Shades of Ending, set after the oblivion MQ Options

[Olen]

Well it’s been a while, a long while, since I posted anything. I have been writing, some stuff which was non-TES, a false start which I spent too long fighting… There’s also another ~80k piece which I’ve left on a hard drive in Scotland so I’m taking a hiatus. Anyway I decided I fancied posting something.

This is unplanned and unfinished. I prefer to write all of something with a lot of planning and then post, but this time I thought I’d just let it flow and see what comes. Hopefully it won’t be too unpolished and I intend to make it more episodic so if I do lose interest for a bit it shouldn’t matter so much. The plan is to post one section while I write another, that way any criticisms can be addressed as I go.

Anyway without any more waffle a short intro.

Shades of Ending

1.1 Questioning

The prisoner met Verus’s eye across the scarred table. The watchman swallowed. “It does not look good for you,” his voice was quiet. He knew he should feel disgust, hatred even for what the man had done. But it was tempered. Perhaps it was because the man had more brain than most of the scum they dragged into the Cheydinhal prison. Or perhaps it was because he understood why, though he’d never admit it. Or it could just have been the passing resemblance to his son. Same dark hair and eyes, and not so different features.

Damn he hated this place, the sooner the investigation was over the sooner he could go and see the real thing back in the Imperial City. Not that distraction like this helped.

The prisoner looked back, “I’m fetched aren’t I?”

Verus winced at the tone and nodded. “Ferir,” he said the man’s name, gave him that much respect, “double murder of Imperial guards only leads to the gallows.”

“And it doesn’t matter that it was self defence, that they were trying to kill me? Had already killed my friends. We didn’t attack them.”

“It doesn’t matter. And even if it did you’re guilty of enough else to string you up. Possession with intent to supply – don’t tell me that much skooma was for personal use, our mage says you’re clean anyway. Bootlegging. Smuggling. As little as I like it you had it coming.”

Ferir nodded.

Verus could hardly believe it, they were always full of guar apples. Fake bravado to start with which slowly decayed into pleading. There was fear there certainly, he reeked of it, it was in the way he sat and moved. There was pain too, but mainly Verus thought it was resignation in the prisoner’s voice when he spoke. “Can you at least tell me who you killed?”

“I’m not meant to.” The gaze from the dark eyes flashed fierce like glowdust on a fire. It was the same spark which had cost the lives of two of the Imperial Legionaries who had raided the smugglers cavern, and it caught Verus off guard.

“You have a family.” It was a statement. “The people in that cave were as close to family as I’d found. You come and kill them, and within the next couple of days…” His gaze dipped to the scored boards of the table in the interrogation room. It slid uneasily round the manacles which held him. “I just want to know if any of them lived.”

“The patrol killed five. A two humans, a man and a woman, two khajit and a dunmer male.” If you had better luck you’d have been in that list. Verus didn’t add the thought, its truth was too bitter.

The eyes screwed closed. “The dunmer, what colour was his hair?”

“Red.” Verus watched Ferir deflate. His eyes shut and he thumped his wrists against the table, the chain which held them didn’t allow space for it to make more than a dull thud. He muttered something Verus didn’t catch, and decided not to press.

When Ferir finally opened his eyes again they were bloodshot. “Have you got what you want now?” There was anger in his voice, but also sadness, enough to suppress the flames, if not entirely quench them. “You know someone got away, you’ve got our contacts. I’m in pain, several of my closest friends are dead. Have you done enough?”

Verus frowned, it wasn’t something he was used to. Lines about choosing this fate when he chose crime seemed flimsy, paper props for the tragicomedy which passed as justice in this town. Ferir hadn’t lied about the pain either, the man was a mass of bruises. The legionaries had worked him over, and who could blame them? He wasn’t the only one to lose friends. Occasionally his hands would sneak towards the lower ribs on one side only to be rudely stopped by the chain.

Not that they’d waste healing on a condemned prisoner. You should have died in that cave. Verus shook his head, trying to dislodge the malaise which had built. He stood, this was too discomfiting. For a moment he struggled for words, then gave up and offered Ferir a single nod before leaving.

[Olen]

All - Sorry for the delay, RL has become hectic and will remain so for a while but I've scraped enough time to post this.

Grits - No old town isn't that nice. A lot of places I've lived the old bit of town's been the worst.

Destri - thanks for the comment, I'm glad it's working.

