Old Habits Die Hard Part Two, An old dog learns new tricks Options

[haute ecole rider]

Hi all,

To continue my story, I decided to break it up in more manageable chunks. The 200 post limit seems to be a reasonable number.

You can see Chapters 1-7 here:

Now begins Chapter 8.

Back on the road again, Julian catches up with a friend, and makes another, among the Legion riders. Riding along the Blue Road under the full moons is special. I hope I’ve managed to convey that feeling to all my readers.

This post is a little longer than my self-imposed limit, but it was hard to edit a much longer interlude down into something that was more manageable for the forums and still had the important stuff.

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Chapter 8.1 Bandits and Riders

Paint was eager to go. He chose to gallop around the Red Ring Road, only slowing down when we caught up to Marc Atellus between Sercen and Red Roxey Inn. Blowing and bouncing as he slowed down to match the Legion horse’s slow amble, Paint whickered at the other horse.

“Hello, Julian!” Atellus greeted me heartily. He slapped his left thigh. “Thanks to you, all healed now!”

“Good,” I mirrored his grin as I tried to catch my breath. “I’m glad to see you again, Atellus.”

“In these dark times, friends are more valuable than treasure,” the Legion rider commented as the two horses continued down the road at an easy pace. “Your horse looks well-rested this afternoon.”

“He should be, sir,” I responded, slapping the brown-and-white neck fondly. “He’s been loafing for the past two days, since I saw you last. He just galloped all the way from Weye.”

Atellus’s brows lifted beneath his helm. “All that way?” he whistled. “Paint must be feeling really good today!” He laughed as Paint tossed his head and bounced twice, as if in agreement. The Legion bay pinned his ears briefly at Paint, who subsided and became sedate again. “Shush, Bucky,” Atellus chided his mount quietly, with amusement in his voice. “Our horses may seem lazy,” he admitted to me, “but it’s because they go all day and all night, with little time for rest. They’re smart enough to conserve their energy.”

“I’ve noticed, sir,” I responded. “It’s a good thing when you have to ride long hours.”

“So, Julian, where are you and Paint headed on this fine afternoon?” Atellus asked.

“Cheydinhal, sir,” I answered. Ahead, in the shadows thrown by the westering sun, I saw a shabby little inn off to the north of the road, tucked beneath high mountains.

“That’s Roxey Inn,” Atellus pointed at it. “And we’re near the end of my patrol. You’ll run into Marius Tarquinius between here and Wellspring Cave, just past the Blue Road. Caelius Drusus patrols the Blue Road. He’s the youngest of us, and has never served in the provinces.”

“Is he the least experienced, sir?” I asked.

“Humph,” Atellus shook his head. “Actually, Drusus has done nothing but patrol,” he responded. “Started out as a forester, so he’s a pretty tough character.” He looked hard at me. “I mention him because he’s likely the least prejudiced of all of us riders.”

“Against Redguards, you mean, sir?” I asked, thinking of Adrian Remus, the rider I had encountered east of Skingrad. He had been cool, even suspicious, toward me, though he had maintained a professional demeanor. Atellus nodded, a little ruefully.

“And Dunmer,” he added. “That’s why he’s assigned to the Cheydinhal patrol route. That city’s half Dunmer as it is. He gets along very well with everyone there.” Atellus halted Bucky and threw me a half salute before turning the bay back westward. “Farewell, Julian!”

“Thanks for the company, sir,” I said. “Stay safe,” I called to his departing back. “And watch out for marauder archers!” His guffaw trailed behind him. Paint resumed his slow walk. Patting his neck again, I found it cool. “Out of energy, Paint?” I asked him. He tossed his head and bounced once, but resumed his walk immediately.

The night settled around as we turned onto the cobblestones of the Blue Road. The highway climbed steeply to the top of a ridge, and Paint marched resolutely up the slope. Near the top of the hill, I spotted the ruins of an old farmstead to the right of the road. When I saw movement within the ruins, I stopped Paint near an oak tree about twenty meters away. After I dismounted, I limped forward, the Kvatch Wolf in my left hand, my right hand near the hilt of my katana.

Two shadows detached themselves from the ruin, one carrying a hammer, the other a shortsword. They separated as they drew near. I recognized the tactic from my years in the service. They intended to attack me from opposite sides. I hobbled toward the swordsman, barely recognizable as a Redguard in the darkness, and ducked his blade, circling to get him between me and the hammer-wielding Khajiit. My katana picked up the starlight along its slender blade. My buckler blocked the sword strike from the Redguard, and I shoved him back into the Khajiit, sending both of them staggering.

