the dagger. Fire lights up my side. I bite my tongue so hard I taste blood.

I clasp my other hand to the wound, feeling slight relief as golden light trickles across my side and my flesh slowly starts to knit itself back together. I drop my head. I don't think I can heal all the damage Yamarz inflicted. Magic still takes the caster's energy and healing yourself of this much damage is an arduous task. I'm pretty sure I won't be able to keep up the flow of magic long enough to completely close off the wound.

I have one option available to me, but it's dangerous, because I won't be able to feel the effects of the wound anymore if I use it. I sit up a little straighter, blood weeping between my fingers a little slower. Borgakh and Yamarz are out of sight now, but I can still hear the clash of ebony and steel.

I'm not worried about Borgakh. I know Yamarz won't beat her. Not while she's fighting with righteous fury. I don't know if she will kill the chief, but I will leave that in her hands.

For now, I need to buy myself the time to breathe.

I take a shallow breath. "Feim Zii Gron," I whisper.

I feel my body go numb, slowly, from my feet up, as if I'm being dipped in cool water. It's a strange feeling. I've only used this Shout once or twice. The power leaving my body makes me feel giddy, like there wasn't enough there in the first place. Or maybe that's just the effects of slowly becoming ethereal. I watch with a sort of detached fascination as my feet and legs disappear, leaving only vague outlines against the rocky ground. My body and arms follow as I stop channeling the healing magic. I close my eyes and lay my head back on the rock as the rest of me fades.

Despite the shouts and clashing of weapons behind me, some part of me desperately wants to sleep.

"Brand! Brand!"

Borgakh is calling my name. She sounds worried. In fact, I don't think I've ever heard her sound this concerned.

I groan.

My eyes don't want to open. I force them to and blink a few times.

At first, I don't remember where I am. Then I see the body of one of the giants in front of me and everything comes back.

"Brand! Where are you?" Borgakh sounds frantic. Her shout dispels the last of the grogginess from my head.

"Here," I croak. I clear my throat. "Borgakh! I'm here!"

Her footsteps run toward me and then she comes around the edge of the rock I'm leaning on. She doesn't have her helm on anymore and she's covered in sweat, grime, and blood, though none of it looks like hers. She's abandoned her warhammer somewhere and her eyes are wide with worry.

"Brand?" She looks around herself quickly, searching, though her eyes still don't see me.

"Down here," I say.

Her eyes snap to mine and she gasps. The color drains from her face. "Stones and blood!"

"I'm fine," I grunt, shifting as if to stand up. Borgakh drops to her knees beside me and tries to push me down, but her hand goes through my shoulder. I shudder. That's a weird feeling.

"Don't…do that, please," I gasp.

She stares at her hand, somewhat horrified, and yanks it out of me. "What happened to you?"

"It's a Shout," I say. "I did it to myself. It's ok."

Her mouth moves as if to form words, but none come out.

"It's not permanent," I reassure her at the same time she exclaims, "You look like a ghost!"

I laugh and then regret the decision. "That's because I am a ghost right now."

"But you're not…" she stops from saying the last word.

…dead?

"No." I shake my head. "Not yet. I think I healed enough of the wound to stabilize myself. Becoming ethereal just makes it hurt less."

"You think?" Borgakh glares at me.

I try a smile, but I'm pretty sure it's more of a grimace. "You can always pour a healing potion down my throat when I re-materialize."

She narrows her eyes, but she reaches a hand toward the pouch on her belt as if to reassure herself of its contents all the same.

"What of Yamarz?" I ask quietly.

"Dead," she snarls.

"And the tribe? What will we tell them?"

Borgakh sighs and looks away for a moment. "The truth," she says finally. "They deserve to know. Malacath will tell them even if we do not. They should hear it from us."

"Did you…?" I trail off.

"Yes," she says simply. "He would not stop fighting." She shrugs. "It is the way of the Orsimer. He would rather death than disgrace. I gave it to him."

"But it wasn't a good death," I murmur.

"No," she agrees, though she doesn't sound sad. "It was not."

I feel a slight tingling in my fingers. "We should probably get back."

"Like this?" Borgakh snorts. "Ugor will shoot you as soon as she sees you."

"If she sees me. Don't worry. She can't hurt me when I'm like this. It'll just go through me."

"Let's not take chances."

