That was a very well written battle. I enjoyed the pauses in battle too where he would think and what not, very amusing. lol.
I hope Hoblin did something too! I can imagine he would be a great fighter!

Trust me Steve, you won't be disappointed...

This was the most difficult chapter to write so far, what with all the action going on. I'd really like some feedback on how I did. Thanks in advance!

*****

Part 9
Being the Ninth Part

Hoblin was bored. Not a rare occurrence by any means; he viewed any moment in time not spent fighting, drinking, wooing or otherwise carousing as a moment not worth living. This was an especially boring moment, however, because he was not doing much of anything. Just waiting for a stupid flare to up.

As soon as the tiny little cross-dresser had left the hut, Hoblin had departed by the back door to go and procure some transportation. Horses were a rarity in Rimmen, what with the nomad army taking whatever it needed, but Hoblin's intimidating presence had been more than enough to secure two adequate mares. They were by no means prime racing stock, but they were strong and durable, good for a long journey. Hoblin had taken them to an empty courtyard, secured their bridles to a post, and began the wait. The courtyard was less than a half a furlong away from a not-quite-abandoned Imperial Cult shrine, which had been set up by the Imperial Legion to aid in the conversion of the Khajiit. Now the cultists were all dead, but T'Rav had set a guard of twenty on the building.

Metharial had told Hoblin that this was to catch any Imperial servants who attempted to evade his nomads by using a scroll of Divine Intervention, since such a scroll would transport them directly to this shrine; and into the waiting arms of the nomads. But it also served as a watchpost for T'Rav, as it was set atop a high hill on the western side of Rimmen, giving an unparalleled view of the entire city and the immediate countryside. And now, thought Hoblin to himself, it will serve as the consecrated burial grounds for a score of kitties! His Breton companion would have been amazed by the level of cognition evident in that thought, but Hoblin was always very intelligent when it came to violent humor.

A white light flamed up in the sky, from the direction of T'Rav's camp. The little laddy's flare! Hoblin realized, and a smile flitted across his ruddy features. This would be the first time in several days that he used his claymore. Gripping the hilt of the massive sword, Hoblin drew it in a blur of motion, then let out a primal war cry, meant to set the knees of the foe trembling. Rushing from the courtyard, he stormed up the avenue leading to the shrine, the moons overhead lending his eyes a deadly twinkle.

A Khajiit stepped from the shadows halfway from the Imperial Shrine, looking to find what the horrble racket was all about. He was met with the sight of a huge, roaring block of shadow with pinpoints of light for eyes and fifty inches of steel over its head. That Khajiit did not live long.

But its companions also heard the commotion, and ten of them emerged from their hiding places, curved swords drawn and axes out, thirsty for blood. Nine others, bunkered down in the shrine, drew their bowstrings taut, ready to send speedy death to this apparition from Oblivion. Hoblin roared again and rushed at the largest grouping of Khajiit. He was a Nord after all, descended from generations of warriors, people who only knew what fear was because they saw it in their enemies.

Just as the cat archers were about to release their arrows, a huge crack came from behind them in the shrine proper as air was forcibly expelled from the space it once occupied. Eighteen yellow eyes turned to see a Breton man, dressed in common if tasteful attire, and a scantily clad Khajiit maiden suddenly appear. The Breton twisted, and flung the female off of him before looking about, disoriented by the sudden translocation. One of the sentries, a captain by his sash, hissed at three of his subordinates. "You deal with this one, we shall kill the one from outside."

It was too late for their arrows to do much good, however. In the time it took for them to figure out what to do, Hoblin had closed with the group of nomads outside the shrine. Moonlight only dimly illuminated the desperate combat, but it was clear who the aggressor was, and who had the upper hand.

Within moments, two of the cats no longer had their heads attached, and the rest were being pressed hard. They tried to encircle the mad Nord, but the length of his weapon kept them at bay, forced them to assume the defensive. Hoblin gave another fiersome war cry and jumped at three Khajiit, standing close to each other as if to draw strength from the nearness. With the first sweep of his mighty blade their feeble weapons were knocked aside, and with the second sweep he spilled the guts of one of the cats. The other two scrambled to get away, but his blade severed the hamstring of one and then skewered the other from behind.

Pulling his claymore free, Hoblin faced another cat who leapt at his exposed rear. He swiped off the fingers that swung its scimitar, and with another blow, cleft the creature in twain. Now only four nomads remained standing, and Hoblin had pushed them back to the steps leading into the Imperial shrine. The Nord laughed at them. "C'mon me little kitties, show me your best already!"

A nomad gave a high-pitched scream and leapt at him, putting all of its weight behind an axe it swung with terrible ferocity. Hoblin knocked the axe away and cut the cat across its chest while another Khajiit was already at his side. Its scimitar sliced his arm badly, and Hoblin roared with satisfaction. Finally these creatures show some fight!

Leaving only his right hand on the claymore he grabbed the cat's head. It struck at his ribs, but its blade was foiled by Hoblin's mail. The Nord sent a blue pulse of magicka coursing down his forearm and into the Khajiit's head; the Cold Touch. He let go of the frozen, lifeless head and allowed the body to drop to the ground. Shaking from the blood pounding through his every vein, Hoblin grinned maniacally at the final two cats.

He took a step forward, and they fled back into the shrine. Chuckling, Hoblin bounded up the steps three at a time after them, shouting, "Run and hide, kitties, I'll hunt you down wherever you go!"

The shrine was not a very large or impressive building; just a square block of stones piled up into four walls. Its only windows were mere slits from which archers could fire, and the only other room besides the chapel was a small space behind the altar where the priests had once slept. As Hoblin entered the place he noticed that it was silent. Passing through the arched doorway, a cat jumped at him from both sides. With his claymore still in one hand he blocked the strike of the first, and with left hand he smote the jaw of the second.

The chainmail gauntlet he wore compounded the blow, and a satisfying crack sounded from the cat as it jerked from the sudden resistance to its leap. But Hoblin had not stopped its axe in time; the steel sheared away his shoulder's mail and bit deeply into him. Gnashing his teeth to hold back a cry, Hoblin blocked another attack from the Khajiit who still stood. Then an arrow embedded itself into his chest. Again his mail saved him, but not completely as the metal point drove half an inch into his flesh.

This time, the Nord allowed himself to scream, then beheaded his nearest adversary. His breathing was sharp as he looked into the chapel. Metharial was there, disarmed, badly bloodied and on his knees in front of a Khajiit captain. Six bodies lay around them, and what looked to be a maiden of the cats cowered close by. The two soldiers who ran from Hoblin now stood before their captain, one of them pulling his bowstring back to send another arrow at the Nord. The captain spoke, his voice quaking, "Listen, Nord, we have captured your fellow human. Lay down your weapon, and we shall allow you to live long enough to be judged by T'Rav Sefirt, the Most Awesome and Ultimate."

"Heh," sniggered Hoblin, "the fact that this human is here means that T'Rav is dead. You've got nobody to fight for now, kitty, and I've already slaughtered half your minions. How's about you surrender to me?"

The cat's features tightened with anger. "This one said much the same," it warned, pressing its blade against Metharial's throat, "and look where that got it. Put your sword down."

Hoblin cocked an eyebrow at the space behind the captain, and the cat turned its head in time to see the maiden pull a dagger from a thigh sheathe and slit its throat. The gurgling attracted the attention of the last two soldiers, and the archer let its arrow fly. But Hoblin expected it and dodged, sprinting at full speed for them. Within a few seconds, the only remaining Khajiit was the female.

Metharial stood up, rubbing his temple where he had been cut, and quickly retrieved a silver dagger from its resting place in one of the many corpses. He turned to maiden then, asking, "Why did you come with me, and why did you kill for me?"

"I didn't kill for you," she said angrily, "I killed so you would take me with you. That beast T'Rav were going to rape me, and if I stay here, they will surely kill me."

"Only because you helped us," responded Metharial, "but now is not the time for discussion. Hoblin, you have the horses?"

"Aye laddie," said the Nord, grinning once more, "and I see you've taken off your pretty robes. I must say, you looked more natural with them on."

"Shut up," Metharial growled, but his voice took on a more gracious tone, "although you deserve thanks; you did well with these barbarians. Now, we must leave; T'Rav's soldiers will know the scroll took me here."

Hoblin looked at the Khajiit, saw she was only a little more than a girl. "What about her?"

"She did save me," Metharial said, "so she'll come along with us, for now."

"You won't regret it," interjected the maiden excitedly."

"I'm sure we won't," said Hoblin, although his whole body screamed a warning which argued otherwise.

Ha! Now that was a great battle. You sure do write good battles.
You were right about the Nord, he can fight smartly and not so much like a wild boar! lol

You said you wanted feedback on the chapter but, I don't know if I can say much more than it was good. I enjoyed it very much and I'm looking forward to the next part. I shall wait for more!

Very exciting story so far, you write some great battle scenes

I was smiling when I read this,

"Run and hide, kitties, I'll hunt you down wherever you go!"

Heh. Still makes me smile!

Loving it so far, please continue

Long time, no update. Still, eventually is better than never, right? This is a boring bit though, I just haven't had enough energy to redo it. A more interesting chapter should be up shortly.

Part Ten

A Long Journey Short

Bravil! They had spent days traveling, with little rest. The Khajiit nomads had pursued them relentlessly, often drawing so close that Metharial could hear their voices. Had it only been Hoblin and Metharial, they would have been caught, and most likely have been killed. But fate had given them an unexpected boon; the maid, who they soon learned called herself Siraaj. Thinking back on it, Metharial was unsure what he had been thinking when the escape was planned -- how could he have expected a Nord and a Breton, alone in a hostile desert, to outrun and outwit Khajiit who had lived in the desert all their lives? Perhaps he had been thinking that the nomads would have been thrown into disarray by the death of their leader, and unable to mount a thorough pursuit.

That did not matter now; Siraaj had saved them. With her innate desert-sense, she had been able to guide them along the swiftest route while avoiding the majority of the nomad search parties. Admittedly, they were not too trusting of her at first. She had flown into a fury at their hesitation. "Do you think that I would be spared if they caught me? And even were I to be a traitor in your midst, you are like babes in the wilderness; you will not last long without help. So let me guide you, and take the chance that we might survive if I lead."

