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]

@Olen: I've read waaaay too many war stories to not mention the grisly side of combat and the effects on the noncombatants. I agree that this gets glossed over too much in the game, but since it's PG-13, unfortunately it's necessary. Those of us who know better can fill in the blanks.

@SubRosa: Part of the fun of posting on a PG-13 forum, as I was saying to a friend at work this morning, is that I have to think up creative swearing. It is actually quite interesting to see what passes the filters and what doesn't. Doesn't always make sense, but there you have it. And I fixed your nit - good point about semantics.

@Winter Wolf: It's nice to know that Paint has his own adoring fan. Horses are actually very sensitive to the emotions of people around them - it's one of the things that make them amazing animals. They are highly social, so that helps.

@mALX: I never said you were annoying, just the poetry written by certain people! But then, I'm not a big fan of poetry. Some I like, and some I'm just

@D.Foxy: Does that mean you're an adolescent pounding . . . I'll let you fill in the blank.

@Destri: My old mare liked to pretend she was a spooky girl. She did jump out of her skin once and bolted on me when a deer came out of the trees behind us. To this day I still don't understand how I managed to stay in the saddle! Paint has a lot of her characteristics - she was my first horse and took care of me in many ways. I still miss her. Writing Paint is my way of honoring her memory.

@Remko: I've polished up a few things here and there, but little really in the way of drastic rewrites. I'm glad you liked this so far. I'm enjoying your own two stories myself!

I'm sure those of you who have read this before are hopping to get into action. For all of you, here it comes.

******************
Chapter 3.5 Matius and the Great Gate

The rain turned heavier as I hiked up the steep road. Above, the sky grew darker, more forbidding. Beneath the thunder, I started hearing an unholy shrieking, like a horde of tortured souls screaming their agony to Nirn. My breath started puffing in the cooling air as I trudged higher, higher, up that escarpment.

Finally I saw something ahead, something other than bare rocks and scorched tree trunks. A rough barricade was thrown across the road at the top of the slope, where it leveled out onto the top of the mesa. A scattering of soldiers stood along it, once-white surcoats smudged with soot, blood, and other things. Their shoulders were slumped, and a couple of them swayed on their feet.

Now I could hear something else beneath the thunder and the screaming of souls. A crackling, buzzing sound set my teeth on edge, and made the small hairs on my neck stand up beneath my soggy ponytail. As my head reached the level of the mesa, the sight that met my eyes bought me to a stunned halt.

A hot wind blew in my face, causing the rain to disappear into steam. On the mesa, Kvatch’s broken, burned walls rose behind an ovate lens of fire and sizzling energy. Black, blood-stained tusks rose around it, some propping the flames up, others serving as grounding rods for the red lightning that flew off the Gate at irregular intervals. It seemed to suck the life out of its surroundings.

Creatures began appearing out of that inferno, naked male creatures with stringy muscles, monkey-like faces and pointed ears. Scamps! Damn! As the bare-headed soldier shouted orders, the men sprang to action, some slower than others. Two archers started firing arrows, while the others ran through the barricades to tackle the scamps.

Drawing my longsword, I shouldered my bow, its string loosened, and limped forward as fast as I could. Pausing behind the archers, I counted swiftly. Eight scamps against four swordsmen. The daedra were forming fireballs and flinging them with deadly accuracy at the mailed soldiers. As I moved through the barricade, I could hear bowstrings twanging madly. Hobbling toward the nearest scamp, I came up behind him and struck him in the side. His screech, too high pitched to hear, nevertheless drowned out the roaring of the Gate for a brief moment. He turned for me, but the guardsman he had been attacking swooped in and stabbed the scamp in the lower back.

As the scamp slid off the other’s blade, the guardsman shot a puzzled look at me, then ran to take on another scamp. Following as quickly as I could, I came under fire from another of the daedra. I dodged the fireballs and turned for him. He tossed another fireball at me, then came running. Ducking the fiery missile, I shoved my shield into him, knocking him off balance. Closing with the staggering creature, I shoved the tip of my sword into his upper abdomen, twisting the blade as I did so, before stepping to my left and tearing the blade out his side. Intestines and blood trailed the tip of my blade as the scamp fell away.

