Metharial: The Anvil, Murder, intrigue and ego. Options

[darkynd]

My, it's been a while since I've posted here! But my comp went down and the story I was working on was lost, so until I get that back on track here's a separate one that I'm working on intermittently.

Prologue


In Tamriel of olden days, after the defeat of Uriel V and the long regency that followed, the upper levels of society were uncomfortably crowded. There were too many nobles with too much power, wallowing in the freedom that the Elder Council allowed them so long as they paid tax. All too often, this led to struggles for power, both big and small, and varying in intensity. Cities would devolve into armed camps, generals of the Legion would challenge the rightful lords of the land for supremacy and all manner of small villages would be caught up in petty disputes then be ruined. These struggles were universally detrimental to the running of society and to the maintenance of the Empire, and when the Emperor Uriel VI finally ascended to the throne as a fully-fledged monarch, his greatest power of state was little more than a veto, something akin to slapping the wrist of a bear. There was a point when Uriel sent out a call for troops to defend the nation from marauders and bandits, and it was all but ignored. Only the Orcs, seeking status and respect among the 'civilized' races, answered.


In that moment, the Emperor realized that his country was riding a knife's edge, ready to slip into a morass of chaos and disorder unseen since the War of the Red Diamond. And he also realized that that eventuality must be avoided at all costs, by all means, no matter how unpleasant. For Tamriel is the center of all civilization, and should it fall, the world would soon follow. Not to mention, the Emperor likely would be the first to get the axe.


So it was with a heavy heart and a reluctant hand that Emperor Uriel VI signed the Order of Balancing, a secret mandate creating a cadre of assassins meant to serve the Empire by readjusting the scales of society. Or, in simpler terms, to kill those who the Emperor deemed troublesome. This is the story of the most well-known member of this shadow organization, a man who, by his sheer efficiency, toppled kings and rearranged border lines.


He was known to cartographers as the "Damnable Scourge of Our Profession," but history knows him by the name "Anvil."



Part 1



The Third of Heartfire began with a brilliant sunrise, golden rays daintily painting the rooftops of Chorrol and not a cloud in the blue sky. Not too long after the citizens of the fair city came out of their houses, and set about their day's work with unusual reserve for such a glorious morning. They toiled, ate and drank in silence, only exchanging infrequent, ominous glances. For the third day of Heartfire is Tales and Tallows, a day where the spirits of the dead are most active, seeking to enter a living host. And on that night the dead will even walk once more, in the shadows.


Of course, in many parts of Cyrodiil all of that was laughed off and ignored as superstition, the people instead choosing to make merry the whole day through. But the city of Chorrol did not; they knew that it was true. Only two years past, the Count, the Countess and all the Guild house leaders were found dead the following morning. So all the people stayed silent for fear of drawing the dead's ire, and did not celebrate.


All the people that is, save one. In the tavern this fellow sat, drinking and laughing with anyone who would stay near him for more than a moment. His face was red and jolly with alcohol, and he had no truck with any spirits but those he found in his mug. A drunkard and a fool he was called, but only by those who did not know him. The select few that did know him called him Metharial. This name, doubtless, was some affectation to give the Breton a semblance of class, but he refused to go by any other.


The innkeeper who waited on him, however, did not care what his name was. And he didn't care what currency the drunken man paid in either, for the boisterous stranger was causing such a ruckus that every specter and phantom within a hundred miles would converge on the inn. With every bottle of wine the Breton grew louder, until at last Metharial turned to the publican, and muzzily ordered another drink.


"Sod off, you drunken oaf!" half-whispered the innkeeper, still afraid of ghosts, "you've drank enough, now go walk it off, preferably a thousand leagues from here!"


Metharial was taken aback, and glared briefly at the Imperial before forgetting what, exactly, he was glaring about. Then he remembered the publican's harsh words, and decided that he would no longer grace this establishment with his noble presence. Staggering from his chair, he headed for the door, knocking several chairs over on the way. As he reached the wooden portal, he stumbled round to face the innkeeper once more, his head held high to allow the sunlight filtering in to reflect off his golden-brown hair. "And don't expect me to ever return, swineherd!"


The publican flushed, gesticulating madly for the stranger to just leave him be. Metharial obliged him and left, not without fumbling at the door handle a bit.


Now out in the bright sunlight, the Breton regretted suddenly the copious amounts of mead and wine and ale he had imbibed. Stumbling about - much to the disapproval of all onlookers - Metharial finally found a shady alley to hunker down in and sober up. He had indulged himself since early this morning, in the warm glow of a job well done. What exactly his profession was, well you'll soon know, but let it suffice to say that he was a well known figure among his peers. And as such, he garnered much attention from many parties.


One of those attentive parties was watching him at that very moment, though he was unaware. Metharial had always assumed that since he wore a cloak and hood, his identity was more or less secret. But there are few secrets to the kind of person who watched him as he slept off his celebration. Very few indeed. So Metharial the Breton was more than a little startled when he woke up some time later in a pitch black room.

[darkynd]

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.