Not even Hoblin could say anything to that, so they had listened to her. Metharial was only half-surprised when they were soon across the border and into Cyrodiil, where the Imperial Legion was patrolling and the nomads would have to step carefully. And now, a day later, they were before the walls of Bravil. This Siraaj was clearly a creature of formidable will and had skills to match.

Metharial grinned like a fool as their horses clopped towards the gate; within a few short minutes they would be back in the Imperial City. The mission was done. Of course, he thought, there is the matter of Siraaj. He glanced to where she sat behind him, her muzzle held at a proud angle even with the sun beating down at full force.

She had long since discarded the revealing harem garments, and now wore Metharial's second suit of clothes. Even though the Breton was a man of average size, the clothes billowed on her slight frame, belying her graceful form. She had no weapon of any description, besides the fangs and claws inherent to a Khajiit. Jade eyes and blazing red fur marked her as a beauty among her own kind, and made for a striking countenance to any other race.

Siraaj noticed his scrutiny, and lifted her brow in unspoken question. Metharial shot her a toothy grin, saying, "Just gazing rapturously upon the face of our feline savior."

The eyes of deepest green narrowed at him for an instant, before Siraaj broke into a fit of laughter. "I hope not all Bretons are as disingenuous as you, else I be flattered to the point of extinction."

"Nay, madam," returned Metharial in his most gallant manner, " your features are so radiant as to elicit the most earnest prostrations from the most noble of Khajiit, whose solitary hope would be that you might look upon them with some small sign of favor."

Siraaj feigned bemusement at such a compliment, while Hoblin trotted his huge steed closer to Metharial. "Laddie, your words are as genuine as I am a man much disposed towards philosophy."

"I never knew you were a philosopher, Hoblin," Metharial quipped, "to match that, you must be the grandest intellectual of Tamriel."

The Nord shook his head, perhaps not understanding explicitly, but receiving the tone correctly. He did not have to respond however, as they had soon arrived at the Mages Guild. Bravil, the Breton noticed, had passed by them on all sides without grabbing their attention even once. No small wonder considering the decrepit and dilapidated state it was in, but it still struck Metharial how unimpressive the whole town was. Even the castle simply stood in the background, making no impression whatsoever. He could only be thankful they would shortly be gone from it as their small party dismounted, tethering their horses loosely to a post.

Entering the Guild, Metharial found that it was more or less of the normal occult decoration, only slightly more poorly than any other guildhouse. A portly Imperial Mage in the standard blue robes encountered them almost immediately upon entrance, his sallow face pinched up in a most disagreeable expression. "How can we help you today?"

His tone implied that any amount of menial tasks would be more worthy of his time. Metharial would brook no contempt from a surly fellow like this though, and demanded that he be shown to the Mage Overon.

"I am he," replied the Imperial testily, "now tell me what you need already, there are a couple of mudcrabs who've just laid eggs and I need to perform some experiments...um...ahh."

Metharial had casually flipped out the coin of the Red Spearhead, threw it up in the air, and allowed it to land face-up in his palm so Overon could see. The Mage's impatient demeanor melted away. "I didn't realize...aha, best not to speak of such things. Now tell me, what do you desire of me?"

"Instant transport," said Metharial, "for the three of us, back to the Imperial City."

Overon regarded them all with calculating eyes, gauging the amount of power needed. "Any particular part of the City in mind?"

"The University Arcanum is fine, as long we are sent today."

"In that case, come right along to my apartments; you shall be sipping drinks in the Palace before an hour has passed."

*****

Now, imagine that there is a bird. A bird flying high in the sky, buffeted by air currents, heading over the tops of the Bravil's ragged homes and east. East, to Black Marsh!

Soaring over the Nibenay the land below it quickly turns into an explosion of vibrant greenery from the air. But swooping down to the ground, amidst the verdant flora, the picture is different. What appeared from the air to be so lush and hospitable is a watery, treacherous, swamp. The Empire has struggled to at least partially remove this blotch on Tamriel, hacking at it with blades and burning it with Mages' fire, but have only succeeded in taming Black Marsh's rampant nature at the utmost fringes of the province.

As the bird flies, flickers of Imperial civilization pass by; a hamlet here, a stone road there. However, it is clear that the Emperor's will does not reign supreme here; there are no way posts of the Legion, no soldiers patrolling the few thoroughfares. Instead there are keeps and towers who do not fly the Imperial standard, but their own individual sigils. These are the personal crests of those lords who had fought beside Uriel V, and were granted land in Black Marsh by the Elder Council as a “reward”. In such a hostile place, the Council assumed that these lords would soon falter and fail – as many did. But those who did not fail forged alliances with the native Argonians, and extended their dominions. Most of all, they had nursed their hatred of an Empire that had abandoned them to a dark and treacherous land.

And suddenly, one of these lords’ castles looms directly in front of the bird, its granite walls towering over the surrounding landscape. From the highest tower a forest green pennant with a golden bow and arrow blazoned upon it flutters with the wind. The bird lifts itself towards that pennant, its wings beating the air, when it is transfixed by an arrow not dissimilar to the pennant’s. Like a stone, it drops.

Standing in the courtyard of this grey castle, a man dressed all in white lowers his bow, smiling. Turning to his companions, he says, “The Emperor is wishing to fly high as that bird did. But he shall meet the same fate.”

And here's Part Eleven. Comments are welcome. Comments are requested, even.


Part Eleven
Bloody Business

There were those in the Tamrielic Empire who claimed that the will and approval of the people was the only legitimate basis for authority. Baron Edral had one of those people on an iron table, strapped to heavy rings protruding from its surface by leather thongs. The man’s entrails had long been separated from his body, and the man’s life had followed only shortly after. But Baron Endral enjoyed the sight of mangled flesh, and he delighted even more in the exquisite expression of suffering on the man’s face.

The man had no posed no threat, of course, even with his dangerous ideas. He had been a farmer of potatoes, nothing more. Endral had him tortured and killed nevertheless; it was not beseeming for a lord of Skyrim to tolerate cheek from a farmer. Sadly, Endral did not have the time to admire his handiwork, there were pressing matters at hand, foot and finger, all of which needed urgent attention.

Baron Endral departed his dungeon swiftly. Once he was past the forbidding door of oak and metal, the first matter found him in the form of his Captain, a typical, hulking Nord by the name of Magron. The man was clearly agitated, and when Endral approached him he bowed low from the waist and asked, in a strangely tremulous voice for such an imposing man, “My lord Endral, Kernick and his riders have been ambushed and slain, and the Count Bruma leads a force of five hundred men up Rainer’s Valley.”

Endral rolled his eyes at Magron. “Honestly, if you were any more of an oaf I might have you on my table. Did you think that I was unaware of these events? Pity poor you in your ignorance.”

Magron blanched at the suggestion he should fall victim to the Baron’s notorious fixation. “I…my lord, pardon my…but my lord, if you knew, why did you not tell me?”

Endral laughed at his Captain. “I tell you what you must know, that is all. And I have already made…arrangements for the Count and his ‘army.’”

Captain Magron nodded. He knew that his Baron was a devious man, as well as a cruel one, and if the Baron said that he had made arrangements, then things were taken care of.

Baron Endral dismissed Magron and strode to the Main Hall of Castle Orbund. The Count Bruma was of no account, he knew; it was the Emperor he needed to worry about. The boy had been exceptionally troublesome of late, foiling the power plays of a few of Endral’s friends. And one too many nobles opposed to the Emperor had disappeared in the past few months. Still, Endral knew that even southern Skyrim was mostly out of the Imperial reach.

Entering the Main Hall, lost in his thoughts, Endral did not notice his steward, Olrin, until he had nearly ran over him. Olrin made a small coughing noise, jerking the Baron from his reverie. “What is it, steward?”

The Breton surreptitiously scanned their surrounding, before hissing to Endral. “Lordship, the village elders from Stenton are back. They are demanding your lordship send troops to protect them from bandits, else your lordship find all the sheep to be stolen.”

Endral found himself rolling his eyes again. “Olrin, I have no time for such petty concerns. Placate them somehow, tell them we have no men to send. Anything, so long as they leave and I do not have to kill them. That would look bad, would it not?”

Olrin shivered. “It always does, lordship.”

“Then let us strive to avoid it. Get them away from the castle.”

The Baron shoved past Olrin, his mind already onto other subjects. He had too many matters that required delicate attention...he could not be distracted by the small things now.

*****

The Count Bruma drew up his horse, signaling his guard to do the same. Off to his right, across a trickling brook, his men marched. The Count had taken a spot at the top of a low hill, however, to better his view of the valley. It was a narrow gash of greenery in the forbidding landscape of the Jerall Mountains. A perfect place for an ambuscade, but Rainer’s Valley was one of only three ways to bring a large force up to the Castle Orbund, and the Count was confident that Baron Endral was not aware of his coming. What was more, the Count had received word that his Captain of the Guard had caught and executed the Baron’s raiders back in Bruma, so his rear was safe as well.

Smiling with satisfaction, the Count Bruma cast his glance to a stand of trees to his left. For a moment, it looked as if there were figures in it. The Count dismissed it as fatigue and spurred his charger forward. Not a second later, a crossbow bolt punctured his steel breastplate, and battle was joined.

The Bruman soldiers never knew who it was who attacked them for certain, only that they were deadly accurate with their bows. After the initial shock, the column had formed a line facing the brook, where rows of grey foemen had replaced the Count Bruma at the top of the hill. Twice they charged, and twice were repulsed. On the third attack, the famed axes of Bruma cut down half of the grey strangers, and the unknown enemy broke and ran.

But the army had no stomach for pursuit. Their Count was long dead, and half their number lay with him. Nothing was left but to retreat to Bruma, and wait for the Baron Endral.

Wow! It's good to see this story again.
It looks like the story is about to get really moving! I can only hope that it won't stop..... lol!
You're right, better to eventually have it. When not having it would be much worse!!!

I will await more!

Having to agree wioth Steve.

Steve.....such a lovely name.

Thanks to everyone who's been reading this. And I know this isn't posted in the "critical reviews" subforum, but if anyone has something a bit more in-depth they want to share with me about this story, I welcome that.

Part Twelve
Counsel

“You brought a Khajiit back with you. I suggest you explain yourselves.”

Metharial did not bother hiding his surprise. Dauvian sat behind his desk in a high-backed chair, his face perfectly impassive. Hoblin drew breath sharply, his huge paws clenching into fists. “How do ya know?” the Nord said.