Turning back to the melee, I found that while the numbers of scamps had decreased to three, so had the number of guardsmen, from four to three. The soldiers had drawn together into a defensive knot, their backs to each other, and faced the remaining scamps. Not a good idea. They can’t duck those fireballs. For the moment, the scamps were focused on the three guardsmen. As I had done before, I hobbled behind the nearest one and stabbed him in the kidney. Now the odds are better. The men separated, going after the remaining two scamps. In a flurry of steel, almost too fast for my eye to follow, the three succeeded in finishing off the last of the daedra.

The bare-headed soldier, apparently the commander, spotted me, and said something to the guardsman I had assisted earlier. He shrugged in response, and knelt beside the fallen man. Shaking his head at the commander, he waved the other swordsman to help him carry the body to the barricades. The commander stalked up to me, sheathing his sword when I put mine away.

“Who in Oblivion are you?” he demanded once he was within earshot. His square face, which would have been boyish if not for the exhaustion and pain, scowled at me.

“I’m Julian, from Anvil,” I answered. “I came here -”

“You don’t belong here,” he cut me off. His brown eyes were cold on mine. “I don’t care if you carry a frickin’ daedric claymore, you’re not one of us!” He jabbed a gauntleted finger at the barricades. “Get back there, now!”

I stood my ground, my need to find Martin warring with my natural inclination to obey a commanding officer. “Sir, are you Savlian Matius?”

“Yes, I am!” he growled, but I saw he was swaying on his feet. Younger than I expected, the strain around his eyes belied the weight on his wide shoulders.

“Then maybe you can help me, sir,” I said, turning for the barricades. Now is not the time for a pissing contest.

“Help you?” Matius returned, his voice quieter now. “What makes you think I can help you? I can’t even help my own people!” he stabbed his hand at the Gate behind us.

“I’m looking for someone, I’m hoping he’s one of the survivors, sir,” I said when we reached the barricades.

“Did you look down in the camp?” Matius shot a glare at the Gate.

“I talked to Boldon, he said Martin might be in the Chapel. He told me you would know.”

Matius turned to look at me, and now I could see the despair he refused to show his men. “Know? Me?” he shook his head. “I know nothing.” Regarding him thoughtfully, I considered what approach to take with him.

“You know something, sir,” I said finally. “What do you know?”

“What do I know?” Matius’s anger flared up again. “I know we failed to protect the city. It was too much, too damned fast. We couldn’t get everyone out in time -” he stopped suddenly, straightening up and turning away from me, staring at the slice of Oblivion crackling before the smashed gates of Kvatch.

I stepped close behind him, so I could speak into his ear without the men overhearing me. “Sir, you’ve never seen anything like this before. By Akatosh, I’ve never seen anything like this, and I’ve been around the provinces. What could you do, what can you do?”

“The only thing we can,” he answered grimly. “Hold these barricades as long as we can.”

“And when the last one of you falls, what then?” I asked. His head snapped around at me.

“Do you think I don’t want to do something about that?” he snarled, punching his fist at the Gate. “My damn home is in flames, and I can’t do anything about it! But we can’t leave the barricades until that damned Gate is closed!”

“And how do you close it?” I asked him. He shook his head, turning to face me.

“It’s some kind of portal to Oblivion. The daedra are using it to attack the city. I’m not sure how it can be closed. There were three smaller Gates that opened just before this one,” he jerked his head backwards at the Gate. “They closed once the Great Gate was open, so I assume this can be closed the same way.” His eyes shifted. “I sent six men in there several hours ago, but they haven’t come back. And I can’t spare any more -” he waved at the four men standing behind the barricades. “I’ve got ten men down in the encampment, badly wounded, maybe dead by now.”

Stepping past Matius, I studied the Gate. “Your men went in there?” I said. If they went in there, then they should be coming out. But if they close that Gate, can they come back out?

“I fear the worst for them,” Matius was saying. Tears were in his eyes when I glanced back over my shoulder at him.

Ach, what else is there to do? If Martin’s still alive, as a priest, he probably won’t leave his flock, as long as this thing is open. What to do? Eliminate the source. How? Something shifted in my gut, just below my breastbone. Close shut the jaws of Oblivion.

“I will go in there,” I found my mouth saying, before my mind could stop it. Me? In there? Am I crazy? But it has to be done. It needs to be done.

“You?” Matius stepped in front of me, blocking my way. “It can mean your death if you go in there.”

Holding his steady gaze for a few moments, I looked away and stepped past him, through the barricades, and started limping toward that ovate fire.

“Julian!” Matius called after me. “Good luck to you! It’s a brave thing you’re doing!”

Brave? Me? I’m all jelly inside. I straightened my back and kept limping.