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]

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.