“Because I know.” Dauvian’s response was cold, but the rest of his words were colder, “Explain yourselves now, or I will bring in this Khajiit and have her explain while you two contend with the snake pit.”

Hoblin snarled and his hands twitched towards his sword, but he was stayed by the sound of rasping metal close by. Turning his head slightly, Metharial spied Georvy, the giant mute, standing behind them with a naked blade. Behind Georvy, there was Yerum the mage, his staff glowing red. Metharial looked back to Hoblin. “Hob, I think we’d better just explain.”

The Nord relaxed, shaking his shaggy head. Metharial began to explain to Dauvian the process of acquiring Siraaj, how she had helped them escape to Bravil, and how they had brought her back with them to the Imperial City. He neglected to tell him the name of the inn they had put her up in, but Dauvian must already have known that. The Imperial seemed to know everything.

As the story unfolded, Dauvian remained impassive. The lack of any expression made Metharial just as nervous as outright anger or consternation would have. Dauvian could have been thinking anything, and the Breton would never be able to tell.

Metharial finished, and Dauvian placidly tented his fingertips on the desk. His eyes bored into Metharial, then his gaze shifted to Hoblin. He sighed and leaned back in his chair. “You two are very lucky. This Siraaj is - was – the daughter of an important merchant in Rimmen. She will be a useful pawn.”

“A pawn?" Metharial did not like the sound of those words.

"Yes," Dauvian replied, "a pawn. We shall use her as we see fit to manipulate events in Elsweyr. Until then, she shall remain where you took her."

"So…we’re excused for bringing her back to the city?”

“Excused?” Dauvian’s voice was filled with anger, tightly controlled but undeniably there, “I never said that you were excused for this error. Allowed to live, yes, but I will most certainly not forget how you jeopardized the Red Spearhead. The two of you should consider yourselves on warning; another misstep and it will not go well.”

Metharial swallowed. This man was beginning to scare him, and Metharial was not easily frightened. The precision of his control over expressions and emotions was unnatural; if Metharial had not spent most of his life learning to read people, he might never have picked up on the few clues he had. Being an assassin meant you had to be able to analyze people and understand them quickly, and Metharial could not do that with Dauvian. It had never happened before.

Dauvian noticed his stare. The half smile Metharial hated so came to his lips. “Something you want to ask, Metharial?”

The Breton started to shake his head, but suddenly remembered an oddity in their conversation. “Do you actually have a snake pit, Dauvian?” he asked.

The Imperial’s half smile widened slightly. “Be thankful you have not had occasion to find out.”

“And now,” he continued, “we turn to the details of your next mission…”
_____

It was the dusk of the third day after T’Rav’s assassination, and the highest room of the White Gold Tower was only illuminated by moonlight. Emperor Uriel VI reclined on his sofa, his mind cluttered with so many troubles. To the north, Baron Endral and the Count of Bruma were practically at war. In Morrowind, the Dunmer houses were unusually restless. High Rock was in turmoil, as was Hammerfell; there were too many lords with too many armies and not enough land. Elsweyr, despite the death of T’Rav, was in absolute chaos. The nomads were attacking everywhere, furious at what they believed was an assassination perpetrated by the city Khajiit. And Black Marsh...well, Uriel did not even want to think on Black Marsh. That place was a mystery to him, a fact which made the Emperor very uncomfortable.

As a matter of fact, the only areas that could be considered ‘peaceful’ were the Summerset Isles and Valenwood. Uriel VI shook his head. The damnable Elder Council had allowed the Empire to fragment and splinter, wasting the labors of his father. Uriel had decided many years ago that no one could set it right but him, the Emperor. That was why he had ordered the creation of the Red Spearhead.

Uriel sat up suddenly, ideas blossoming in his head. One of his guardsmen stepped out of the shadows. “Emperor, is everything alright?”

Uriel VI shot a glance at the white-clad soldier. He had personally selected every one of his guards, and paid them a handsome wage from his own pocket, so he trusted them as much as he could trust anyone. “I’m fine, Perelius. Send for Dauvian; I have a mission for him.”

Perelius bowed and moved off to relay the Emperor’s summons. Uriel leaned back onto his sofa and began to refine his ideas. After a few minutes – a remarkably short time for the distance the man had to cover – Dauvian entered. He presented himself before the sofa, kneeling. Uriel bid him rise, saying, “We are beyond the point where you must bow to me Dauvian, at least in private.”

Dauvian nodded. “What do you require of me, my Emperor?”

“Well, I need information on Black Marsh. That place is an enigma; I must know who there is on my side, and who must be gotten rid of. What is more, I need a situation in the north dealt with. I’m sure you’ve heard of it; the Baron Endral is seeking to topple the Count Bruma and install his nephew. It is a legitimate claim, so I cannot officially intervene…but your men can. Resolve it in the cleanest way possible.”

Dauvian nodded again, but his stance was agitated. Uriel raised an eyebrow at him. “Something you wish to say,?”

“My Emperor, Baron Endral is a powerful man, and a vengeful one. If this mission goes awry, we might have the whole of Skyrim up in arms against your reign. Might it be better to allow the situation to work itself out?”

The Emperor shook his head. “Endral must be halted before his influence is allowed to spread. Send your best to deal with him, and ensure that nothing goes wrong.”

Dauvian nodded, his acquiescence clear. “What of the Hammerfell mission?” Uriel said.

“Successfully accomplished. Marone’s mercenary force has dissolved without its captain.”

Uriel smiled with satisfaction. His plans were working to perfection, even with the long odds against that. “Very well Dauvian, well done. Carry out my orders; Endral must be dealt with soon. And your report on Black Marsh must be thorough.”

Dauvian bowed and departed. Uriel wondered, not for the first time, how history would remember his reign. As the Emperor who had united Tamriel and given it new strength, or as the cold-blooded killer who had caused the dissolution of the kingdom? He was determined it should be the first, but so much rode on a knife’s edge. Sighing, the Emperor of Tamriel closed his eyes and went to sleep.

To be entirely honest with you, I don’t have anything particularly critical to say. This is turning into a terrific story, and I'm really enjoying reading it. I like the premise and the setting, and as it progresses more and more strands are being woven into the plot. It's inventive, and has caught me off guard a couple of times when I thought I knew what was going to happen - the introduction of Siraaj being a case in point. Some of the characters are becoming more morally ambiguous, Dauvian being one, which adds to a feeling that treachery could well be afoot.

The biggest strength is the characters of Metharial and Hoblin though. They are quite brilliantly drawn. In fact possibly the biggest compliment I can pay, is that it reminds me of the legendary fantasy tales of "Lankmhar" by Fritz Leiber, which had two of the most memorable characters in fantasy ever - Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser. Superb tales of sword and sorcery, driven by two characters you just love to spend time with. They are such great fun to read about, and I've had the same feeling of delight in following our hapless heroes in this tale.

If I were nit picking a little bit, I would probably mention the lack of description. You're very good at describing actions and events, but I always end up feeling a little vague on the place. It's a fine line between slowing a story down by including too much description, and keeping a fast pace by not including enough. I'm leaning towards there isn't quite enough. When I was reading the section set in Elsweyr, I was craving description of where they were - a chance to see how the two characters viewed their surroundings, but it seemed to be glossed over a bit.

Overall though, this is superb. Wonderful characterisation, exciting, fast paced, some excellently described battle scenes (which has long been one of your strengths), and a wicked line of humour running through it. It's great, simple as that. Look forward to the next part

Agreed. Thanks for pointing that out, it had evaded my notice. In the future, I will seek to address that "nitpick" and remedy it. Again, thanks.

Criticism, witticism, or whatever other -ism you want to offer me is welcome.

Part Thirteen
A Bit of Luck

In the more northerly reaches of Cyrodiil, the landscape was almost just like that of Skyrim - hilly, rocky, cold, and the trees were evergreen. It was quite lovely, in Hoblin’s opinion. He hailed from Skyrim, had fought in its petty wars for most of his life, and now that he was in the south, he missed it dearly. Going to Bruma, however, refreshed his soul. Oh, it was not a perfect replica of his home – the wolves were not deadly enough, for one – but it still did him good.

As his huge mare clopped steadily along the Silver Road, Hoblin took a deep breath of the chilly, almost-mountain air. Dauvian wanted him to kill the son of a certain Lord Kertren, who was the brother of Baron Endral. Hoblin remembered both of those names from his days in Skyrim. The both of them were great lords, and Hoblin had faced their soldiers in battle many times. He was usually on the losing side; those two employed hundreds of soldiers and had dozens of vassals to fight for them. The thought of bringing a shadow over their hearts by murdering this boy was a most welcome one, to Hoblin’s mind. He had hated losing to them in the past, but vengeance was good substitute for victory.

Now his mare had came to the base of a low hill, and the road crested it with heavy forest on both sides. At the top of the hill, there was a small fort. Shrubs and even some young trees huddled beneath its walls for protection, and its stones were overgrown with moss. In short, it had the look of abandonment about it. But, Hoblin noted as he approached, it was not abandoned.

He pulled his horse up before passing beneath the arch of the fort, glancing over the two soldiers who waylaid him. They were Bruman troops, he saw, for their surcoats were all yellow and bore that city’s eagle standard. And they did not trust him one mite, telling by the hard set to their jaw and the way both gripped their spears. It was as well they did not; Hoblin could not appear to be their friend, his orders forbade him.

“What’s yer business on this here road, traveler?” growled one of the spearmen, who had a fearsome red beard.

Hoblin grinned. “Well, ya see laddie, I’m on my way to Bruma. Is there a problem wi’ that?”

“Well there bloody well might be if you don’t just stick to answering questions, not asking them!” shouted the second guard. He was young, and probably only needed to shave once a week. His agitation was apparent.

“Shut it, Urold,” said the bearded guard, before turning back to Hoblin. “Sorry mate, but orders is not to let anyone pass by without boat-er-tane-ning their business, like. So, what exactly will you be getting up to in Bruma?”

“A li’l of this, a li’l of that, and a whole hell of a lot of somethin’ else,” shot back Hoblin, vexed that this was taking so long. He was obviously not going to tell them much of anything, so why delay him any longer? “But I fail to see how my business is your business.”

“Sergeant Greilan, is this man giving you trouble?”

This new voice came from a new man, a knight by the look of him. He was tall, with golden blonde hair, a neatly shaven chin and a silver sword at his belt. The young guard, Urold, piped up in his boy’s falsetto, “Yes, milord, he’s been a right cheeky bug-”

Greilan waved him to silence. When to he spoke to this man, he stood at attention, “No, yer lordship, just a bit of funning between me and this chap. Ain’t that right, mate?”

