Old Habits Die Hard, Can an old dog learn new tricks? Options

[haute ecole rider]

This is the story I have been posting on the Unnamed Forum. I'm in the process of moving it over here for those who have not yet seen it. Enjoy!

Chapter 1.1a Escape

Waking up vomiting nothing but a small amount of bile, I gagged on the burning in the back of my throat. Coughing the last of it from my mouth, I curled on my right side on the foul cot, knees drawn to my chest. The rough wood of the cot’s frame pressed into my cheek. The smith’s hammer pounding on the inside of my skull sent stars shooting across the backs of my eyes. Grinding the heels of my hands into my closed lids in an attempt to drive the lights away only made the damn hammer pound even harder. Groaning, I turned until I lay on my back, opening my eyes.

Ignoring the taste of moldy stones on my tongue, I gulped down deep breaths of the damp air. The stars subsided as I stared at the stone blocks rising into the gloom above my head. The hammering slowed to once every shaky breath. Raising my thin wrists, I looked at the iron shackles encircling their ache. The prominent veins in the backs of my hands disappeared as the blood drained from them. Turning them so their palms faced me, I studied the ghosts of rough calluses, dark skin pale in the dim light of the window above my head.

Shouting. Clashing of steel on steel. A dark room spinning around me. Pitchers breaking, fluid flying everywhere. The helmed face of the Legion rider before me, his gauntleted hand holding my shoulder in an implacable grip, shouting something at me. My empty hands between us, palms facing the rider, my voice drowned by the chaos around us. Then the cold night air, my bare feet cringing from the rough cobblestones. Falling through the paving into darkness.

“Ach, what happened?” I muttered softly to myself. In spite of my whisper, the smith’s hammer pounded hard for a couple of heartbeats before slowing down again. Struggling to a seated position, I ignored the familiar stabbing pain in my left side, the hard throbbing in my right knee. Scooting my rump along the cot, I reached the pitcher sitting on the rickety table at the foot of the cot. Looking into the mug next to it, I grimaced at the dirty fluid inside. Picking up the pitcher, I raised it to my lips. Trying to avoid tasting it, I gulped the stale water hurriedly. Taking another mouthful and setting the pitcher down, I rinsed my furry teeth with it. Rising to my feet and leaning my right hand on the wall, I limped to the privy at the rear of the cell, spitting the foul water out.

“Awake now, are you, pretty Redguard?” the sarcastic, biting voice sounded behind me. Shooting a glare over my shoulder, I took in the barred door, the Dunmer in his cell across the way. “How do you like your cell?” he continued, his voice still mocking. Pretty, am I? Disheveled, filthy, thin and weak - no, pretty would be the last word I’d use to describe myself.

Turning around, I took a limping step through the trickle of faint moonlight falling from a window too small to show stars. Another limp took me past the table, its pathetic candle shedding little additional light. One more step brought me to the cell door.

“Roomy enough for you?” the mocking continued as I studied the Dunmer. He looked as unhealthy as I felt. Turning away from him, I limped around the small room, hunched against the sharp pain in my left side. Nausea roiled in my stomach, and my muscles quivered uncontrollably, their former strength forgotten. “I can’t even imagine what it’s like for you,” the other’s voice followed me on my limited perambulation. “No more sunshine, no more open seas. Just a box and a dirty sunbeam for the rest of your sorry life. Bet you’re glad it won’t last long, eh?”

“What?” I returned to the barred door, squinting at the Dunmer across the way. “I won’t be here long?” my voice cracked, weak in my still-burning throat. My dry lips split as I spoke.

“Oh, didn’t you know?” The Dunmer’s voice turned bitter along with his faded red eyes. “They put you here to forget about you. They don’t care if you die, Redguard.” His sharp-edged voice grated on my already raw nerves. The sound of a bolt being drawn back, a heavy door creaking open somewhere down the passage reached us. “Hear that Redguard?” the Dunmer’s tone became strident. “They’re coming for you!” He drew back into the shadows of his cell as I heard voices.

“Tell me what happened to my sons,” an old man’s voice reached me, heavy with grief.

“Sire, all we know is that they were attacked,” a woman’s voice, clipped with authority and respect, responded as booted steps drew nearer the cells. “We must hurry, Sire, we need to get you to safety.” I heard the slightest undertone of anxiety in her voice.

A tall figure, clad in steel armor with blue enamel and brass trim marking him as one of the Blades, lifted his torch at me. He stopped outside my cell, his Redguard features scowling at me in the guttering light. The woman, a little shorter than I and clad in the same armor, paused at the sight of me. Her blue eyes sparked angrily beneath the helm. “This cell was supposed to be empty!” she exclaimed softly under her breath.