Before the swordsman could recover, I brought the edge of my shield down on his sword arm, feeling the bones snap beneath the metal disc. With a groan, he hunched over his broken arm. In spite of his greater weight, I managed to knock him aside in time to backhand my katana against the man-feline. The tip of my blade sliced through the other’s upraised right arm.

The Khajiit spat as my blade caught on the edge of his leather cuirass. He pulled back, freeing my katana, and raised his hammer again with more difficulty. My sword slipped beneath his chin, twisting through his throat and tearing it out sideways.

As he fell back, a shout reminded me of the Redguard with the broken arm. As I hopped to my right and spun around to face him, I saw that a Legion rider had already engaged the bandit. Awkward with the sword in his left hand, the Redguard was no match for a fresh fighter, and a heavily armored one at that.

Kneeling stiffly to wipe my bloodied blade on the Khajiit’s sackcloth pants, I sheathed it as the rider strode up to me, his own weapon put away. “Caelius Drusus?” I asked, aware of his assessing gaze and the way his eyes lingered on the Kvatch Wolf in my left hand.

“Yes,” he answered, “and you must be Julian.”

“I see you’ve heard about me already,” I muttered. “Thanks for your help, sir.”

“Yes, I have heard about you,” Drusus remarked, amused. “Are you unhurt, I hope?”

“I’m fine, sir,” I answered. “Tired of battling bandits and marauders, though.”

“Well, if you’re going to Cheydinhal,” Drusus remarked, lighting the torch, “you’ll probably run into another bandit ambush about half a kilometer west of the city gates.” The torchlight illuminated the youth in the other’s face, as well as the experience in his level gaze. He shrugged. “They are never around when I ride by, but travelers have come to grief there. They’ve been particularly -” he paused, “bothersome lately.”

“Well, I’ll see when I get there, sir,” I commented. I turned back to look for Paint. “I left my horse back a ways.”

“I did, too,” Drusus admitted. “Tell you what, I’m weary of hearing about those invisible bandits. They’ll likely ambush you - with that white hair of yours they’ll think you’re easy game. I’ve got to ride on down to Fort Urasek,” he indicated the ruined fort on the lakeshore, past the end of the Blue Road, “then come back toward Cheydinhal. If you wait for me, maybe we can take care of those bandits once and for all.”

“All right,” I said. “I’ll travel slow until you catch up to me.”

“Travel real slow,” his tone was dry. I couldn’t help smiling at his irony.

Masser and Secunda were just rising over the eastern horizon when Paint and I passed the ruined farmstead. He was all too happy to remain at a slow amble for now. The road floated along the shoulder of the foothills to the north, the lofty Jeralls just visible beyond. To the south, on my right, the land dropped away into an expansive plain, dotted with groves, small lakes, and a single Ayleid ruin.

I spotted an overgrown gateway and a faint dirt path heading north into the foothills just past the farmstead. Briefly I wondered what lay at the end of that path.

Deer spooked at us and ran off, quick shadows highlighted by the white undersides of their tails. A grey ghost paced us from the side of the road, but veered off when Paint turned his head and looked directly at him without faltering in his stride. That wolf’s not hungry tonight. Bet those bandits up ahead are. I followed the wraithlike form with my gaze as the canine ran up a bank to the shore of a highland lake, just north of the road, its waterfall argent in the growing moonlight.

Ahead, the trees became thicker as the road began to rise into the foothills of the Valus Mountains to the east. A crenellated silhouette of a wall nearly blended into the treetops, only the right angles along the top of the barrier giving away its manmade origins. I slowed Paint even more and waited until I could hear the clopping of Drusus’s mount behind us. At the bottom of the slope, I stopped and dismounted from Paint. As I limped forward, I strained my eyes into the shadows on either side of the road, where thick trees and boulders crowded close.

Perfect place for an ambush. No wonder Drusus never saw anyone here - plenty of places to hide close to the road. Shaking my shield into my left hand, I drew my katana. A bird whistle - birdcalls in the middle of the night? - prompted me to raise my buckler as the thwap! of a snapping bowstring followed. The broadhead arrow smacked into the light iron, staggering me to the right. Booted footsteps on my right drew my head and katana around in time to catch the wrist of a mace-wielding woman. I kept my shield to the north side of the road, where I knew the bowman hid, and elbowed the female Redguard hard, freeing my blade from the bones of her wrist and kicking her legs from beneath her.

Drusus’s footfalls and clanking armor reached me. Still focused on the Redguard woman at my feet, I shouted at him, “Archer, in the trees on the left!” Drusus changed direction, and his footfalls went silent as he left the cobblestones of the road.