Hoblin considered the question. This new man was not only a knight, he was a lordship. And if Hoblin was any judge of character – which he was not, but every man has instincts – then this particular lordship would run him through as soon as tolerate any perceived “cheek”. The man had that mad glint in his eye which bespoke of an honorable and courageous fellow who would stick a peasant for backtalk.

“Aye, jus’ a bit of funnin’, milord,” he said eventually, “I meant no harm by it, as this young fella seems to think.”

The knight regarded him levelly for a while. Finally, he turned to Greilan. “Let him through, Sergeant. We can’t detain every man who travels this road, not when Endral’s raiders are still out there.”

Ah, so the Baron has gotten this far south, thought Hoblin. I might not have to travel as far as I thought.

Giving a last, pitying glance to the soldiers, Hoblin spurred his mount forward and passed through the fort. There was another posting of three men at the opposite entrance, but they said not a word. Hoblin shook his head. If Dauvian was correct, they would all be dead soon. Dead, or wishing they were.

*****
Sir Damer Wheck shifted his weight on the saddle. The thing was damn uncomfortable, even after thirty years of riding, and not even the urgency of a coming battle could put it to the back of Damer’s mind. To distract himself, the knight looked up and down the lines once more. The new Count Bruma, the son of the dead Count Bruma, had assembled the forces of his County here, at Lorn Pass. It had taken some urging to get him this far, however.

The boy was only fifteen, but willful as a Daedric Prince; he had actually wanted to hold at Bruma and wait for the Baron Endral to besiege them! He had been blindingly confident that the Emperor would not allow a siege in the Imperial Province and would send the Legion to aid them. Well, Damer Wheck had finally got that nonsense out of his head – they were alone, since the opposing claim was a legitimate one. And with some further counsel, Damer had managed to convince the young Count that Lorn Pass was the best spot to meet the Baron. It was narrow so the Baron’s numbers would matter less, and the rocky terrain made for a difficult advance.

But the boy had refused to pull in the troops his father had sent into the County to defend against Endral’s raiders. Damer had tried to get him to see reason, that it was a ploy by the Baron to weaken his main host, but the child had gone on about “a duty to protect the people” or some other folly. The only duty, in Damer’s experience, was to keep oneself alive.

Still, they had a fine army; one of the finest Damer Wheck had ever been with. Nearly two thousand soldiers, and over two hundred knights and horsemen. Damer wanted to see the Baron smash this as easily as he had smashed the Brumans in the Valley! That had been a bad bit of work, Damer knew. The Count killed, and more than half the men sent dead. The soldiers had needed a bit of a morale boost, and marching forth in such numbers had provided that, at the least.

Now it was the Baron Endral’s turn. Damer knew he had a great host, perhaps even larger than the one they had assembled. He doubted they would be able to break the finest of Bruma, however. A shout rose up from behind Damer; the men had spotted Endral’s forces. Damer, with his old eyes, needed a few more moments to pick out the purple-clad soldiers emerging from the tree line, about a hundred yards distant. There were hundreds of them, that was for sure. A huge purple standard flew over the center of their line, depicting a galloping boar. To the extreme left, hundreds more men appeared, these ones in a hodgepodge of armor, with horsemen out in front. Mercenaries. Damer hated mercenaries. They had no honor and were always killing people with no respect for the code of chivalry; they were very nearly barbarians.

And now, at the far right, Damer saw another group of footmen, their standard’s black griffin on a field of white rippling with the wind. They were the men of Lord Kertren, the father of the claimant to the title of Count Bruma.

It was a tremendous host…there were so many. More than Damer Wheck had ever suspected. More than five thousand, to be sure. He showed no fear though. He would never show fear in front of his men, and never so that the dog Endral could see it. Grunting, he pulled his mace from his belt and raised it over his head.

Horns blew.

The Bruman army, outnumbered and hopeless, began its slow advance. A roar rose up from the opposing force, and Damer saw thousands of glinting blades catching the morning light. He allowed himself to take a deep breath. Damer Wheck had never been an overly religious man, praying to the Nine only when his knightly vows compelled him to do so. But now, he was praying to whatever god or daedra would hear his pleas.

With a cacophony of war drums and flutes, the Baron Endral’s force advanced.

Time passed like it was molasses, slowly and hesitantly, as the two sides closed in on each other. Then, when they were only two dozen paces apart, Damer raised his mace a second time and spurred his horse to a full gallop, his lungs filling with crisp mountain air. As the charge began, he breathed in the freshness, savoring its taste. It might be the last opportunity, after all.

Nice addition!
It wasn't nice of you to stop at such a point though, lol.
I wish I could offer some sort of constructive criticism but, I am not really that good at this writing business so....
Just keep them coming!

Alright, new chapter! And another one soon to come, I can tell you. Comment! I command thee!

Part Fourteen
Welcome, Welcome



The town of Vilnar was an exercise in contradiction, as Metharial saw it. It was a fairly large place, but an abjectly poor one, but commanded some of the strongest trade in Black Marsh. It was surrounded by nothing but swamp, there were no rival lords within a hundred miles and bandits were nearly extinct around here, yet the whole town was surrounded by a strong palisade and the forbidding stone tower housed a sizeable garrison. The only thing Metharial saw that really made sense was the golden bow and arrow on all the guards’ green tabards. He had it on good faith – which, in these parts, meant any faith at all – from a farmer that the ruling lord of Vilnar extorted the people and used the wealth to fund his great army while keeping the commoners in poverty.

Of course, that could have been a lie, since the farmer had gone on to say that the army had more men than there were stars in the sky, and that vampires were killing off his cattle, and an incubus had deflowered his daughter, and the gods were not favoring his crop this season and a hundred other things little better than superstition. The character Metharial portrayed, however, invited such confidences; he was a pilgrim of the Nine, come to see their holy shrines even in the darkest of dark places like Black Marsh. People respected pilgrims for their asceticism and the fact that one likely would not stab them for a gold piece. They confided in them since a holy man would never betray their thoughts. They gave them cheap lodging and free food, too, something Metharial never turned his nose up at.

So Metharial trudged into Vilnar a bewildered assassin, but the world saw his raggedy grey robes, sandaled feet and necklaces devoted to the Nine and knew him to be a trustworthy, humble pilgrim. Who most certainly did not have several blades secreted about his person. The guards at the gate into Vilnar did not even seek to question him about his destination; they simply nodded their helmeted heads at him and dipped their halberds in a show of respect. Metharial smiled at both of them and then lifted a necklace devoted to Akatosh to his lips and murmured to himself. The guards assumed he was praying. He was actually just moving his lips.

Metharial walked down the main street, although it was more of a trudge as he sank ankle deep in mud with every step. There was not a cobblestone in sight, and the heavy humidity made everything damp and clammy, even when the sun shone straight down, as it did now. Lining the street were a few run down shops with chipped signs and two double-storied inns whose doors were hanging on the hinges. Several patrols of green clad soldiers marched past Metharial, and more soldiers were standing guard in pairs every few dozen paces. Down the cross streets Metharial could see dozens of houses – if you could call them that. They were more like hovels. Ramshackle, ragged and ready to collapse were the words to describe Vilnar’s dilapidated state. The Breton shook his head, wondering how any man could be as insensitive to the suffering of others as the Lord who ruled this place was.

Those were thoughts for less pressing times, however. Metharial ducked into the nearest inn, its sign announcing to all the world in faded letters that the Merry Flagon was the best for rest. Inside, the Merry Flagon did not live up to its name. The common room was crowded, but the men hid behind their drinks and their conversation stopped when Metharial entered. After looking him over for a few moments, the publican came up to Metharial. He was a dark-skinned, fat fellow who had many wrinkles at the corners of his eyes from squinting suspiciously at people. He was not squinting now, because Metharial was obviously a pilgrim. Metharial said as much to him, and the man relaxed completely. The conversation that had ceased picked up again. He invited the Breton to have a cup of wine for no charge, and offered him lodging for what he claimed was a reduced rate.

The publican led Metharial to a table set slightly apart from the rest of the common room and put out a small clay cup of red wine. Metharial smiled at him and made a holy sign in blessing of his host. Metharial supped at his wine silently and slowly, taking in the occupants of the inn. Most appeared to be townsmen interspersed with the leathered countenances of farmers. Each and every one had a hunted look about him, and when they spoke to each other it was in low voices, the exact words indiscernible. Their clothing was universally tattered and dirty. These people had next to nothing, Metharial saw, and what little they did have was used in this inn to try and wash away their troubles for a while.

It was sad. The purpose of this journey was not to report on the state of the peasants, however. Metharial put on his most pious face and motioned over the innkeeper. He came over quickly, even disregarding a few of his other customers. “Yes, pilgrim, how can the Merry Flagon serve you?”

“I must ask about the state of spirituality here, and you seem to be the most knowledgeable,” said Metharial, lowering his voice, “perhaps you can tell me about the leaders of Vilnar? For, it is well known, the character of a leader affects the character of the followers.”

“Ah,” breathed the publican, lowering himself into the chair next to Metharial, “well, you have a good eye, pilgrim. I hear everything, and remember it all. Nothing gets by Jafur Morolin of the Merry Flagon they say!”

Metharial nodded gravely. “I believe it is so, Jafur. So, tell me about Vilnar.”

“Well, it is a good thing you've come by,” said Jafur conspiratorially, “things are in a bad way here. My customers are losing their faith.”

“Why is this?” said Metharial feigning surprise, although that tidbit of information would have shocked nobody. It did help to explain his unusually cordial reception by the inkeeper, though; men of faith were most in demand in times of crisis.

"Because...we are poor. They are poor. I am poor. There is no wealth, no prosperity."

Metharial nodded knowingly, fingering his holy necklace. "Tell me why this is."

Jafur wiped his brow and his eyes flicked across the room. "Not my place, pilgrim. I could lose my inn if I said something wrong."

"But Jafur," said Metharial, leaning in closer to the pudgy fellow, "I am a servant of the Nine. I must know the truth so that I may beseech the gods for a truthful answer. And I will not - I cannot, for my vows prevent me - betray what you say to me.

"If you have any faith at all," Metharial continued, his expression turning accusatory, "you will answer my questions. Not to do so is a most grievous sin."

