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]

New chapter! And I've edited the opening post; go check it out. But not before commenting about the new one! Pacing is a little slow, I'm feeling, but a lot of action is forthcoming in the next couple of chapter, I assure you. I'm a little excited

Part Seventeen
Stranger in a Strange Land

Consciousness came gradually. At first, he mistook it for the waking dream – all was dark and impenetrable to the eye. But his thoughts flowed unimpeded by sleep’s clouding influence, and came to realize that he was indeed awake, but his eyes would not open. His nose warned him of some unfamiliar odor, sharp but oddly pleasant. It was smoky, yet did not scour at his windpipes like smoke; the effect was instead soothing. He felt as if his throat and lungs were being caressed by soft hands. The air was moist and warm besides, so that his whole body was slick and comfy, as he might have been in the womb. A low hiss like that of a lizard came from somewhere left, and his wounds felt tender dabbing from a wet cloth. Wounds?

Metharial could not understand why he had wounds. Yes, that’s who I am! Or why he was so weak he could not pry open his eyes or twitch a muscle. It did not matter, he supposed. The odd, enjoyable smell and tender care was enough to send his mind spiraling back towards peaceful slumber, when a rustling nearby pulled him back. A chill blast of air followed, eliciting a low moan as he was rudely torn back to full awareness.

The constant hiss suddenly turned into a voice. “Clossse that door, fool. He isss not ssstrong yet.”

There was further rustling and sound of feet scuffling, and then a recognizably human voice replied. “When will he be strong enough then, Stranger-to-Death? You have been treating him for days with your hossali bush incense and ointment of the wanra reed. I’m beginning to think a Healer might serve better.” The man’s tone bespoke of tightly held anger; hot eagerness concealed by a veneer of control.

Stranger-to-Death? What kind of a name is that? Metharial’s mind, languid from inactivity, was working itself back up to speed at a maddeningly slow rate.

“Heh, you might ussse a Healer…if he could sssurvive the journey,” said the lizard voice in its sibilant way, “You know asss well asss I that the Marshhh Shhhivers are not sssomething to trifle with, Vautisss.”

Metharial groaned, and the dabbing increased in tempo. But it was no pain that made him whimper - it was the revelation of Marsh Shivers. His mind suddenly raced at speeds close to panic. The diseases of Black Marsh were legendary – and rightfully so. They were nearly always fatal to humankind, and it was said that Marsh Shivers ranked high on the list of most painful. And most deadly.

This Vautis fellow was all cool impatience though; he certainly had never heard of Marsh Shivers. “As you say, Stranger. But I warn you, I can only let him lie for one more day. I must get my answers!”

“Be calm, Imperial, the Breton will … recover.” Metharial thought this Stranger-to-Death was crazy, but hoped his name would hold true. “I ssstake my honor as shhhaman of Bleekisss upon hisss sssurvival.”

That must have satisfied the Imperial, for the brief rustle and rush of cold air that announced his entry came again for his exit. The hissing voice spoke again, this time to Metharial, as the lip of some flask or bladder was pressed between his lips. “Drink thisss, crazy-ssskinwalker, and you will walk once more…”

A putrid liquid flowed down Metharial’s gullet, tasting like a cross between rotten mudcrab and swamp slime. But his head fogged over almost instantly and he felt all worries detach from his mind. They floated away as Metharial slipped back into a peaceful stupor.

*****

The next time he awoke, Metharial’s eyes popped open immediately. At first he could not see much; the only light source was weak, and it cast huge shadows or broad rays, making the contrast confusing to underused sight. But after lying for a few moments Metharial remembered how to see, and he could soon make out his surroundings.

The building was not Imperial, that was for certain, unless he had been asleep for much longer than anticipated and mud daub had meanwhile come into fashion. The sloping walls curved to form a dome shape, the only two open slots being the doorway – bound shut by stretched blue hide – and a smoke hole. The pallet Metharial lay upon was shoved up against one wall and only stood a foot off the ground. And it was made from straw. At the center of this strange house, underneath the smoke hole, of course, was the firepit. Dormant now, the ash of recent burning remained. But what lay around the firepit interested Metharial more; the rest of the structure was blank of items, but all around the pit flasks filled with a rainbow of liquids, exotic and undoubtedly dangerous plants, indescribable meats and huge bones were stacked, one atop the other.