The woman regained her feet with an agility that surprised even me. She proved to be ambidextrous, just as adept with the mace in her left hand as in her right. She charged me, and before I could back away, she was inside my guard and swinging that mace low. The heavy iron head smashed into my right hip. With a groan, I danced left, chopping downwards with my katana to catch her left elbow. The blade bit into bone before skittering away, tearing muscle and tendon with it.

Effectively neutralized, the bandit dropped back, her mace striking sparks as it landed on the cobblestones and rolled away. Shouts in the trees across the road told me that Drusus had found the archer. Lifting the tip of my blade, I pointed it at the Redguard’s throat. “Are there more of you?” I demanded.

Her jaw clenched in defiance, the bandit used her right forearm to knock my katana away. Her left foot came up and slammed me in my belly, knocking the wind out of me. I managed to recover before she could follow through, and stabbed the katana into her lower abdomen. As I sliced the tip of my blade sideways, I heard her gasp, and stepped back as she shuddered to the cobblestones, blood appearing black beneath her body in the moonlight.

Short of breath, I looked around as the shouting fell into immense silence. Turning towards the trees where Drusus had disappeared, I limped across the road, my right hip stabbing with each step. The Legion rider reappeared out of the forest, sheathing his sword. A couple of arrows protruded from his chest plate, a couple more in his shield.

“There,” he said, catching his breath, and walking up to me. He yanked the two arrows out of his armor and looked at me, “That went rather well, I may say so.” His gaze sharpened on my face. “Are you hurt, Julian?”

“Ach,” I groaned as my hip twinged. “She managed to hit me once or twice, sir.” Together, we pulled the bandit’s body off the road, placing the corpse behind a clump of azaleas. I turned down the slope and started limping back to the horses. “It’ll heal,” I added, casting my healing as I spoke.

“I see Atellus is right,” Drusus said, an approving note in his voice. “You do know how to fight.”

I shook my head. “I don’t think I’m as good as I used to be, sir,” I answered. “It’s been a while.”

“Don’t worry, it’ll come back,” Drusus assured me as we reached the horses. My hip protested at the thought of mounting up, so I picked up Paint’s rein and started trudging for Cheydinhal. Drusus fell into step beside me, his bay trailing behind.

“I do hope I get it back, sir,” I muttered. “It would seem my work is far from done.”

“There are days when it seems like it never ends, huh?” Drusus commented. I nodded at the wisdom of his words. He may be young, as Atellus said, but experienced beyond his years. At the top of the slope, the closed gates of Cheydinhal visible less than a hundred meters away, Drusus stopped and mounted his mare.

“Thanks for your help, Julian.” He pointed out the stables to the left of the road. “There’s Black Waterside Stables. If you leave your horse in the corral, they’ll take care of him. You can pay them later.” He considered me a moment longer. “Get a bed at the Newlands Lodge. The innkeeper is a Dunmer, but it’s warm, cheap and comfortable. You’ll do well to stay there. There is the Cheydinhal Bridge Inn, but it’s more expensive.”

“All right, Drusus, thanks,” I said, leading Paint towards the stable corral. “I’ll see you again, sir.”

This post has been edited by haute ecole rider: May 26 2010, 11:37 PM

[haute ecole rider]

@Olen: I'm quite sorry, but if you thought that last chapter was a cliffie, well, wait until you read this one! Continue to enjoy when you get back from moving!

@SubRosa: I sure seem to have an aversion to the word 'and', don't I? Thanks for the catch! It has been fixed! As for 'perlite', I was trying to capture the Southern way of speaking. Oh well!

@mALX: Contain thyself, minx! New Material starts (for you and D. Foxy anyway) on Thursday!

Now begins the adventure so many seem to be waiting for! Julian thinks she's thought things through, but this only proves the old axiom, Nothing ever goes as Planned (it's a hell of a notion, even Pharaohs turn to sand, like a drop in the ocean . . .). Okay, that was more a song than an axiom, but you get the picture!

Chapter 8.3 The Path to Dawn

After checking in on Paint at the Black Waterside, I found a gravel path leading north past the stable into the foothills. It led me to a ramshackle house surrounded by an equally ramshackle stone wall. The two-story half-timbered structure rose above overgrown hedges and shrubs, heavily shaded by tall trees. I skirted the wall to the west, continuing north. The land rose steeply in front of me, trees, grass and blooms giving way to gravel, boulders, and lichen.

I had left my pack and the Kvatch Wolf in my room, taking only the leathers I wore and the katana. Though the weapon was very distinctive, and might make me recognizable, I still couldn’t bring myself to leave it behind. The only other items I carried were my belt pouch, containing my coins, and the small bag, slung over my shoulder, containing the four volumes of the Commentaries, in case I needed them.