That did it. The people of Black Marsh clung to the Nine like a babe to its mother; they had nothing else to cling to. That was why they had accepted Metharial as a pilgrim with so few reservations, and that was why Metharial could bully this man into spilling his guts.

Jafur moaned just a little, before nodding his head. “No one will ever call me a faithless man, so...Our lord is Jedethai Etlund, and he is a great man, the Nine bless his soul. But his officers, especially the governor here in Vilnar, are harsh men who treat us like or cattle. They’re used to giving orders and having them followed to the letter, if you get me, and when they aren’t followed to the letter, they…react badly.”

“Badly? What do you mean?”

“Ha, what do I mean?” asked Jafur, “well, an example...three weeks ago, Kedan Erom didn’t bow low enough to Captain Seifert – they have us bow when an officer approaches, you know, like they’re royalty or something! – and Captain Dirulis had him flogged to within an inch of his life in the town square.”

Metharial shook his head sadly. “Why don’t you appeal to Lord Etlund?”

Jafur laughed briefly. “All appeals to Etlund must go through the Governor here in Vilnar, and Governor Porenum would have us flogged to within an inch of our loves for making such an accusation.”

“Not a good situation, then,” Metharial observed, and Jafur shook his head in agreement. “Why are there so many soldiers about, Jafur? I must have seen two dozen in two dozen steps.”

The publican shook his head. “I don’t know, pilgrim. More and more men bearing the Golden Bow have been flowing into Vilnar the past month, but Governor Porenum pretends as if nothing has changed. Even Commander Tebilus was seen coming into town, although he went straight to the Tower.”

“Commander Tebilus?”

“Lord Etlund’s second-in-command. Rumors say that Lord Etlund has ordered the Commander to assemble an army here for an offensive…but there’s no one to take the offensive against!”

“You said Tebilus went to the Tower? What is the Tower?” asked Metharial. This was the information he was really seeking.

“The Tower? Oh, yes, it’s the only stone structure in town. You must have seen it as you came into Vilnar. The Tower towers over everything, aha.”

Jafur sat back, pleased with his pun. Metharial smiled indulgently, before leaning back and yawning expansively. The innkeeper leaned in closely, his face concerned. “Are you tired, pilgrim? You must have traveled a long way.”

“Yes, I have come quite the distance,” Metharial said, “I must apologize, but I am very tired. Might you show me to bed?”

“Of course, of course,” laughed Jafur, “you should have said something and not have let me prattle on like some goodwife. Tobur!”

A freckled redhead teenager popped up at Jafur’s elbow suddenly, flashing his gapped teeth in a subservient grin. “Yessir, Mister Morolin?”

“Show the pilgrim to one of the good rooms, and hop to it! He needs rest.”

Tobur nodded and bowed profusely before beckoning Metharial to follow him. Just as the Breton moved to do so, Jafur grabbed him by the sleeve and beckoned him to bend down. "Good sir, say nothing of what I've told you to anybody. It is the truth, but the truth is not well-received by some ears.

Metharial smiled and patted Jafur on the shoulder as he straightened up. Raising his voice loud enough so that most of the room could hear, he said, "Jafur Morolin, you are a man close to the heart of the Nine. They smile upon you with their grace."

Jafur beamed at his blessing. Metharial then allowed Tobur to lead him to the back of the common room and towards a set of rickety stairs when a gust of wind and a loud banging announced a new entry to the inn. Metharial turned out of curiosity, and paused when he saw a tall, golden-haired, green-clad soldier bearing Etlund’s sigil on his chest. His blue eyes gazed with determined scorn wherever they rested. In a sharp, commanding voice, he spoke. “The honorable Lieutenant of the Lord’s Horse, Norvis Feurile, approaches! Pay your respects!”

Instantly, the entire common room was on its feet and bent at the waist in a deep bow. The blond soldier turned to face the doorway and bowed as well, although not as deeply. Metharial quickly emulated the rest.

The door opened again, swinging wide, and another golden-haired, blue-eyed soldier came in. But this one did not wear a green tunic. Rather, he wore a brilliant white tabard, and the helmet held at his side was silver in composition, made in the likeness of two birds’ wings nestling around a cylindrical cap. His chest still bore the bow and arrows, but the emblem was of such brightness that it overwhelmed the eyes even in the inn’s dim light. At his belt hung a sword more beautiful than any Metharial had ever seen. Its pommel was set with a magnificent diamond which broke the light hitting it into a dozen different rays. The scabbard was dotted with milky white jewels and laced with silver. His armor was silver as well. Apart from his eyes and the sigil, everything about him was silver or white.

Very hard on the eyes, thought Metharial wryly, he could almost be an angel. The “angel” seemed to float into the room, regarding the occupants with a regal glare, as if they had no right to be in his presence. Behind him, another half dozen green soldiers filed in, looking much less angelic and much more battletested. Their leader turned to his announcer. “Ardel, let them sit down. I hate to see them on their feet in my presence.”

Ardel straightened up, his face pale. “Take your seats, commoners, at the order of Norvis Feurile!”

“And tell somebody to serve us wine. If I must sleep here I might as well drink here, no?” added Norvis Feurile.

“And bring us wine, at the order of Norvis Feurile!”

Tobur turned to Metharial. “We had best be getting you to your room sir. It’s said that Sir Feurile’s men tend to fight wherever they go, and that Sir Feurile loves to watch.”

They slipped up the stairs unnoticed, and Tobur showed him to a small room with a small cot. The boy ducked his head respectfully before leaving Metharial alone. He waited a few minutes, listening carefully to the hallway outside his door, before taking off his small haversack and pulling out a change of clothes. It was a normal, dark colored suit for night work, one providing complete freedom of movement and complete silence, unlike the pilgrim’s robes he wore.

After putting these new clothes on, Metharial contemplated his next move. The obvious choice was infiltrating the Tower and rummaging through Commander Tebilus’ personal belongings, maybe even interrogating the Commander himself…but that was an inordinately risky move. Even walking these streets was risky, with so many soldiers around. Another option had presented itself, however: Norvis Feurile.

He was a Lieutenant, a fairly high position, and his obviously noble background must allow him privileged access to his superior’s confidence. It was possible that he knew why so many soldiers were being rallied in Vilnar. Metharial decided; he would get Sir Feurile.

He settled back to wait. The sun was only just going down; the sky was a beautiful crimson. He slept for a few hours, restoring his energy. When he awoke it was just past midnight. Slipping stealthily from his room Metharial climbed down the steps into the common room. It was abandoned now and the torches were burning low in their sconces. The Breton noticed that some of the chairs and tables were broken where they had been whole before, and a smear of blood was on the floor. Metharial tiptoed to the door he had marked as leading to the kitchen and opened it without a sound.

In the kitchen, he found Tabur snoring on a mattress of burlap sacks next to the furnace. Drawing his dagger, Metharial bent down and jerked the sleeping boy up jerkily, hand over his mouth. Tabur kicked and tried to scream, but all motion stopped when the Breton placed his chilly foot of steel on his throat. “Now, Tabur,” growled Metharial in his most threatening tone, “you will tell me where Sir Feurile is sleeping. When I uncover your mouth, I don’t want to hear you whimper, or scream, or do anything but tell me where he’s sleeping, or I’ll cut your throat, you understand? Nod if you understand.”

Tabur nodded. Metharial moved his hand off his mouth. Gulping, the boy said, “On the s-second floor, the f-fourth door on the right. B-best room in the i-inn.”

Metharial belted him over the head, knocking the boy out cold. If he kept his mouth shut, Tabur could probably avoid getting involved. Metharial hoped he had enough sense to see that.

This post has been edited by darkynd: Jul 17 2008, 05:25 PM

Part Fifteen
Pardon Me

The fourth door on the right, as it turned out, was locked. Not really any problem for Metharial; he had been picking locks since age sixteen. His father had taught him. This lock was not a very well-constructed one either, and it practically sprung open at the sight of Metharial’s pick. The door swung wide with only a slight sqeak of rusting hinges, inviting Metharial inside. The room was completely dark save for some moonlight leaking in through the window, but the Breton’s eyes had already adjusted.

He could see the big feather bed where Sir Norvis Feurile slept peacefully, completely unaware of the present danger. Metharial shut the door silently, and slinked over next to Norvis. Asleep, the Lieutenant of the Lord’s Horse looked to be a boy of not even twenty. Metharial might have pitied for him, if he was not already convinced that this boy was nothing more than swine. Rich swine. Looking over the knight, he noticed he wore a silver pendant in the shape of a lantern. Its glint was like that of a star, far more than the reflection of moonlight allowed. Metharial’s curiosity was aroused, but he knew that other information was much more important.

The Breton worked swiftly and silently to tie up Norvis. It was a mark of long training that his touch did not awake the boy until he had a gag of bed sheet firmly over the knight’s mouth. The knight’s eyes snapped open wide as Metharial’s blade pressed to his throat. Grinning toothily at him, Metharial bent down until his face was only a hair’s width from Norvis’ nose. “Well, old friend, time to talk. When I take this gag off, you’ll say nothing until I ask a question, and you’ll only say enough to answer my question. That way you won’t have to bleed, understand?”

Norvis nodded imperceptibly as Metharial’s dagger delicately sliced his skin. Metharial carefully pulled down the gag. As soon as he did, Norvis surged up, baring his teeth and growling, “You’ve no idea who you are dealing with. Within a we-“

Metharial shoved the gag back in his mouth, stifling the threat. Shaking his head, the Breton moved his knife from Norvis’ throat to the skin beneath his nostrils. The knight whined when he began to cut…

It was never fun, torturing people. Although Metharial was an expert at it, he sometimes could not stand how everything became stained with crimson, and the pathetic whimpers of his victims. He truly did pity Norvis Feurile now; the boy would carry these scars with him for life, both outside and in.

But it was necessary, for speed was of the essence. Metharial knew of nothing speedier to loosen lips than the infliction of pain, besides the ever-expensive use of magic. Magic was not need though, as Norvis looked to be willing to answer any questions. With only a small amount of blood soaking the sheets, too.

“Now answer me truly, Norvis Feurile,” whispered Metharial, pulling down the gag, “Why are so many men being gathered here, in Vilnar?”

A small sob escaped from the boy as he spoke, “Lord Etlund is going to destroy the Legion outpost at Drevania. Vilnar is at the crossroads leading to Drevania; from here, the army can split into three separate groups and surround the outpost, cutting off any means of escape. I was to lead four hundred men and guard the eastern road while Commander Tebilus and the main force crushed the outpost.”