It had the look of an alchemists’ dream and nightmare clashed together. Wondering where he could possibly be, Metharial surged up. Except his leg, remembering what he had put it through the last time, screamed out in agony and the Breton dropped back to rest rather than force the issue. He sighed, and instead rummaged through his pockets to see what his saviors had left him – at least his clothes.

“You’ll find nothing, ssskinwalker.”

This time his leg had no contrarian arguments when Metharial leapt to readiness, hands groping for absent knives. His eyes scanned the shadows again, and this time he saw the scaly creature. An Argonian, its coloration such that amidst the brown mud walls, it nearly disappeared. Dark orbs stared unblinking at him, but sharp needles for teeth flashed into a mockery of a smile. Its voice he recognized to be the one watching over him before. “Do not worry ssskinwalker. We will not hurt you. The tribe of Bleekisss is friend to the Emperor.”

Metharial looked warily at this Argonian – whose name he remembered now. “How do you know I am a man of the Emperor, Stranger-to-Death?”

The Argonian’s horrific smile came again. “Because Vautisss saw the metal, and sssaid that it sssaid you were. Myssself, I do not underssstand how metal ssspeaksss to you humansss.”

Hand flew to belt pouch and blood fled from face. Metharial knew what Stranger meant – this man, this Vautis had seen his coin, the coin of the Red Spearhead. And known what it meant. He could not know for certain, but it seemed awfully good fortune to have a contact here…wherever here was. “You are concerned, friend?”

Metharial looked up at Stranger-to-Death and forced his face to smooth over. “Only so far as I should be. Where am I? And how did I end up here?”

“You are one of the privileged few ssskinwalkersss to be admitted into Balisss…the greatessst of the free tribesss. We do not acknowledge thisss ssskinwalker lord, Etlund, and we refussse to trade with hisss filthy merchants. How you came here, well…I do not know.”

“You don’t know?” asked Metharial. “How’s that?”

“Being Ssshaman doesss not require that I leave my home. And often requiresss that I do not,” replied the Argonian, “the outside world only reachesss me through thossse I mussst heal and the talesss they tell. Perhaps Vautisss will speak more.”

The Breton nodded. He was surrounded by Argonians who despised Lord Etlund; perhaps the situation was not so dire after all. But where were all his things?

Stranger-to-Death slid to his feet as Metharial toddled awkwardly, and flowed to where the Breton stood. “Your leg isss not yet good,” he hissed, “you mussst be patient…”

The blue hide flap pulled back just then, revealing a foggy outside before two cloaked figures slipped in. One stood a full head taller than Metharial, and his cowl did not hide bluff, handsome features. A part in his cloak revealed plate armor, and the outline of a sword stood out at his hip. The other shape proved to be Argonian once its hood was pulled down. It stood a hand shorter than Metharial, with green scales to contrast Stranger-to-Death’s brown, and gripped a hooked spear tightly.

The man stepped forward, uncovering his head to free shoulder-length chestnut hair, gathered back by a tight cord. His green eyes bored into Metharial’s, and coupled with a haggard, unshaven face it made for an impression of strain. The accompanying Argonian watched this man carefully, noted Metharial, and Stranger-to-Death nearly as intently. He could not think about that, for the Imperial stepped up so close that he filled up the whole of Metharial’s vision, bringing his intense gaze down to the Breton’s level. “So, you’re one of those the Mage told me about. Can’t say I’m impressed…I had assumed that Dauvian would employ more imposing agents,” he pulled back abruptly, loosening his cloak so that it fell back to fully reveal his armor.

It was quite a grand sight, Metharial had to admit. Fell ebony, its black sheen especially imposing in the low light, protected his torso and legs, and steel plate covered where that did not. His sword was perhaps more intimidating, if for different reasons; it was an Akaviri katana. Single-edged and slightly curved, katanas were simple and effective, but their prowess in warfare did not make them famous. No, Metharial knew all too well that an Akaviri katana such as this man bore were the mark of a Blade. A personal servitor of the Empire; his eyes and ears, enforcers, bodyguards and friends. To be a Blade, a man had to be among the best. Crossing them was not an option. And this one looked as if he was about to take a bite out of Metharial’s throat.