Soon the slope became very steep, forcing me to veer west. Before long, I encountered a rough cobblestoned road that lead to the top of the slope. Following the road, I soon came upon a small lake, its clear waters reflecting the blue sky. A waterfall burbled at its north end. The path I stood on turned to follow the western shore of the lake.

Winded from the climb, I sat on a nearby boulder to survey the area. To the west of the road, a cliff rose sheer, running back further into the mountains themselves. Above me, at the top of a faint trail that crossed the face of the escarpment, I could see a cave entrance. The trail ran north towards the road, meeting somewhere along the western shore of the lake. That’s got to be the cavern system Romalen spoke of. As I consulted the map in my head, I studied the contours of the land around me, matching what I saw with what I recalled. Satisfied that the two matched, I pushed myself off the rock and started limping up the road. The shrine has to be in those caverns.

The sun stood well past the zenith when I reached the entrance to the cave. The light dusting of snow that had accumulated in front of the door showed signs of prints of people entering and leaving, and grooves left by the bottom of the door as it opened and closed. The solidity of the latch belied the battered, weathered appearance of the door.

The wooden panel swung open with a loud creaking. I froze, listening for alarm from within, but heard nothing but the rising wind blowing cold from the northern mountains. Ducking inside and closing the door behind me, I flinched at the noise. They never oiled the hinges. A very effective alarm. The tunnel within was immediately warmer, once I was out of the wind.

Daylight seeped through the cracks in the door behind me, lighting the first few meters of the tunnel. The rest of the passage dropped through shadow to an amber glow at the bottom. The light had the flickering quality typical of torches. So they’re no longer hiding the fact that this cavern is occupied.

“Who’s there?” a voice called from below. My katana drawn with the tip toward the floor, I limped down the rough corridor. My heart pounded as I stepped into the torch light, finding myself in a large domed cavern. A young man, dressed in the characteristic red robe of a Mythic Dawn acolyte, stood at the far end before a pair of torch standards. Unarmed. Probably knows a few summoning spells. I sheathed the katana and approached, my palms open and out to the side.

His red hood cast shadows across his face, making it hard for me to see his expression. I stepped to one side of him to force him to turn partly into the torchlight. Enough of his visage emerged for me to see his boyish Imperial features. He watched me warily.

“I’ve come for the Mythic Dawn,” I said quietly. His eyes flickered from my white hair to my katana, narrowing thoughtfully at me.

“Dawn is breaking,” he intoned.

What? Something surfaced in my whirling thoughts, spoken in Raven Camoran’s voice during his condescending lecture to Baurus. “Greet the new day,” I responded reflexively.

“Welcome, sister,” the doorkeeper remained dubious. “The hour is late,” he continued, “but the Master still has need for willing hands.” He stepped between the torch standards to the door set in the rock wall. Swinging the door open, he pulled on a cord hanging next to the jamb. A chiming sounded from within as he returned to where I hesitated, between the flares. “You may pass into the shrine,” he said, pointing me to the open doorway. “Harrow waits within. Do not tarry.”

With a deep breath, I entered the dark, winding passage beyond the door, its far end glowing with torch light. As I limped my way toward the light, a shadow fell across the passage. My right hand twitched for my sword hilt, but I kept it clenched at my side.

The Dunmer blocked my path, eye to eye with me. Tall for a Dunmer, he matched my own slightly above average height, and the black hair springing from a pronounced widow’s peak gave him additional stature.

“I am Harrow,” he said in the hoarse voice typical of Ashlanders, “warden of the Shrine of Dagon.”

“I am Julian,” I answered, reaching into my small bag and pulling out the four volumes of the Commentaries. “I have these -”

“You have followed the Path of Dawn hidden in these writings of our Master, Mankar Camoran,” Harrow said, waving the books away. “You have earned your place among the Chosen.”

I put the books back in the small bag and glanced up at him. “Your doorkeeper said I’m late?”

Harrow shrugged. “The time of preparation is almost over, and the time of cleansing draws near,” he explained. He led me to an alcove behind a torch standard and drew out a red acolyte’s robe from a small dresser placed there.

“As a member of the Order of the Mythic Dawn,” he placed the robe on top of the dresser, “everything you need will be provided from the Master’s bounty.” His eyes gleamed as they rested briefly on first my white hair, then on the hilt of my katana. “Put on this initiate’s robe, and leave your possessions here.”