Metharial nodded. That made sense, as there was only one sizeable garrison of Imperial troops left Argonia now, and driving them out would give Etlund free reign to do as he wished in the province. That certainly bode ill for the Emperor; Dauvian would probably have a new job for Metharial directly after getting this information. But he still had to know more. His instructions had been to assess the situation, and resolve it if necessary, although he had not been given authority to kill Jedethai Etlund.

“When will you attack, Norvis?” asked Metharial kindly.

“Commander Tebilus has ordered the vanguard to move in two days’ time,” gasped Feurile, seeming to regain some courage as he continued to speak, “the Legion has only four hundred men. In a week, they’ll be dead, whether or not I am. You will pay for this!”

Any other words were halted by the gag. Metharial wiped Norvis’ blood off his dagger onto the pillowcase, deep in thought. He had enough to prove Etlund was a traitor, that was certain. It felt wrong, though. Something was out of place. As he thought, Metharial again noticed the lantern pendant that Norvis wore. He wanted to know what that was, but he had already spent too much time here. On impulse, Metharial grabbed the pendant. Norvis Feurile’s eyes widened and he strained against his bonds as Metharial ripped the slender chain from his neck. There was a blinding flash of white light.

Metharial’s night vision disintegrated into floating black specks. Calmly, he put the pendant into his pouch, knowing that panic would be surer to cause his death than temporary blindness. Heavy footsteps pounded from the hallway towards the room. Metharial lurched to the window, fumbling with its latch as his vision tried to reassert itself.

A strident knock sounded from the door, followed by an equally strident voice. “Sir Feurile, is something wrong? Only the guard spell went off. Sir Feurile! Open the door!”

The window slid open just as the door was kicked off its hinges, showering the room with wood shards. Metharial leapt from the sill, dropping two stories but landing in a forward roll. Coming to his feet much dirtier and soaked from the mud, the Breton sprinted away. Shouts of alarm came from the inn and were taken up by a dozen other voices - a dozen other enemies. Metharial ducked down a narrow alleyway and into the comfort of its shadows as the his enemies’ cry multiplied exponentially, leaping to a hundred new throats. This did not bother the assassin though, as each new shout only pinpointed the location of his foe. He was no skittish peasant, to be scared out of his hiding hole; he was a seasoned killer and an accomplished spy who used the guards’ own voices against them, to better avoid them. Or, as the unluckiest of them might find out, to hunt them by.

Puddles splashed all around Metharial as guards searched for him. They were incredibly difficult to see at night in their forest green tunics, and Metharial had to thank his instincts for being so keen as he narrowly ducked past a troop of five heavily armed soldiers, heading for the eastern palisade wall. The guards were most like to think he would go west and get on the main road, which led to several homesteads and villages. Indeed, it was the way that he eventually intended to go, but first he had to throw them off the scent.

A mouse could not have made any less noise than Metharial the assassin as he flitted here and there through the town of Vilnar. Soldiers all up in chain mail, armed with fearsome halberds, axes and crossbows and torches to sear their vision came within just a few feet of Metharial. Any one of them could almost certainly have killed him, but they never knew he was near. It’s almost too easy, thought Metharial. Lords and nobles, all of them think that the more swords you have the safer you are. Well, there are a thousand swords in Vilnar tonight. Where is their safety?

Soon he neared the edges of the town; he could see the shape of the palisade looming a few dozen yards ahead. It was a crudely constructed thing, he knew, with an earthen embankment shoved up against the wood to provide a walkway for the guards. They had left the ditches outside the wall left from digging the dirt up unfilled and planted stakes in them, so there was a trench running all round the town except at the gates. It would be easy enough to get over the wall, more difficult to survive the drop.

Somehow managing to be more silent, the Breton stole towards the palisade. The people of Vilnar had built houses everywhere, only a scant fifteen paces from the palisade’s embankment. It was frightening how easily Metharial came to within a stone’s toss of the wall. It would be frightening, that is, if anybody knew about it but Metharial.

There were only a few guards patrolling the embankment, but their eyes were towards the town. Doubtless most of the soldiery were throwing a cordon around Vilnar’s center, hoping to ensnare Metharial, and that left the perimeter rather undefended. It was moronic, and although Metharial had expected the guards to be confused and uncoordinated, he had not expected them to be so stupid. It made his escape ever so much easier though, so he would not be one to complain.

His dagger did not flash by the moonlight as crept the final few feet to the palisade. He could see the black outlines of three guards. The bright glow of a torch came from a fourth, but that was far and away. Metharial laid down on the embankment as one of the guards patrolled his way, completely oblivious. The Breton waited until the man had walked a yard past, then silently rose up like a wraith come to claim its victim.

A moment later, a spray of blood moistened the packed earth, and Metharial lowered himself over the top of the palisade. The wall itself stood twelve foot tall, and the ditch beneath it was another six feet. Fortunately, the stakes were all pointed away from the wall, so when Metharial dropped, he was not skewered.

But, as the gods would have it, his right foot landed on a rock. There was a crunch and Metharial could not help but scream out from the pain that jolted up his leg and coursed through his body. A thousand spears seemed to have pierced his ankle. He was surprised, even as he crawled through the ditch and then scrabbled for handholds to pull him out it, that he could even move. The pain was of a paralyzing intensity, so overwhelming to his senses that Metharial simply wanted to give up.

“Ho there, halt your scrambling!”

Metharial had just pulled his chest over the lip of the ditch when he heard that call. Pain and terror mixed into a heady concoction, one which lent him strength enough to propel his body over the side. Something zipped into the mud next to the Breton; a crossbow bolt. Breathing heavily, Metharial managed to attain his feet and set to running. Ten steps later he fell down, unable to push through the nauseating agony. Another bolt hit the ground, but a few paces to one side; the darkness still shielded him. But the voices behind him were growing more numerous; he had to get away. The terrain he was on now was flat, muddy, and absent of plants or any other cover. A strip of land fifty paces wide had been cleared by Vilnar, to keep both the swamp and bay and the Argonians where they could be seen, if they wished to visit.

It made a daunting barrier. Beyond that cleared land, there lay the swamp, a patch of gloom seemingly deeper than the rest of the night. Moaning incoherently, Metharial summoned every last ounce of his strength. With pain threatening to rend his mind from control of his body, the assassin came to his feet and ran. He ran.

The air was split by streaking bolts of death, but he ran. It was a long time that he sprinted. An eternity compounded by the prospect of death, and by the misery of his injury. So it was much to his surprise when Metharial tripped over something and landed face first into a thorny bush. He laid there for a few moments, hardly able to breathe.

Finally he pushed himself up, and set to crawling deeper into the swamp. The whickering of horses sounded out behind him; perhaps the Lord’s Lieutenant of Horse had come to find him?

But Metharial knew he was going to be safe enough once he got deeper into the swamp. The settlers he had spoken to, one and all, attested to the fact that Etlund’s soldiers were afraid to enter the swamplands. Come to think, none of the settlers had ever been too keen on the idea either, they much preferred to stay on their clear-cut fields. Any further musings on the subject were impossible though, as it took all of Metharial’s will to force his body to go forward. Go forward he did, however, at a snail’s pace. His pursuers were not far behind, but it sounded from their alarmed voices that they did not relish entering the swamp.

Now his skin stung from the thorns that had torn at him, adding to the overall throb that tortured him. His breath came in shallower drafts now; he was gasping. The flora around him began to deform into mere blobs, and the darkness assumed a viscous aspect to his eyes. A new wave of nausea swept over the Breton. After he had finished retching, Metharial found that movement was no longer an option. His arms and legs would not obey their commands.

It was hard to tell when he blacked out, since the only thing to see was darkness.

A very interesting story so far. Your assassin does seem to take a lot of very big risks, perhaps a bit to big considering the necessity of secrecy in his profession.

From your description as he ran into the swamp, I'm thinking perhaps there are some poisonous plants that have contributed to disabling him. I'll be looking forward to finding out.

Nice Story!
Its a great point though, lol.
"If you have any faith at all," Metharial continued, his expression turning accusatory, "you will answer my questions. Not to do so is a most grievous sin."
Just keep them coming!

I doubt anybody even remembers this story, but it's back! And I hope to read all of yours very soon too. I hope you can enjoy it, and if so, please tell me. If not, please tell me how you I could have changed it!

mplantinga, you're a very observant fellow, and yes, he does take risks. Partly that is who Metharial is, partly that's a failure on my part as the author. But I am working on it. And jackalvin, your comment is also pretty incisive, hehe. That statement is maybe one of the hints in this story as to what I believe.



Part Sixteen

Guts and Gore

The city of Bruma, Hoblin thought, would surely look better wi’out a whole army of villains seekin’ to break its doors down.

Standing on the high slopes of the Jerall Mountains, the Nord warrior had a grand view of the city and much of the countryside, snow-covered as it was. The city itself lay at the center of the vista; high stone walls overtopped by the Castle Bruma. Its walls looked to be guarded by no more than a few hundred guards. Surrounding them was nearly five thousand men, from what Hoblin could see, all serving under a sable galloping boar on a purple field. They were building catapults and siege towers from the verdant pine forest which speckling this county, so much of the land surrounding the camp was devoid of tree life. The effect was that of an eerily blank landscape, except for the artifices of war. Hoblin had avoided the city, never having been one to walk straight into the bear’s den; he circled ‘round and scaled up the mountains, trying to ascertain the exact nature of the situation.

From what he had seen, the besieging army was divided into three groups. One consisted of Barons Endral’s hardened troops; Hoblin had spotted the Baron himself on one occasion when the Nord had dared to venture close. Endral was a slight man with the most cruelly imperious visage ever seen. Even his men, no strangers to brutality, shied away from looking at their leader in the eye. The other fellows were either foot soldiers in black and white following a gryphon banner or scraggly mercenaries, following no banner except maybe one knit from gold.

And their numbers had swelled considerably. When Hoblin had first arrived, there might have been just over three thousand, and the whole mass of them looked bruised, fresh from the fight. But day by day, columns of mercenaries, gryphon soldiers and Endral men had arrived, until the force was its present size. Hoblin found it hard to believe there was not already a full legion close by, ready to smash this threatening host. After all, Barons and Lords and Counts could mess about all they wanted with petty fiefdoms like Bruma, but leading five or six thousand men into Cyrodiil, the Imperial heartland? That kind of thing could get any noble killed, no matter what connections he had.