My form flickers as parts of me start to solidify. I feel the sun on my face again and the breeze and the hardness of the rock at my back. The pain returns with my flesh and I grit my teeth as I fully return to the mortal plane.

Borgakh looks worried.

"How does it look?" I raise my arm.

"Bloody," she says.

"Fresh?"

"No."

"Alright, help me up."

Borgakh gives me a stern look. I hold one hand up to her. She stands and hauls me to my feet. I take a moment to stand up straight. I can breathe ok now, but I'm stiff and there's still something that doesn't feel right in my left side.

"Are you going to be able to walk back to the stronghold?" Borgakh asks.

"Of course," I scoff.

Borgakh raises one eyebrow.

Turns out, my optimism only serves me for a little while.

Between several breaks, a healing potion from Borgakh's stash, and Borgakh insisting on carrying me part of the way, she manages to haul me back to the stronghold in one piece.

I'm on my feet again by the time we approach the gates, though I want nothing more than to lie down and sleep. I know I can't yet. Right now, I can't show weakness. Right now, I have to face an uneasy orc tribe and explain to them why I didn't come back with their chief.

Borgakh tells me not to take responsibility for his death. It's not pride. It's practicality. She's an orc and the tribe will take Yamarz's death at her hand better than at mine. And she's right. I didn't kill Yamarz, though part of me wanted to.

That scares me, just a little. Because I know how easy it is for me to kill. I shudder as we walk through the stronghold gates.

Borgakh gives me a worried glance.

I shake my head.

Atub greets us on the other side. "Well met -" she begins, then trails off as she realizes Yamarz isn't with us. I hear a few murmurs from the guards at the gate. Luckily, none of them are Ugor, though they're giving us dark enough looks.

Atub frowns.

"Golzarga, can we talk?" Borgakh tilts her head toward Atub's hut.

Atub nods and motions for us to follow her. The guards stay put, as do the curious tribe members we pass on the way. Perhaps out of respect for Atub. Perhaps out of some unspoken rule, but we are alone with the wise-woman by the time we walk inside her hut.

I lean against the wall and cross my arms, hoping to disguise my bone-deep exhaustion. Borgakh, still bloody from her fight with Yamarz, sets her helm on a table inside Atub's door. It looks strange nestled among alchemical ingredients, plants, and herbs.

"Where is Yamarz?" Atub asks as soon as the skin over the door falls closed behind us.

I glance at Borgakh.

"Dead," she says.

Atub closes her eyes briefly, but she nods. "I suspected so," she says in a tone that indicates she knew even before we walked back in the gates. I wonder if she scried the chief's fate somehow.

"It was me," Borgakh says.

Atub nods again. Then she opens her eyes and looks straight at me. "And you?" she asks.

"Me?" I raise my eyebrows.

She walks over to me and lays a gentle hand along my side. I try not to hiss.

"Was this the chief's doing?"

I take a slow breath. "Yes."

Atub moves to one of her tables and begins rifling through bottles. "He thought to dispatch you and take the glory for himself." It's not a question.

"Yes," I answer anyway. "We killed the giants. Yamarz was…He was good in battle."

"He always has been," Atub acknowledges. "It was one of many traits that got him named chief. He was strong. He was ambitious." She finally finds the bottle she's looking for and turns around, holding it out to me. "Here. For your wounds."

"Thank you." I take it and, under her expectant eye, drink the bottle dry. It's a familiar taste, earthy and thick. I cough a little as I swallow the last drop. Sharamph brewed the same for me back at Mor Kazghur, when I first met Borgakh. I feel a little better.

"So, what happens next?" I ask as Atub takes the bottle back.

"Only Malacath knows," she says. "It is nearly time for him to return and pass his verdict on the tribe. You are welcome to bear witness, blood-brother." The words sound formal and invocative.

I cannot refuse. "I would be honored."

Atub looks at Borgakh. "You too, sister."

"Of course." Borgakh bows, one arm crossed over her chest.

"However, for the time being, I would suggest you both stay here. Word of your return without Yamarz has surely spread and there will be those among the tribe who will want a piece of your flesh. They won't attack you here. My house is sacred and they risk Malacath's wrath to do so, but I cannot guarantee your safety anywhere else in the stronghold."

Borgakh and I share a grim look and agree to stay in Atub's hut.

"Please, rest." Atub looks at me. "Whatever I have is yours. I will try to speak to the tribe, prepare them for tonight. We have a few hours 'til dusk." And with that, she exits her hut and leaves Borgakh and I standing in silence.