“I don’t know, Captain,” the tall Redguard shrugged, keeping his cold black eyes on me. “Some mix-up with the City Watch.”

“It doesn’t matter,” the captain responded. Beyond her, another armored figure and an old Imperial man in royal purple robes appeared. The third Blade matched my height, and like me, turned out to be Redguard as well.

“Prisoner!” the captain’s voice crackled between the stone walls. My back straightened involuntarily, painfully, at the unmistakable command in the woman’s voice. “Stand back beneath the window!”

Although I had been out of the Legion for four years, old habits die hard. Complying with her order, I limped to the back of the cell, behind the moonbeam. The captain unlocked my cell door while I squinted through the grey light. Opening the door, she stepped back to let the other two Blades enter. The tall one advanced to stand between me and the others. Sensing his dislike of me, thick as molasses in a Skyrim winter, I accepted it, as I accepted the captain’s authority, since I could do nothing else.

“Watch the prisoner, Glenroy,” the captain ordered, moving to the side wall opposite my cot.

The slim sword whickered as Glenroy drew it. “Aye, Captain,” he growled, turning the blade so it shimmered in the moonlight between us. “You stay where you are,” he snarled at me. “Don’t even breathe.” Breathing slowly and shallowly, I stayed put. Looking past him, I regarded the other Redguard. Standing at ease near the door, his impassive expression scared me in its implacability. Years of combat in the Legion had taught me that the most deadly enemies are the ones you can’t read.

The captain started muttering under her breath, and I felt the unmistakable tingle of magicka shimmer over the plain rock face. Catching my breath, I realized the captain was a Breton, with high innate magicka. Probably trained as a battlemage.

The old man, his dark fur-lined robe a shadow in the shadows of the cell, stepped past the impassive soldier and peered at me, his sad eyes puzzled. “Come closer,” his voice smoothing from a grieved coarseness to a commanding tone.

Glancing at Glenroy, I hesitated, but he fell back to stand beside the old man, keeping his blade between me and the other. Acutely aware of the shimmering sword, I stepped forward into the light.

The old man’s eyes widened. “Ah, yes, I’ve seen you before.” His dark gaze held mine, once again becoming sad and resigned. “That means today is the day, and the hour is near.” Suddenly aware that the smith’s hammer had stopped pounding in my head, I stared at the old man.

Licking my dry lips, I remembered how the captain had addressed him. “Pardon me, Sire?” He can’t be - no, not the Emperor, not here, not in my cell! My eye fell on the large red amulet on his brocaded chest. The Amulet of Kings? The Emperor! Stiffly against the pain in my left side, I bowed. “How may I serve you, Sire?” Old habits die hard, very hard, indeed. Looking up, I saw a faint smile touch Uriel Septim’s eyes.

“I have served Tamriel all my life,” he answered. “You too, shall serve Tamriel in your own way. But you have your own path to follow.” His eyes grew even darker. “Be warned, though. There will be blood and death before the end.”

“Blood and death are not new to me, Sire,” I spoke softly, surprised by the weariness I heard in my cracking voice.

The wall of my cell crumbled beneath the captain’s hands, falling away in a cloud of dry, choking dust. A passageway appeared beyond. “Sire,” her voice cut between us. “We must go now, there is little time.” She disappeared into the darkness beyond the jagged stone edges.

Glenroy turned the top of the slender blade toward me as the Emperor started toward the opening. “What of the prisoner, Sire?”

“Leave her be,” the command voice was quietly unmistakable as Uriel Septim stepped through the opening, following the captain. “Her path may yet lie with ours.” Glenroy gave me one last glare, sheathing his sword and following the Emperor. The third Blade turned his back on me and brought up the rear.

Listening to the sound of their booted feet fading away, I glanced around the cell again. Something coiled in my belly, just below the breastbone. On my discharge from the Legion, I had once hoped to find peace and health after decades of blood and death. Peace and health had avoided me, and now a mere hint of blood and death had found me.

[haute ecole rider]

Chapter 1.2 - The Tunnels

Akatosh must be sitting on my shoulder. Almost immediately upon entering that dark space beyond the collapsed wall, I discovered shabby leather armor - a cuirass, greaves, boots, and best of all, a leather shield that was light enough for my weakened condition. A serviceable iron bow and a few arrows were nearby.

What followed was a maze of dark tunnels, musty chambers, and mostly rats. Soon I was lost. Still I crept along, my hands shaking and my heart in my mouth. Being alone in strange surroundings made me very jittery, as accustomed as I was to being part of a group for twenty-five years. My back became sore from the constant anticipation of a rear strike.