I eyed the Dunmer dubiously. He cocked a slanted eyebrow at me. Reluctantly I turned away from him and unbuckled the katana. I laid it on top of the dresser, forcing my hand to leave it there. My small bag went next to it. Then I unbuckled my cuirass and shrugged out of it, placing it over the katana so I wouldn’t have to look at it anymore. After I removed the padded tunic, I pulled the robe on over my head, its woolen folds warm on my skin after the brief exposure of the cool, damp air of the passage.

After I removed my boots, I unlaced my greaves and slid them off, dropping the skirts of the robe over my legs. Harrow stopped me as I reached for the boots I had set aside. He looked at the hem of the robe, which reached my ankles. “Leave the boots, too,” he said. I stared at him, stunned. “All initiates must go barefoot to Dagon,” he explained. “Once you are initiated, you will be provided with appropriate footwear.” My soul screaming at leaving the katana, I turned around to face the Dunmer, my hands shaking. His hands mimed raising the cowl over his head. My own hands mirrored his movement at the collar of my robe and I found the heavy folds and covered my head, pulling the edge forward over my face.

“Very good,” he said, eyeing me up and down. His gaze stopped on the ring on my little finger. “Take that off, too,” he ordered. My heart in my throat, I obeyed, tucking the ring into my belt purse. Harrow stepped forward and took the belt purse, leaving the rest on the dresser. His long blue fingers did linger on the hilt of the katana in a caress that left my skin crawling. Tucking my purse into a pocket of his robe, he turned and led me to a second door. “Now I shall take you to the Master,” he spoke over his shoulder.

My feet recoiled from the cold stone floor as I followed after the Dark Elf warden. My heartbeat dunned in my ears with each step I took away from my katana. He led me first into a second shadowy cavern, a stone dais in the center lit by more of those flaming torches. As covertly as I could, I scanned the cavern, but saw little outside the light of those brands. Harrow skirted the platform and led me toward another corridor leading out of the cavern. Two red-robed men, one an Altmer and the other an Imperial, passed Harrow as they left the passageway. “Dawn is breaking,” each said to him.

“Greet the new day,” he responded to each in turn. They eyed me as I followed Harrow into the corridor, but did not speak. Before I continued after Harrow down the passage, I watched them take up positions around the dais.

Harrow led me to another door, lit by another pair of torch standards, with yet another one of the red-robed members, this a Dunmer woman. “Dawn is breaking,” she said to me as Harrow opened the door.

“Greet the new day,” I managed to respond. My mind was still screaming for the katana - Fool! Never leave your weapon behind! Hobbling after Harrow, I found myself on the upper level of a huge, shadowy cavern. The center was well below the outer rim, too far to jump down. There a high platform with a horned altar at one end and a colossal statue of a four-armed Daedra Lord, served as the focus of a gathering of acolytes. That has to be Mehrunes Dagon, I studied the sculpture. That’s one ugly lavasucker.

Harrow paused and turned to me. “How lucky you are,” he said, barely suppressed jubilation in his voice, “to be initiated by the Master himself!”

I tore my my gaze away from the dais, where a blue-robed Altmer held forth sermonizing to his audience, and stared at Harrow. “Th- that’s Mankar C- Camoran?” I stammered.

“Aye, that he is,” Harrow said proudly. He pointed out the equally tall woman, dressed in red with a mages staff at her back. “And the lady with him is his daughter, Ruma.” He led me to a wide flight of stone steps that led down a landing, where another set of stairs rose to the upper level at the opposite side of the cavern, and a third set dropped down to the floor. Scanning the cavern, I spotted at least four shadowy figures around the upper level. Guards. Harrow led me to the group of several acolytes standing before the dais, who listened to Camoran with rapt attention.

“- Dragon Throne is empty,” the stentorian voice rang out, “and we hold the Amulet of Kings!” As I drew near the platform, I recognized the large red diamond in Camoran’s left hand. The Amulet of Kings! How dare he! “Praise be your brothers and sisters,” the Altmer mage continued, tossing back his iron-grey hair. “Great shall be their reward in Paradise!”

“So sayeth Lord Dagon!” the acolytes around me chanted, mesmerized by Camoran’s charisma. “Praise be!” As Camoran continued pontificating, I glanced at Harrow. He watched me, his red eyes speculative.

“The time of cleansing is now here!” Camoran’s roar snapped my attention back to him. “I go now to Paradise, to meet with Lord Dagon! When I return, Lord Dagon shall walk with me at the coming of the Dawn!” As he stepped back from the altar, he turned his back on the acolytes. At the center of the dais, he tipped his head back to look up at the colossal statue at the far end and lifted his hands. My breath stopped as Camoran brought his hands, the Amulet between them, together above his head and disappeared into a ball of argent light.

This post has been edited by haute ecole rider: May 31 2010, 02:41 PM