Subrosa - agreed on all the nits. I'm glad the description of running a guarded point worked as a counter to trying to escape.

KC - Thanks, I'm not sure I'd describe Ruben as high places but...

mALX - I know what RL can be like. It'll be here if you have time.

1.5 Freedom

The crooked buildings leant like the drunks and junkies who made their unsteady ways on the dark pooled streets beneath. The smell was the same as in a thousand slums in a thousand cities which differed only in colour and culture. The eye watering stench of stale urine lay like broken glass over a tapestry of sewage, decay and the reek of fires. They wove their way through it and into it.

Ferir broke the silence. “You know this area?”

“I know the main ways,” Ruben shot him a look which said be quiet, “but daren’t use them. But we’re as deep as I’d go into the old town.”

A stir in the air, no real breeze could penetrate here, brought the rich smell of a tannery. From a house somewhere nearby a woman was screaming. Other people’s problems. The cardboard filled windows were blind, but they offered scarce privacy. It was just the city, thought Ferir, must be. They made him uncomfortable. You could disappear, but only in plain sight. Much better to put a few miles between yourself and danger.

A man lay unconscious in the gutter of the narrow alley ahead. An ambush? No, the vomit running down his chin and pooling on his chest was too real. Ferir took the opportunity to glance behind while stepping over him. Nothing but shadow. So why the feeling? He ignored it and hurried on between the crowding buildings.

Before he’d been worried about being seen. Perhaps it was still a risk, or would be when they left, but he doubted the guard came into the old town often. The people they passed didn’t look, even those who could walk steadily, perhaps especially those. Something had him on edge though, and he trusted instinct. At worst it made a fool of you. That was a small enough price.

At the next crossroads he drew alongside Ruben and wrinkled his nose at the other man’s smell. Not that he’d be any better. “Are we being followed?” he asked.

“I think so. They’ll spring at the next junction if they do, after that we’re too near the wider streets.”

And you didn’t think to tell me. Ferir said nothing. He eased out the muscles of his chest and back, checked that the pack was loose enough to ditch in a single movement. The axe was there. Too late now. There was no running for the guard, there were plenty of rough shirts in the old town but his was still a style they might recognise. And it failed to cover the irons. He swore inwardly and focussed on his breathing.

When it came it was poorly executed. A man burst from a narrow close. “Drop the freking packs!” he shouted.

“What?” asked Ruben.

What Ferir had taken as shock clearly wasn’t. The mugger had barely opened his mouth when Ruben’s fist hit his jaw. But his mouth was open and the punch was solid. A lightning flick of the guard’s hips and the mugger toppled in the way of the second man in the close.

A noise behind made Ferir turn. Movement. He ducked and lunged towards the source. A bottle whisked past his head and glanced form his ribs sending a shiver of pain through him. He ignored it. He was in close and the bottle was more a liability than a threat. His knee found a groin. The figure didn’t drop but he knew where it was now. The second had more force and got a cry and the man tried to disengage. Ferir didn’t let him and piled in a third with all the force he could. As the figure stumbled back he threw an punch. It was slow but the iron shackle lent it weight. It connected well and the mugger went down. Ferir felt greasy blood between his fingers where the freshly scabbed knuckles opened.

There was another figure. Without thinking he’d kept the first between them. He rose in a fighting stance and tried to hide how much his side bothered him. The figure hung back for a moment then darted forward. The stab was to his throat and fast, he barely avoided it. He lunged for the wrist but it slipped from his bloodied hand before he could grasp it. Another strike followed, he jumped back.

When faced with a knife attack the outside. The lesson rose in his mind. It limited their options, you knew what was coming. Close behind it came another thought. Frek that. Dither and die, how many fools had been killed thinking maybe. Better a stupid action than none. But where was Ruben? He didn’t dare look behind-

Another lunge took advantage of his thoughts. He watched the body not the blade. The tells were earlier and the corners of the eye faster. A string of curses ran through Ferir’s mind. He made a lunge to the left but the figure turned away and tried to stab. It was clumsy. Even so Ferir had to block it hard. His bones met the knife-wielder’s with a stinging impact. He was slowing. Another stab, at his head this time. He avoided it. Then out of nowhere a slash.

Well not nowhere. It started high but it was fast. It slipped through his block and he felt a line of hot pain open across his chest. He staggered back. The figure advanced. Then paused.

