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]

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.