As it was most likely going to, noted Hoblin, fingering his axe. The harsh call of a crow snapped the Nord out of his brief thinking spell. Shuffling briskly to his horse, Hoblin mounted up and turned the beast westerly. As he plodded along through the knee-high snow drifts, Hoblin’s thoughts turned to his mission. He knew where Endral’s nephew – the rival claimant to the Bruman Counthood – was living. The boy had moved into a modest, if comfortable, farmhouse a few miles from the city. Twelve knights guarded the cabin day and night, and almost a hundred mercenaries were hunkered down only fifty yards distant. They were close by, but Hoblin reckoned the few trees screened the house pretty well; it was noise that would alert them. Hoblin was good with noise; he always made a lot of it, no matter what happened. He needed a distraction, in that case. But rack his brains as the Nord might, he could think of nothing that might serve.

A low moaning wind gusted, shaking the pines and whipping around the many rocks until it sliced into Hoblin. The Nord shivered briefly before clamping down, his jaw set. He had been away from the cold winds and deep frosts of the north for too long, it seemed. Anger bubbled up, anger that he could be subject to such a pitiful thing as the weather. Nevertheless, his expert eye searched for someplace to get out of the wind, which had developed into a freezing gale. Pulling up on the reins, he took shelter behind a tall boulder, as the wind blustered with increasing fury.

Dismounting, Hoblin stamped his feet to get the blood moving again, not sparing a glance for the smooth rock face protecting him. Instead, he studied a nearby copse of evergreens, searching for any signs of movement. The Baron’s army was not very enamored of scouting parties, but he had seen enough to be wary when moving through the open. For an instant, he thought he did see some movement…but it was a flash of yellow, not of white or purple as he had expected.

It was gone as soon as he had realized it was there, however. Hoblin was experienced enough to trust his eyes in most cases, but he wondered if the snow glare had gotten to him; the bright sunlight reflecting off the ice could play any number of tricks with a man’s mind. Hoblin had once known a fellow named Gjold who ran off into the tundra one bright day, screaming “I’m coming, laaaadies!”

Yes, the north was a strange place. He had most likely hallucinated seeing that yellow. Besides, all the Brumans were sealed up tight in the city. Hoblin rubbed his hands together, trying to generate some kind of warmth, when a slight creaking came from behind. Turning his head slightly, the Nord looked back at the boulder. Nothing.

Shaking his beard from side to side, Hoblin berated himself for letting the cold affect his mind. Hearing doors open, out here in the middle of nowhere.

Creak. Hoblin wheeled, drawing his claymore from its scabbard, face contorted into an animalistic snarl. If he was going to hallucinate, he would teach the damned hallucinations to bother him much more! Stalking up to the boulder, he noticed a patch of screed and a scraggly sapling which had concealed a very small wooden door from his passing glance. The door dropped down just as Hoblin turned, and the Nord stalked right up to it. Whoever was in there – goblins, bandits or necromancers – he was going to teach them a lesson. A lesson on not making a fool out of Hoblin. With one huge boot, he kicked in the door and without further ado dropped straight into a small, stuffy cave.

He landed right on top of somebody, too, knocking them to the ground with a stifled shout. Hoblin was a big man; that fellow would not be getting up very quickly. But telling by the sound of steel snaking out of sheaths, he would be the last of Hoblin’s worries. Reverting to a defensive stance, Hoblin was unsurprised to see that the cave was brightly lit by torches. By the firelight he made out probably a dozen men, dressed in the manner of Bruman guards; yellow surcoats over light mail. One and all, they wore a hunted, desperate look, and more than one was wrapped with bloody bandages.

“Lower your sword, intruder, and get off my man. Or die.” This came from the closest of them, a young officer whom Hoblin instantly recognized. Golden blonde, immaculately shaven and clean despite the disheveled state of the others… and deep blue eyes which spoke of a man utterly devoted to a cause. He had met Hoblin at the Bruma border, along with a man named Greilain –who Hoblin now saw, standing just behind the knight – and also with a young scamp named Urold. Who, now that Hoblin looked, he was standing on.

Over his head, the telltale creak of bowstrings pulled back and now eager to release told Hoblin that the flashes of yellow he had briefly spotted before were no looking down on him. Carefully, he lowered his blade and stepped to one side, hopefully taking away the angle for some of the bowmen. He flashed an uncertain smile at the knight. “A hundred thousand pardons, me lord, but I were perusing the forest when I thought I espied a bandit’s hole. Had I known it were you heroes –“

“I despise lies,” pronounced the knight, who, Hoblin noticed, had not bothered lowering his sword. “I have never been able to abide them. Now, I recognize you; you passed by my outpost just a few days ago. I cannot believe that was a coincidence, your timely arrival to Bruma just as Baron Endral arrived, and I cannot believe that you wandering about is simple ‘perusing.’ Tell me the truth.”

“Aye, I’ll tell the truth,” Hoblin said. “But I’ll only tell it to a man whose name I at least have the knowing of. So, out with your name.”

Urold, the young guard, had regained his feet and was quaking with anger. Waving his spear at Hoblin, he shouted “You’ll not be making demands from Sir Geddard, ya scummy rogue!”

Sir Geddard waved him to silence, sparing the whelp a brief glare before turning it on Hoblin. “There, you have my name. Sir Geddard of Tranheld. Now tell the truth!”

The Nord warrior first put away his claymore, regretting the necessity of it, before speaking, trying not to let on more than he wanted. “Well, you know of the bonnie lad who this Endral fights for? The one who means to take your Count’s lands?”

“Orway, son of Kertren.” The name sounded acidic, coming from Geddard’s mouth. “I know he is the reason so much bloodshed has come to our home.”

“Well, Baron Endral brought him along. Probably so he can put him on your boy’s throne all the quicker after ripping it out from under him,” said Hoblin airily. “But he keeps him apart from the main force, most like so the boy doesn’t have to see what war is really about.”

Unpleasant chuckles arose from the Brumans, their smiles holding no warmth, only cold hatred. The bowmen outside dropped in unceremoniously as Hoblin spoke; three of them, two carrying freshly killed bucks. Sir Geddard frowned at Hoblin, and he brought his silvery blade up so all could see it. “If this Orway met with us, we would surely give him a lesson on warfare. One he’d never recover from.”

A general murmur of assent rippled through all present, except for Hoblin. “Strong words, and true, I am certain.”

“Who are you to gauge the truth of my words?” snapped Geddard. “I am a knight of Bruma. You look to be a common travelling scoundrel, selling his sword to anyone with a silver piece.”

“True enough, me lord,” replied Hoblin wryly, “I am naught but a common travelling scoundrel - who happens to know where this Orway is stowed away. Far from the front lines, he is. Well protected, I can tell you right now.”

The Nord barely had time to react before Geddard was upon him, his cool silver sword pressed firmly against Hoblin’s throat. “You know where Orway is? You can lead me to him?”

Struggling to keep his hands down, Hoblin nodded his head fractionally. “I can do this, Sir Geddard. But the laddie’s well protected; more than a hundred soldiers are encamped nearby, and he’s guarded by a squad of Endral’s knights. You will need more men than what you have.”

As quickly as he had moved, Geddard withdrew. Sheathing his sword, the man turned to look over his men. Fifteen, by Hoblin’s count. Shaking his head, Geddard muttered to himself. “Skelda might have another dozen men. Who knows, he may have collected a few more. Or lost a few more. Lublis was taken a few days ago; Cathnus has deserted.” Still muttering, the knight wandered to the back of the cave, where Hoblin could see a crude chair and table set up. Flopping into the chair, the knight signaled Greilan over.

Giving Hoblin a worried look, the Bruman veteran hurried over to his commander, who whispered into his ear. Straightening, Greilan turned to the assemblage. “Jowan, Urold.”

The two named stood forward. Both were not past twenty years in age, but Jowan’s left sleeve was caked with blood, and his arm was clearly stiff for movement. Greilan regarded them both severely. “Jowan, you’ll go to Skelda, and tell him to meet with Sir Geddard’s party at Dragonclaw Rock in two days. Urold, you’ll try to find Ogdel, and tell ‘im the same.”

The young soldiers saluted, Jowan with grim determination, Urold pale with trepidation, and departed. Greilan turned to the rest. “All right, you heard me, we’re going to Dragonclaw Rock. Eat and rest while you can, because we’ll not be stopping on the way for tea or crumpets or whatever else you fairies enjoy.”

It was obviously some kind of high humor to these men, because immediately following the pronouncement hearty laughter erupted. Brittle laughter though, Hoblin noted; it was high-pitched and ended suddenly, like a carrion bird’s calls. Sir Geddard was simply slumped in his chair now, apparently poring over a roll of parchment, but his eyes were dull. Hoblin looked questioningly at Greilan, who only shrugged helplessly. The Nord sighed. He was in the company of defeated men, driven to follow orders only by a knight who did not know how or when to accept defeat. Corpses walking, that was all they were.

*****

Siraaj supped at her tea daintily, staring politely at the opposite wall. There was not much else to stare at, really. The rooms of the Tiber Septim Hotel were gaudy, to be sure, but they lacked character, anything of true character. They were simply gilt and cushions, meant to tack on an air of refinement.

Still, for a prisoner, she could be doing much worse, Siraaj reckoned. One of the dank, smelly cells of the Imperial Prison, for starters. No, she much preferred being shut up in a swank hotel than in jail. Although it was, she thought, looking pointedly at the Orc standing guard outside the door, still imprisonment. Only it was imprisonment with a plush velvety exterior. She could not leave the Tiber Septim; she could not leave the Imperial City. And she had not seen anyone recognizable for weeks. The lady who ran the Tiber Septim was pleasant enough to her most of the time, assuming she was the concubine of some discreet gentlemen who did not want his mistress wandering the streets, but she was no real company with all her fussing and pandering.

In fact, Siraaj had not had a real conversation in some time. Her Orc guard was pleasant enough – for a brutish, foul-smelling Orc, even if he was dressed in fine burgundy clothes – but he was most certainly not of the speaking variety. Or the thinking variety. He struck her as the drinking variety, although all her best attempts to get him drunk had failed miserably. Sighing, she realized the only mildly exciting thing that had happened since her arrival at the Imperial City was this mildly warm cup of tea. Frustrated, she set the porcelain cup down too hard onto the table, and it made a little tinkle when it broke. Hissing, the Khajiiti maiden bared her fangs at the dozens of little pieces; now she was going to have to clean all of this up…

“Do you enjoy the accommodations, Mistress Siraaj?”