I had been tiptoeing along for some time, my smith friend tap-tap-tapping softly in my head, when I heard a creaking, groaning noise that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Zombie! I hate the things. Recalling the characteristic stench that made that cot back in my cell smell like roses, I found an alcove to hide in. Zombies were disgusting to fight. Their rotting flesh never quite seemed to feel the bite of a sharp blade. Worse, they left behind moldy, slimy fluid that was nearly impossible to remove from weapons and armor.

The undead being lumbered past my hiding place, after two rats that were trying to escape it. Stepping carefully in my oversized boots, I limped out of my hiding place behind the zombie and stabbed it, just to the right of the spinal groove, into where the kidney would be in a man or elf. Turning the blade sideways, I yanked it out of the creature’s flank. A chunk of rotting flesh pulled out with a sickening moist sound. As part of the creature fell wetly at my feet, the zombie staggered around, its half-rotted arms raising to clobber me.

Swinging the sword sideways, I felt it thunk through soft meat into the spinal bones. Heavy blows landed on my shield, staggering me. Managing to recover my blade, I hobbled backwards as the undead being collapsed, falling in several pieces.

After that encounter, it took several minutes for my frayed nerves to knit back together. They almost unraveled again when I skirmished with goblins later in the maze. The first two were lightly armed peons, each alone, each easily taken down by sniping from the shadows. Still, the combat left me shaking badly. Here, I found a mortar and pestle, as I had wished for not so long ago as I picked cairn bolete and wisp stalks. This raised my spirits a little.

Approaching a stack of logs precariously balanced at the top of a slope, I peered around the corner to see two goblins, one a melee fighter, the other an archer. They stared back at me, starting when they obviously realized that I wasn’t one of them. Hobbling for the logs, I kicked at them. Unfortunately I used my left leg, causing my right knee to scream in protest. Nearly falling to my bad knee, I looked up to see the logs tumbling down the slope, sweeping away the two goblins.

A more heavily armed goblin ran out a side passage at the bottom of the slope. His bulkier form made my eyes widen. A berserker! Remaining crouched behind the one log that didn’t roll away, I drew two arrows, sticking one into the dirt by my boot. Restringing my bow, I nocked the other arrow and sighted on him. Akatosh, may my arrow fly true. The bow hadn’t been my primary weapon during my service in the Legion, so my skills were very rusty.

Remember sis, don’t draw it full,” Cieran’s voice whispered in my ear. Sighting down the arrow, I squinted at the silver-barked sapling ten meters down the hill. “Now take a breath, let half of it out,” Cieran continued instructing me. Feeling his presence at my back, sighting over my shoulder, I did as he said. “Feel good?” he asked me.

“Hmm-hmm,” I answered.

“Now pull the string the rest of the way and release, smoothly,” his whisper coached me.

The berserker saw my movement and started for me, raising his war axe. I released the arrow, which smacked him in the chest, embedding itself in the bone breastplate he wore. The impact only staggered him, and he recovered quickly. I forgot Cieran’s lesson and released the second arrow in a panic. Naturally, the arrow flew wide, and now the berserker was almost on top of me.

Backpedaling as fast as I could with the cursed bum knee, I dropped the bow and drew my sword. Managing to raise my shield in time to deflect the blow from that axe, I fell to the ground under the impact. Rolling to clear my sword arm, I looked up to see the berserker raise his axe overhead for the killing blow. Somehow I managed to drive my shortsword into his belly, slipping it beneath the edge of his bone cuirass and angling the tip up into his rib cage. Black blood cascaded down the blade as I twisted it to create more internal damage before withdrawing it.

Scrambling back on my rump, I managed to avoid having the large goblin land on me like a felled tree. Damn, that was too close. I much preferred the longsword - I liked keeping my enemies at a distance from me. But using the captain’s katana felt sacrilegious to me - I had not earned the honor of handling an Akaviri blade. Akatosh, I need a longsword, and fast!

Gasping for breath, I stared at the dead berserker. Fighting him had brought back far too many unwelcome memories.

Laying crumpled against the wall, stripped of my armor and weapons, I watched the goblins dancing around their gesticulating shaman. Every so often, one of them would approach me and hammer on my battered body with his fists. The shaman would lower her totem staff in my direction, and send debilitating bolts into my chest, my back, my belly. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to lie still. It hurt to move. My nose was broken for the third time. My right knee lay useless, ligaments severed by a wicked slash from an iron shortsword. Blood flowed slowly out of the gash in my left side. That wound would have killed me had it landed a finger’s width higher, above the arc of my hipbone. A couple of broken ribs jabbed my back whenever I inhaled.