I slowly sink to the floor, until I'm sitting with my back to the wall, and close my eyes.

"Are you alright?" Borgakh asks.

"Dandy," I say.

She snorts, but I can hear her skepticism.

"I'll be fine, Borgakh." I crack open one eye and give her a weak smile. "Promise. But right now, I'm going to sleep. Wake me if anyone tries to kill me, would you?"

Borgakh's answering smile is fierce. "Yes, sera."

A moment later, I feel her warmth settle beside me and she pulls my head down to her shoulder.

Borgakh wakes me much too soon. It's quiet and we're the only two in Atub's hut. It's night outside. Crickets chirp in the distance.

I blink a few times to clear the last of the grogginess from my head.

"Atub says it is time," Borgakh says softly. "She will summon Malacath. The tribe is…angry, to say the least. Some of them want to put us on trial. Others want our heads."

I nod as Borgakh helps me to my feet. I don't know what to say. I understand why the tribe would be upset and I don't like being the center of their ire, dragged into a situation we never asked for in the first place. It's this aspect of being Skyrim's resident legend-hero I don't like. Because of us, Yamarz is dead. Because of us, the Largashbur tribe might fall.

"It's not your fault," Borgakh says.

"What?"

"I know that look. You are blaming yourself for Largashbur's problems."

I open my mouth to protest, but then I shake my head with a wry smile. "Am I that obvious?"

"Sometimes," she says seriously. "Come. We should attend this meeting with Malacath. It will make you feel less guilty."

I follow Borgakh out of Atub's hut. I notice Borgakh has left both her helm and warhammer behind. I don't know if it's a show of confidence or respect. Atub meets us outside with a grim look and motions us to follow her. We walk to the center of the courtyard. The whole tribe is gathered around the shrine where another fire and bowls of alchemical ingredients, armor, and weapons are laid out as they were last night.

This time, we are greeted with howls of rage and accusation.

"Where is the chief?" someone yells.

"They killed him!" comes the answer.

"Give us their heads!" someone else shouts.

A slow chant of "Blood! Blood! Blood!" picks up around the stronghold.

I shiver.

Borgakh looks fierce and unrelenting in the firelight, head up. She meets the orcs' outrage with a stony strength. I stand up a little straighter. After all, I am Dragonborn. There are none here who can touch me if I don't want them to. Though I'm not sure we could hold off all of the orcs at once. Not without dire consequences.

As it turns out, we don't have to.

The fire on the shrine suddenly flares, shooting upward like a pillar and a dark shadow steps out of it, indistinct in the flickering light, but unmistakable.

"Silence!" Malacath demands.

Everyone goes instantly still and quiet.

Malacath turns to me. Though his form has no eyes that I can see, I know he is looking straight at me. "Dragonborn." He bows.

I return the gesture, gasping a little at the twinge in my side.

"Golzarga." He nods at Atub.

She bows her head.

"Osh rakh," he greets Borgakh.

Borgakh smiles, bloody tusks on full display. I realize she still has not washed the blood of her fight with Yamarz off.

Then Malacath turns to the tribe. "Gularzob!" he calls.

An orc warrior steps out from the tribe. He looks strong and wary and approaches the shrine as if he half-expects Malacath to strike him down.

"I name you chief," Malacath says without preamble or ceremony.

Gularzob looks surprised but he bows.

Murmurs run around the courtyard.

Fire flashes from the shadowy Malacath's eyes. "Do any dare dispute?"

No one steps forward to argue.

"Yamarz was weak. You know this," he addresses the tribe. "I sent him to kill the giants and he did not follow my command. He brought the Dragonborn and Borgakh, of Mor Kazghur, to be his sword and shield. But you cannot expect a blade to bow to your whims, nor a shield to change its nature. Your chief tried to slay the Dragonborn and met his end at the hand of one more honorable than he could ever hope to be."

More murmurs.

"Do you understand?"

Gularzob answers for the tribe. "Yes."

I get the distinct feeling Malacath smiles. "Good. If you want to know more, ask those who were there. Now, rise up, Largashbur. Shake off the chains of Yamarz. I have gifted you a new era. Do not abuse it."

Gularzob folds one arm across his chest, fist-to-shoulder, and bows again.

"And for you, osh rakh." Malacath turns to Borgakh.

She steps forward.