Clearing it nervously, to make sure the man hadn’t yet, Metharial forced himself to meet his eyes. “Yes, well, Dauvian recruits men who he knows are effective, and will get the job done. And, if I may ask, how do the Blades know of him?”

The man laughed wheezily, as if Metharial had made some hilarious jest, and his Argonian companion shifted. Looking over his shoulder at it momentarily, the man rounded on Metharial with a glare. “You’re not asking the questions, oh no. You will follow me and One-Alone, and answer our questions closely, understand?”

Metharial was confused by this fellow’s sudden changes in temperament, but agreed nonetheless – as if he had any choice in the matter. The two marched him out of the shaman’s home, One-Alone holding the hide flap open, and so Metharial stepped outside and got his first view of Bleekis.

Perhaps ‘view’ was wrong; a dense mist hung over everything, reducing structures twenty paces away to blurry silhouettes. All the buildings were dome-shaped, and so cleverly disguised by reeds and cattails and other swamp foliage Metharial had to look closely. There was no commons or clearing; every square inch of land was covered with marsh grasses or ferns. What he could see looked more like an extension of the surrounding swamps’ vegetation. The trees themselves were strange too, even though Metharial knew them as the same breed that grew in Blackwood in Cyrodiil. But these were gnarled and twisted things, often half-choked by vines or creepers, with huge distended roots seeping up the plenteous moisture. Metharial thought he saw Argonian huts in the crooks of the biggest branches, too, a testament to their huge girth.

A heavy hand pushed Metharial forward, and the Breton stumbled forward, his leg buckling. Just before his face got acquainted with fine Black Marsh peat, his collar was grabbed and Metharial found himself bodily heaved upright. One-Alone looked annoyed, saying, “Vautiss, can you not carry thiss heap?”

Metharial noted the Argonian’s hiss was not so pronounced as Stranger-to-Death’s, just before mentally berating himself for not connecting Vautis’ voice to the one he had heard while nearly unconscious. Although when he thought of it that way, it did not seem so bad…

“Ha, the Breton can carry himself. Hurry up now Metharial, no matter if your legs feel like tree trunks or fairy clouds. Move!”

Like a dog snapping at the heels of sheep, Metharial found himself driven by Vautis. Ghostly shapes appeared and receded as they went through Bleekiss, sometimes solidifying into Argonian villagers, their scales of all different colors. But they always hove away after seeing One-Alone and Vautis, giving the Argonian’s strange hooked spear fearful glances. For his part, One-Alone bared his fangs at any who laid eyes on him for more than a moment.

The Breton wondered at the villagers’ strange reactions. Did he hold some kind of office, like guardsmen, or was One-Alone an outcast who traveled with Vautis but was hated by his people? There were many possibilities, none of them very satisfying.

Contemplation was brought to a halt however, when they finally halted before what looked to be just another dome shelter. Vautis cleared away the screen of witherleaf from the tarp entrance and led the way inside. Metharial followed at the prodding of One-Alone’s spear.

The interior was quite a bit cooler than Stranger-to-Death’s tent, even though the firepit was all ablaze. Assembled inside, around the flame, sat a half-dozen Argonians. They looked, as far as Metharial could tell with lizards, wizened. Most had twisted protrusions from their scales, like miniature horns, their scales were faded and their limbs were not so lithe as One-Alone’s. Their garb consisted of sleeveless, close-fitting tunics woven from what Metharial would hazard was some kind of reed. Now Vautis took off his cloak completely, fully revealing an impressive figure only accentuated by the fantastic armor he wore.

One-Alone set his cloak next to Vautis’, folded up on a leaf mat, and Metharial saw why the villagers feared him. His armor was not ebony, and it was not steel – it was something else completely that the Breton had never before seen in his life. Black as ebony, it did not reflect light as ebony did, and was shaped sinuously, giving the feel of a deep fast-flowing mountain stream. At the Argonian’s belt hung three jawbones. Hanging from his neck were three necklaces – each one beaded with what Metharial was sure would be a full mouthful of Argonian teeth.

The eldest of the Argonians stood, interrupting Metharial in his shock. “Approach the council of Bleekiss, Vautiss Celenio of the Cyrodiil Emperor, One-Alone of our liege the King of Argonia, and Metharial of the Cyrodiil Emperor.”

