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]

@SubRosa: Think you this old soldier is just gonna hop in the sack with her superior?? She's a bit too professional for that! The missing scene is just a little conversation where Julian convinces Martin of the value of rest whenever and wherever you can get it, just like the old soldier she is. I wasn't happy with it so I edited it out. As for klah, well, coffee grows in mountain forests in tropical zones, so that would be Elseweyr or Valenwood. Black Marsh I believe is too low in altitude. Hammerfell and High Rock have the altitudes, but I believe they are too far north. The idea of klah smuggling is an interesting concept and something I'll think about for the next one!

@Remko: I'm glad you thought the whole spy thing was subtle enough to be believable. I enjoyed watching Julian struggle with the concept of undercover work.

@ureniashtram: That last comment of Julian's about the reason for Jearl's recent smugness just escaped her mouth, and I just left it in. I'm glad you enjoyed the conversation in Olav's. I always enjoy sitting there for a few hours and listening in on the NPC's there.

@Acadian: Thanks for reading and enjoying! If Buffy goes to Bruma again, tell her to duck into Olav's and tell him Julian sent her! It's the warmest spot in all of Bruma, I guarantee it!

Now Julian finds out if Jauffre is right.

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Chapter 10.4 - Spies, Really

The residences changed from sturdy log houses along the east side to ramshackle board-and-batten structures along the west side as I limped along the narrow cobblestoned path running around the chapel. People, mostly Nords, greeted me as they passed me, or as I passed them.

As I rounded the southwestern corner of the immense chapel and started back toward the square, I heard a door open behind me. I glanced back as a Redguard woman stepped onto her dilapidated porch. Her black eyes locked with mine and she gasped, her left hand flying upwards.

“You cannot escape the Master’s vigilance!” she shouted, as yellow smoke swirled around her, obscuring her face and figure in daedric armor. The sound of another summoning spell reached my ears as another horrifying figure appeared in the doorway behind her. “For Lord Dagon!” She leaped off the porch toward me.

My right hand reaching to my empty left hip, I cursed myself for not bringing a backup blade, and turned to run. The dark green wool tangled around my ankles, and I slipped on an icy patch, but I managed to keep my footing. My bum knee stabbed as I slid sideways into the stone wall of the chapel to my right.

With a shove of my right hand, I pushed myself off the wall and gathered the skirts up in my left hand, running. Booted footfalls pounded behind me, drawing nearer. A glance over my shoulder indicated the first of the two assassins was only a couple of paces behind me and gaining, her horned mace rising for the blow.

Pain spread through my knee joint and shot up my thigh as I put on another burst of speed. Ahead, I spotted the yellow surcoats of two Guardsmen, already turning at the commotion behind me. They sized up the situation efficiently and unshouldered their bows, shouting for reinforcements.

Reaching the steps of the chapel, I ducked to my right. Arrows whiffed past me toward the two assassins while I scrambled across the granite pavers. As I headed for the East Gate, I avoided the additional guards running up the broad avenue.

Again my foot landed on another patch of ice, and I fell to my knees. A cry escaped me at the sharp stabbing now reaching my right hip. I turned in time to see the nearer assassin go down under the assault of multiple arrows. They didn’t even try to arrest her!

Running up from the East Gate, Senarel positioned himself between me and the remaining Mythic Dawn assassin, his war axe ready. With shouted commands to the four guards, he braced himself for her attack. Four bowstrings twanged nearly simultaneously, and the assailant dropped less than two meters from Senarel and myself. The armor and weapon disappeared in sulfurous smoke, leaving behind the corpse of a Dunmer woman.

One of the guardsmen called the all clear, and they shouldered their bows. Another walked up to the Redguard woman and tipped her body over with a booted foot to see her face. He shot a glance at Senarel, “It’s Jearl, sir,” he reported.

His war axe shouldered, Senarel turned to look at me, his eyes scanning my frame. “Are you hurt, ma’am?” he asked. Still gasping from the pain, I shook my head, gulping down deep breaths of the cold air.

“I’m fine, sir,” I struggled for breath, “thanks to your men.” Senarel took a step toward me and held his hand out. Gratefully I accepted his offer of assistance and regained my feet, shaking out the skirts. Once he was certain I had my balance, Senarel released my hand and stomped to the Dunmer woman, kneeling beside her to look at her face. With a stifled groan at the stabbing in my right leg, I followed him and looked over his shoulder.

“I don’t recognize her,” he muttered under his breath.

“A stranger in town?” I asked. He shot me a glare. “I’m sorry, sir,” I hastened to assure him. “I didn’t mean to imply anything, sir. Ongar said he saw someone looking out the window of Jearl’s cabin. If she stayed inside the entire time -” my voice trailed off.

“Must have,” he growled, searching the woman’s body. Recovering three drakes and a key from the woman’s belt pouch, he handed them to me. “Keep the gold, she won’t be needing it any more. You may want to find out if that key fits somewhere in Jearl’s house.”

Surprised at his words, I took the coins and the key from Senarel. Suddenly overcome by the need to see the face of the woman that had just tried to kill me, I limped over to the Redguard. Her face was young, her black hair pulled back in tight braids along her scalp.