Siraaj spun in her seat upon hearing the cool, almost mocking voice. Standing at the doorway was an Imperial, tall and self-assured, with the most infuriating smile constantly hovering on his smug face. He was not in Legion armor as she had last seen, and there was no huge mute to protect him, but Siraaj could recognize Captain Dauvian of the Red Spearhead at a hundred paces. He was the man who had put her here, and the man who had told her that it was only good fortune that kept him from ordering her death. But she let none of that show through, instead putting on what passed among humans for a Khajiit smile. “Ah, Captain Dauvian. It is well to have a visitor. I must say, it has been a while.”

Dauvian continued to smile and ignored the unspoken question, instead strolling over to Siraaj’s bedside. Feeling the coverlet between thumb and forefinger, he turned his slate grey eyes on her. She shivered at the emptiness they emanated. His eyes were a window onto an emotionless plane; he felt nothing for her. Not hatred, contempt, not anything. But that strange smile…

His voice jolted her, although his tone was softer than goose-down. “The Tiber Septim is such a lovely place, agreed?”

Trying to will her fur from standing on end, Siraaj simply nodded. Dauvian continued, voice silky. “But like all lovely places, there are unseen dangers. Why, you might slip, fall, and crack your head against a table corner, and that would be the end of that, wouldn’t it?”

Siraaj looked sharply at the man. “Have you something to say? Or are you just threatening me? I know you can do what you want with me; I’m already shut in here night and day. What do you want!?”

Dauvian’s smile took on a delighted turn. She realized he had been baiting her, trying to bring out her emotions. Well, no more of that, Captain Dauvian. You will find Siraaj more undreadable than the blankest book.

But the Captain did not let her resolve set; he swooped like a vulture for the feast, leaning on her table just an arm’s length away. Bending down, he brought his amused smile level with her; she wanted to claw it off. “Mistress Siraaj, what is your father’s name?”

She thought a moment before answering. On the one hand, he most likely knew. On the other, possibly he did not. She wondered whether he would kill her if he caught in her in a lie, when Dauvian suddenly straightened up and let his hand brush over the hilt of his dagger. “His name is Imraaj Dalr, and he is a merchant who sells wall hangings, fine luggage, and dates.”

“Ah, but we all know what’s hidden inside those wall hangings? And in the hickory chests? And underneath the piles of delicious dates?” Dauvian asked, although she could tell he knew already.

“And he also sells weapons – Bosmeri bows, enchanted Altmeri arrows, Imperial swords, Nord battle axes…he sells all that and more, in bulk, to people who do not want to be seen arming hundreds of warriors.”

“Yes,” said Dauvian, clearly pleased. “Now, I want you to tell me all the names of his buyers, and all you know about them.”

Siraaj shook her head. “I know nothing of his buyers. Father always tried to keep his business dealings separate from the family; I only learned of it because one of his caravaners dropped a wall hanging and nearly skewered me with a Redguard pike.”

She almost giggled at the memory, terrifying as it had been at the time, before seeing Dauvian’s. The smile, of course, was still stuck to him, but his eyes had dilated, and his fists were clenched. Bringing his face so close to hers that his breath condensed on her fur, the man hissed at her. “I know you know, Siraaj. You must tell me. Remember. I did not expect you to, but you must; or I will be forced to use…less pleasant means than simply asking.”

Dauvian stood again, control fully regained. He grinned at Siraaj; not a smile or a quirk, but a grin. “I will come again in the morning tomorrow. And then, you will tell me.”

With that, he exited. Siraaj was left with more questions than she could sift through. Why had he been so brief if he was as desperate as he seemed? Why wait until the morrow? None of it made any sense. Especially the part where he wanted to know about her father’s clients. They were criminals for the most part, and not likely to bother the Emperor. Taking an unsteady breath, she glanced at the Orc guard; he was still there. For the thousandth time, she ran her hands over her bodice, where she had managed to stow a small dinner knife. Siraaj wondered if the time was coming when she had to use it.

But as the afternoon wore on, her courage to take action faltered. All her time was spent thinking and little else, and on all sides she could only see danger if she should try and escape. That Orc guard would most likely kill her, firstly. Secondly, the city guard surely had her name and description in case she ever evaded that one – she would never get out undetected. And Dauvian undoubtedly had eyes and ears all over the Empire…she could never truly escape.

Soon, the light from her window was all but gone, and the Orc was closing her door so she could change and go to bed. The key slid into the lock, and turned with an ominous click. She dejectedly stripped out of her simple wool dress until she wore just her shift, before lying down to sleep. Happy oblivion came to her swiftly, thankfully, and her eyes drifted shut.

And snapped back open again what seemed like a second later, although the pitch blackness meant the hour had gone past midnight. She could not say what had awoken her, until the noise came again – a clicking from the door. It was the sound of a key being turned in its lock, but slowly. So slowly that the sound might have escaped any but a Khajiit’s ears. Moving silent as only one of the cat folk can, Siraaj grabbed her knife from beneath the pillow where she had placed it, and rolled off the bed. With a final click, the lock was fully disengaged, and the door opened.

Siraaj had near perfect night sight, of course, and her eyes adjusted very quickly. The person who crept into her room was a woman, probably a Breton by her size and stature, and bore a Glass dagger. The wickedly curved blade had a reddish tinge to it – a sure sign of enchantment. Siraaj’s grip on her knife tightened. Assassins with enchanted weaponry cost a great deal of money – and meant that the one who hired them placed a great deal of value on silencing their target.

Her throat constricted, but Siraaj pushed away all fear. She did not mean to die hear, in some chintzy hotel room provided by a man who was most likely going to kill her too!

Snarling silently, she leapt over the bed, knife slicing through the air at the assassin’s shoulder. But the killer was not so easily taken, as the woman smoothly grabbed hold of the wrist bearing the knife, while her other hand brought the dread dagger up to slice Siraaj’s throat.

The Khajiit though, are not idly named some of the fastest creatures in existence. Siraaj chopped at the Breton’s wrist with such speed and strength that her paw cleanly knocked the dagger out of her hand, and then brought her palm into contact with the woman’s face. That sent the assassin sprawling, and Sirraj was on top of her instantly, dinner knife just breaking the tender skin on her throat.

“Who are you?”

The woman’s eyes widened, and she looked towards where her dagger had fallen; well out of reach. They widened further when Siraaj increased the pressure from her blade, causing a rivulet of blood to trickle down the sides of her neck. “Tell me!”

“I – I – I am Sacharissa.”

“Who sent you?”

Sacharissa smiled like a death’s head. “I will not say. The Night Mother would have my soul.”

Siraaj sucked in air before she could help herself. Dark Brotherhood? “I will have your soul, and more besides, if you do not tell me, Sacharissa. I will use your essence to imbue this mere kitchen knife with fiery death, and murder everything you love if you do not tell me!”

The death’s head grin never wavered.

The Khajiiti sighed. She would have to do something that she loathed. There was one way she knew to get anyone to tell her anything – the Rej‘daar. Ignorant Imperials called it the Khajiiti Eye of Terror, and it was said to entrap the souls of the living, but those were stories told to scare old women and foolish young men into going to their chapel more often. No, the Rej‘daar was an ancient means of extracting information, known only to a few Khajiit. Her father was one of them, and he had taught it to her.

Breathing as deeply as she could, Siraaj channeled every scrap of anger, remorse, pity…every emotion she felt or could feel into one tight ball. Everything else inside her was a void, empty of thought, empty of intelligence. Some said this was the animal nature of the Khajiit; every scrap of being attuned and focused to one goal.

With a shudder, she released it.

The sight might be described as coming face to face with a demon for the first time, and realizing that you are not imagining it; it is real, and standing right in front you. Everything it him radiates malevolence; the saliva-slick fangs, the stiff bristles of fur, the glowing green eyes whose slits for pupils look like cracks into eternal pits of damnation. And you know – you just know that the only way to survive the encounter is to tell this demon everything.

For Sacharissa Breslan, Slayer of the Dark Brotherhood, the sight was no different. She could not scream, so instead she answered. “I GET MY ORDERS FROM DEMESTO, AN ALTMER WHO LIVES IN SKINGRAD! Oh gods, please spare me…please Sithis, pardon my failure, allow me to live…”

Siraaj saw no reason for letting Sithis enter into it. The dinner knife rised up and slammed down into Sacharissa’s chest. A spurt of crimson blood spurted into the air and hit Siraaj in the muzzle. The Rej‘daar shattered, emotion once again flooding into every nook and cranny of her mind. She sat dazed for a few moments as she tried to sort out what had just happened. Slowly, she remembered what the assassin – Sacharissa, she had said her name was – had told her. And then, after that, she had…

The maiden touched paw to face, felt the blood, and looked down to where the knife was still jammed firmly into the woman. Sacharissa’s eyes had the glazed look of death upon them. A thump came from the hallway, and Siraaj dimly recalled that the Breton had not shut the door behind her. Hot tears of shame flooded her eyes; this was why every Khajiit who knew the art refrained from using Rej‘daar. Sometimes, you did things you could not control. Even though this Sacharissa had been a murderer, Siraaj had never wanted to kill her.

Trying hard not to sick up, Siraaj stood and faced the doorway. The Orc lay stretched across the floor; his fall must have woken her originally. The proprietress lay stretched out nearby, but her chest rose and fell. She had only passed out from the shock. Siraaj noticed how detached she was about all this suddenly; one moment there had been tears, the next…nothing.

She quickly washed herself up and got dressed. Stuffing a few changes of clothes into a traveling bag and reluctantly grabbing up the enchanted dagger, Siraaj turned and left her room for the first time in many days.

The future did not look bright, but at Skingrad she might get some answers.

Oh, I remember this story! Even if it takes five years for you to finish; I will still be reading this GENIUS story!!!

I also remember the story, and it was nice to see an update. I will admit I had to read it again from the beginning to remember what had been happening, but that helped me to remember why I enjoyed it the first time around.

It is unclear to me, as I imagine it is supposed to be, why the Dark Brotherhood would be after Siraaj. The nomadic Khajiit would be unlikely to make use of something so "Imperial" as the Dark Brotherhood, and if she really isn't involved in her father's business, the list of other possible suspects becoming unsatisfyingly short.