"A gift, child, for ridding my tribe of disease." He holds out a hand and a heavy warhammer appears in his fist. The hammer appears to be made of Orichalcum and glows faintly with an ethereal green light. A bright red stone is inset in the center of the head, like an unblinking eye. It radiates fire and power.

Borgakh glances at me.

I motion at her to take it. After all, it's not my style and Malacath addressed her as the intended weilder. Who am I to argue with him?

Borgakh walks up and accepts the warhammer as if she was born wielding it. She gives it an experimental swing and Malacath practically purrs with delight.

"Use Volundrung to cleanse this world of evil. You will find it particularly effective against my brothers and sisters, should they give you trouble. They will think twice about confronting you while you wield my hammer."

Borgakh nods.

Malacath addresses the tribe again. "Listen to Atub, bend your strength to Golarzub, do not forget that you are mine, and there are none who will stand against you."

The fire flares again, brighter than any of us can look at, and Malacath disappears in a rolling peal of thunder. The fire dies and the tribe stands in silence for several moments, the only sound in the still night the chatter of crickets.

Finally, Atub steps up and makes a symbol with her hands, as if dismissing everyone, or dispelling some sort of magic. I feel something in the air release, an undercurrent I hardly realized was there until it was gone, and the tribe slowly begins to disperse.

Two days later, Borgakh and I sit around a fire in the courtyard at Largashbur, enjoying a feast with the rest of the tribe to properly celebrate Gularzob's rise to chieftain. After Malacath's appearance, Atub offered us a place to stay before moving on (mostly while looking at me with a 'you'd better not refuse' shine in her eye) and we accepted. Although some of the tribe was uneasy with our decision, after the newly-appointed chief hosted us in the longhouse and invited his orcs to ask us questions about Yamarz's demise, they accepted us more easily, even Ugor. Although she struggled the most with the transition of power, her loyalty to the tribe won out and I have no doubt she will be just as devoted to Gularzob as she ever was to Yamarz.

The amount of times I had to display my wounds to convince the orcs that Yamarz really tried to kill me was exhausting. Although I wanted to close them up with magic and be done with it, Borgakh convinced me to let them 'heal naturally,' which apparently was the right thing to do to impress the orcs.

It'll leave me with a new scar, but hey, what's one more in the already impressive collection. Maybe it will teach me not to mouth off to entitled orc chiefs in future, but I doubt it. Someone had to spur Yamarz into making a decision and it might as well have been me. Seems that the Dragonborn's power is for a whole lot more than just dragon-slaying.

In fact, I get the inkling that's one of the least important things I do.

Borgakh comes to sit next to me, a full tankard in one hand and half a roasted elk-haunch in the other. Her eyes are dancing. Her new weapon glitters on her back, that fiery eye winking at me.

"You look much too serious," she says.

"Do I?" I ask absently.

"Entirely. Tonight we celebrate. Tomorrow, you can worry about…whatever is on your mind."

I laugh. "Just thinking."

"About?"

She holds out the elk haunch and I rip a chunk off. It's almost too hot to handle, but it practically melts in my mouth.

"Being Dragonborn."

Borgakh's smile fades slightly.

"I mean, we've already brushed shoulders with what, three Daedric princes? Not to mention all the requests from the jarls, the orcs, vampires…"

Borgakh takes a drought from her tankard. "You think this is leading somewhere unpleasant?"

I shrug. "Maybe. Skyrim is uneasy. You know this. The Stormcloaks and Imperials are poised for war. There's already been skirmishing long before I got here. I just can't help but think the day is coming they'll want me involved."

"Perhaps," Borgakh says thoughtfully.

"I don't want to be the catalyst," I say softly.

"Then do not be," Borgakh says.

"I don't think I get a choice."

She chews for a moment in silence. Finally, she looks me in the eye. "We all have a choice, Brand. I think you have chosen already. You just don't want to admit that the road ahead will be long and hard and you won't ever get to lay down your mantle. Not in your lifetime."

I grimace.

"But you do not walk that road alone, Dragonborn."

I look back at Borgakh, fierce and proud in the firelight, and smile. "I know."

She punches me lightly in the shoulder. "Then act like it, little elf. Tonight we feast. There will be time to deal with whatever Mundus throws at us later."

I laugh, because how can I not? I am surrounded by friends and strong ale and my beautiful and terrifying wife and the night is clear.

Life is good.

The title/name Malacath uses for Borgakh translates roughly to "iron blade"