Kneeling awkwardly beside her, I searched her body. Like the other, I found only a few coins and a similar key. I glanced up at Senarel, holding out the items.

“Help yourself,” he said, his tone easing a little. Again he offered me his hand. “Are you certain you aren’t hurt?” His grip was strong and steady as he drew me effortlessly to my feet. “You’re limping pretty badly, ma’am.”

As I brushed the snow and dirt off my skirts, I shook my head at him. “No, sir,” I answered, meeting his dark gaze. “That’s an old injury that never quite healed.” With a sigh, I looked back down at Jearl’s body. “I’m not used to running, sir, especially from danger.”

His eyebrows shot up as Senarel considered me. “Really?” I could see him revising his opinion of me. “What do you usually do with danger, then, ma’am?”

“Usually I stand and face it,” I replied. “Sometimes I’ve gone looking for it.”

“Adventurer?” Senarel’s eyes narrowed at me.

“Half a lifetime in the Legion,” I answered. I could see my estimation soar in Senarel’s eyes. He rocked back on his heels, his eyes steady on me.

“Well, then,” he turned his dark gaze back to Jearl. “Take those keys and go through Jearl’s house, see what you find. I expect a full report from you when you’re done.”

“Certainly, sir,” I agreed. Well, he’s entitled to find out why these two attacked me. Oblivion, I’m entitled to that, too. With a healing spell cast, I turned back to the narrow street leading south. I looked at the keys in my hand, the iron cold in the mountain air.

Reaching Jearl’s house, I stepped through the open door. Within, I found myself in a single room, with an alcove toward the back. A plain bed stood within the small area. A search of the cupboards turned up only food, and a rusty iron cuirass. Pausing with my back to the fire, I looked around the room again. Not many hiding places here. That bed only sleeps one. How did Jearl have a guest?

My eye fell on the rug, laid crookedly under the table. The light from the fire illuminated a square outline beneath the worn fabric. My toe slid beneath the edge of the rug and I flipped it back, exposing a trap door.

Kneeling beside it, I tugged on the iron ring set into the door. Locked. The first key I tried didn’t fit, but the other key did. The trapdoor swung back to reveal a crate below the opening, the musty air typical of cellars rising to my nose. I groaned to myself at the lack of rungs or ladder to ease my aching knee.

I sat at the edge of the trapdoor and lowered myself to the crate, taking as much of my weight on my left leg as I could. A quick look around showed an alcove set off to the side, with another bed in it, behind a cupboard. On top of it, I recognized one of the purple-bound Commentaries. A table placed against the left-hand wall, beneath a guttering torch, drew my attention. Another purple volume rested on it, on top of an open scroll.

Jauffre was right, they were spies. Picking up the scroll, I tilted it to read by the torch light.

Jearl,

The Master was pleased to hear of your activities outside of Chorrol. The more gates that we open the nearer we are to the Glorious Cleansing.

The Master has chosen you and Saveri Faram for a most crucial mission, a sign of your achievement through the ranks of the Chosen. We have learned that the Septim heir has gone to ground at Cloud Ruler Temple, the lair of the cursed Blades. The Master has made its destruction the top priority of the Order, and Lord Dagon has committed whatever resources are required.

Pending your report on the Septim’s activities at Cloud Ruler Temple and your assessment of Temple defenses and possible routes of escape, we plan to open a Great Gate on the open ground before Bruma as soon as possible.

Remember the first three Lesser Gates represent only the preliminary stages of Great Gate deployment. Do not in any way compromise your cover in defense of these gates. New ones can be quickly and easily reopened. And once the Great Gate is opened, the fall of Bruma is assured. Cloud Ruler Temple cannot stand long after this, and the Septim will be caught like a rat in a trap.

We would appreciate any further details you can offer concerning the Imperial agent who rescued Martin from Kvatch, but again we caution you, do not risk a confrontation. This individual is not to be trifled with.

Dawn is breaking.

Ruma Camoran.

Suddenly breathless, I looked up into the flickering torch light. —Not to be trifled with, am I? Obviously, Jearl thought otherwise. My eyes widened at a sudden thought. Ruma knew about me before I went into those caverns. No wonder she recognized me. My hand rose to my hair. People are talking about a white-haired Redguard closing the Kvatch Gate. How many white-haired Redguard women are there?

Recalling Matius’s description of that horrifying night, I considered the spies’ orders. They are to open three smaller gates so a Great Gate can open. Once that Great Gate is open, they can send that siege engine through. If that happens here - I inhaled sharply at the memory of the devastation I had witnessed at Kvatch followed by the thought of the same happening to cold, snowy, warm, friendly Bruma.

Not if I can help it. Re-reading the opening paragraph, my mind caught on another detail. Chorrol? What was Jearl doing at Chorrol? Weynon Priory! She stole the Amulet! That’s why Mankar Camoran was so pleased with her! Suddenly I didn’t regret her death. They killed Prior Maborel.

This post has been edited by haute ecole rider: Jun 19 2010, 06:19 PM