Ruben was there, he had a rough club in one hand and circled behind Ferir’s attacker who turned and lunged. Ferir sprung forward, a move of desperation. He grabbed higher up the attacker’s arm and was surprised to find he more or less controlled it. He thumped the side of his head into the attackers jaw ineffectually then sunk his teeth into the nearest flesh. Unwashed sweat and the tang of blood filled his mouth. He didn’t care.

He felt the impact. It was like someone kicking a sack you were sat on, only more. It knocked the wind half from him then he collapsed on top of the mugger.

He panted. There was no movement until a hand grasped his shoulder. “You okay?” asked Ruben.

“Yes,” gasped Ferir, more from habit than thought, “Whoreson caught me one though. Could heal it up if not for these damned irons.”

Ruben grabbed his arm and helped him to his feet. “You’ll live, which is more than can be said if the guard catches up with us.”

Ferir nodded. “Lead on. I’ll follow. Just don’t expect me to be much use.”

“No worries. We’re almost there.” Ruben had grabbed Ferir’s pack, he went to pass it across then hoisted over his chest and turned to continue down the alley. Ferir followed.

It joined a larger one about fifty yards further on. There were more people here. There were still the drunks and enough who were smacked out on whatever mixture of honey, salt and gods knew what passed as skooma here. But they were a higher class of social dropouts, Ferir saw the signs. There were less pissed pants, their eyes were less vacant. It might slide but this was recreational, not just habit. There were others too, people on their way to work and a few women working. Ferir looked the other way.

He also noticed that everyone else on the street was doing the same from him. The occasional tentative glance before turning aside. A short way down Ruben ducked into an alley. Ferir followed. The city wall had joined them quite suddenly from the tangled maze and stood to their right.

“The gate is just through here,” Ruben said, “There will only be two guards, and only the foot gate will be open. One guard will be drunk and possibly asleep in the gatehouse. If we’re lucky the other will be with him but you can never be sure with new blood.”

Ferir nodded. So what? It was hard to concentrate now the pain from the wound had got it’s teeth into him and the adrenaline was dissipating.

“If he’s standing guard be ready to run, the Newlands Lodge is next to the gate.” He said it as if that was explanation enough, and it was. The Newslands’ reputation preceded it.

The alley came out down the side of the Newlands, a few crates of empty bottles and a couple of cracked ale casks were piled against the puke stained wall. Ferir hung back in the shadows while Ruben put his head round the corner. Shouts drifted from a window of the Newlands Lodge. It was late, but the time mattered little there, in better days Ferir had appreciated that.

A moment later Ruben drew back. “He’s there, but he’s more interested in the Newlands than in what’s going on at the gate.”

Ferir said nothing. If he tries anything I’m going to try to kill him. It was a simple thought, a fact unburdened. He looked at Ruben. So would you, it might be one thing to kill a Imperial agent and quite another to kill a local, but you still would. It didn’t matter. It was out of his control.

Ruben plucked a bottle from a crate of empties and felt its weight. For a moment it floated before falling back into his palm with a dull thwack. “This’ll attract his attention,” he gave a half smile then hurled the bottle through the window of the Newlands. There was a moment of silence after the vicious shatter of glass then a storm of shouting. A moment later there was another crash. “Move,” said Ruben.

Ferir needed no second telling. He ignored the sharp protest from the wound which still felt like it oozed blood and the deeper, but blunted, ache from his ribs and followed. The gate guard was running for the grimy door from whence issued screams and the murmur of a full blown barfight ramping up. He didn’t see two moth-eaten travellers making their way toward the gate, and likely wouldn’t have given them a second glance.

Ferir’s nerves started to thrum again. It was there, across a small stretch of plaza. The smaller door within the gate called him. A square of wooden boards which led to freedom. He didn’t run, but his pace was brisk behind Ruben. Ten yards. He was in shock. The idea he was to die had only started to stretch enough space in his head to be understood. Now he had a chance. Five yards. This was the stuff of legends, they would hunt, true. He would run, in the distant wild places, his skill against theirs.

It opened on well worn hinges revealing the darkened road ahead. He waited for the shout and wondered if he could still run. But none came. He closed it behind him. The road stretched out ahead, beckoning him to the world. He would vanish, just as he had before and it would be fantastic.

But there was still a way to go that night. “We’ve done it,” he said. Ruben grunted, no doubt lost in thoughts of his own. There was still a way to go, and Ferir did not expect the coming miles to be pleasant.

This post has been edited by Olen: Aug 30 2011, 08:55 PM