Though the fire was only a couple of meters away from me, I felt cold, my fingers and toes growing numb. Blood loss, I knew. Just a matter of time. Akatosh, don’t let me die alone.

Voices, screeching, the sound of metal on metal. Goblins running towards the passage leading up to the surface. Only the shaman remained. She walked over to me, aiming that cursed totem staff at me. The sounds of combat drew nearer, then a shout I recognized. Florio! My optio! Though it hurt, I turned my gaze up at the shaman. “Today, you die,” I whispered at her. The totem staff flared, and I fell away in a wash of blinding pain.

After what seemed like an interminable period of time, my shaking eased enough that I could focus a couple of healing spells on myself. When the pain and terror eased, I struggled slowly to my feet, recovered my bow, and limped cautiously down the slope, staying close to the wall.

Entering a large cavern, I grounded my good left knee in the shadows to one side of the entrance. Scanning the place, I picked out more goblins. A peon next to a cooking fire to my right. Another peon poking idly at penned rats in the central pit. A shaman pacing beside some chests at the far end of the cavern, over twenty meters away. Power flared around the wizened head of the goblin staff she carried, pounding its butt into the ground with every step.

Which one first? That shaman is probably the most deadly, with that totem staff. She can kill me ten times over before I even get within blade-range. I tested the bowstring. Loose. I tightened it, eyeing the goblins. Those two peons are fairly close to me. I’m in the shadows right here. Good place for sniping.

Slipping the shield straps onto my forearm, I sheathed the shortsword and pulled four arrows from my quiver. Not liking the pit goblin’s idea of entertainment, I sent a single arrow into his unarmored chest. The impact flung him onto his back. Nocking another broadhead to my bowstring, I turned to the peon sitting by the cooking fire.

His back was to me as he sliced meat off the roasting rat spitted over the flames. Using Cieran’s technique, I sighted on his hunched figure and released the arrow. Picking up a third shaft, I looked back to see the goblin stagger into the fire, screeching from the arrow in his left shoulder. Time seemed to stretch out as I forced myself to follow my brother’s teachings, flowing through the half-drawing the bow, taking half a breath, then sighting, tautening the string and releasing with a soft exhalation. It took an eternity to cross the distance between me and the wounded goblin, but the arrow sank into his chest with satisfying results.

In the corner of my eye, I sensed the shaman pause in her pacing, looking over her shoulder at the cooking fire. I swept the last arrow into my hand and limped backwards, deeper yet into the shadows behind other boulders. Sighting on the shaman, I considered the distance. The range was great enough I worried that my arrows would drop before they reached the shaman. I had never shot an arrow so far before.

“If you ever have to shoot further, Julian, remember to raise your aim point higher,” Cieran’s voice reached me from the far side of the campfire. He lay stretched on his back, arms crossed behind his head. “The farther your target, the higher the arrow has to fly to drop into that sweet spot.”

Raising my aim, I paused when the arrow tip hovered above the shaman’s head, level with the top of her totem staff as she slammed it into the dirt, power flickering around that disembodied skull. As the goblin glared around the cavern, her voice crackling across the pit, I let the shaft fly. She bent forward abruptly as I pulled another arrow from my quiver, the one I had released protruding from her lower abdomen. Her free hand reached up to it as I repeated Cieran’s technique, adjusting the aim point to compensate for her shortened silhouette. The shaman’s head raised and her eyes met mine as the arrow sped across the pit, the totem staff beginning to drop its skull in my direction.

Shrugging the shield onto my wrist, I ran no, limped as quickly as I could around the pit, unsheathing my shortsword. My precaution was unnecessary, however, for the goblin fell, her totem staff clattering off to the side harmlessly. Her bleeding body did not move as I approached warily.

Now that the situation no longer called for it, panic swept over me. I sat shakily down beside the shaman, panting for air. Remembered pain rose up again, and the pounding in my head increased for a couple of breaths, then subsided. As quickly as the panic had overwhelmed me, it ebbed away, leaving me shaking and breathless.

Again, casting a couple of healing spells gave me strength and stilled the smith’s hammer. A quick search of the chests netted me the one thing I had prayed for just moments ago, an iron longsword. Straight-edged and keen, it was of decent quality and snugged itself into my right palm as if it belonged there.

Did you hear me, Akatosh? I wondered. I had served him for twenty-five years in the Legion, but had never given him much thought. But now, every time I thought I needed something - If you’re listening, Akatosh, thank you.