The Cyrodiil Emperor, he noticed. And the emphasis on “our liege” when saying the King of Argonia revealed where this council’s loyalties lay. But Metharial wondered what Vautis was doing. Didn’t he want to hear what he had to say?

The Blade had his own ideas it seemed though, as Vautis stood confidently before the elders, while One-Alone took up position a feet closer and opposite of him. “My noble elders of Bleekis, as you know the King of Argonia has made pact with my Emperor, promising loyalty in exchange for protection and prosperity…”

“Protection from what? Morrowind? The sslavers sstill raid the north!” interrupted one elder whose scales were nearly pure white. A low ‘sss’ of assent arose, and Vautis’ face was painted with annoyance.

“That is another issue, Wa-Najum. What is fact is that the King of Argonia owes fealty to my Emperor. And fealty means protecting the Emperor’s couriers!” Vautis flung a hand to point sternly at Metharial then. “This man is a courier of the Emperor; both I and One-Alone can attest to the sigil he bears. And the men who serve Lord Etlund attacked him! It is part of your duty then, as vassals to the King of Argonia, to carry out the King’s duties where he cannot. You must strike now at Etlund; you have no more excuses. He has already marred your land beyond recovery, will you let him destroy your honor?”

The one named Wa-Najum looked ready to rip Vautis with tooth and claw, but the elder who had invited them waved the angry Argonian down. Turning huge crimson eyes onto the Blade, the lizard man said, “Thiss may very well be sso, Vautiss Celenio, but if thiss man were a courier of the Emperor, why did he travel covertly? My watcherss reported no one like him entering Vilnar, meaning he came dissguissed, or in ssecret ssomehow. And you missundersstand the oaths we take to the King – we sserve him as a tribe sservess its chief. Loyally, but alwayss with the resservation that we may choosse another sshould the chief lead in the wrong way.”

One-Alone blinked; that last had been directed at him, it seemed to Metharial. The Breton realized that things were not going well for Vautis, and that what Vautis wanted was much the same thing that he had been tasked with. Stepping forward suddenly, Metharial bowed awkwardly. Opening his mouth to speak, Metharial was very conscious of Vautis’ eyes upon him, as well the alien Argonian globes. “Honored elders of the council, I have but this to say: I had to travel discreetly, for fear of my life. The Lord Etlund is all but an avowed traitor, and the proof I carry should clear up that last bit.”

Ignoring Vautis’ hissed “What!” the Breton continued. “After interrogating a prominent officer in the army at Vilnar, I have learned that Etlund intends to destroy the Imperial Legion in Black Marsh – Argonia, I mean – and extend his control to all of western Black Marsh. Argonia, that is.”

Whispered conversation erupted on all sides, and Metharial found himself grabbed by the Blade. “Why didn’t you tell me this before? Did it somehow skip your mind, that little bit of trivia? Now tell me everything before the lizards remember we’re here.”

Metharial recounted Norvis Feurile’s story. Three separate branches of a great force would leave from Vilnar towards the fort at Drevania; two to cut off escape, one to destroy everything. “Drevania, eh?” murmured Vautis, “that’ll be Gladyrmore. Morest is stationed there…maybe we could…”

What they could maybe do, Metharial would never know, since the Argonian council had ended their discussion. One-Alone, he noticed, had remained aloof even at the revelation. “The council hass come to a conclussion, Metharial of the Cyrodiil Emperor. Our sscoutss have sseen an increassse in movement of the ssskinwalker forcess. We did not undersstand it before, but now we do – Lord Etlund means to take what is rightfully the King of Argonia’ss. We sshall not allow thiss to happen. You have our sspearss.”

Vautis sighed and grinned over at One-Alone, who stared back unemotionally. Clapping Metharial on the shoulder, the Imperial chuckled. “What you’ve done in a moment, I’ve been trying to accomplish for months. Come along; we shall go to Gladyrmore and warn Morest. Then, to crush Etlund!”

Metharial smiled wanly up at the Blade. Crush Etlund? He was not a soldier, to march in wars. He was an assassin, skulking in shadows and striking when he chose. It would have been better, Metharial realized, to keep his mouth shut. At that moment, an epiphany came.