The Tale Of Sudhendra Vahl: Mad Gods, Being the ninth chapter... Options

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The first things I wanted to do this morning were to put some of my recently acquired funds into the Bank of Vvardenfell; I also wanted to deliver the Amulet of Infectious Charm to Louis Beauchamp. To that end, I opened a portal after breaking my fast and stepped though into the dusty streets of Ald’ruhn.

“The amulet,” Louis gasped when I handed the twinkling charm over to him. He listened with a distracted air as I relayed the fate of the missing airship: somehow I think the loss of the craft and its crew was of secondary importance to him. He did, however, pay me two thousand Septims for recovering the amulet and finding out what had happened to his aircraft.

From there I returned to Tel Vahl where, reluctantly, I donned the uniform of the Legion before opening a portal to Ebonheart. Captain Carius had informed me that Varus Vatinius has issued an instruction that I am to report to him. The Imperial Dragon was easy enough to find, he was the ill-favoured Imperial that I’d seen at the side of the Duke Dren when I applied for my construction contract ~ the one with a low opinion of Telvanni honour.

“So, the Telvanni returns,” he sneered when I crashed to attention in front of him and snapped off a salute. “Finally decided to get on the winning side, eh?”

When I made no response to his barb, he snorted and said, “you’ve turned out to be a decent soldier Telvanni, and several commanders speak quite highly of you. Do right by me and I’ll make sure that you get what you’re due.

“Now then,” he continued, “I have a job for you. Until a day or two ago, the Lord’s Mail was displayed in the Cult Shrine here. Somehow somebody got in and stole it ~ none of the guards saw anything. Take the key to the Shrine and see what you can learn. Bring me the Lord’s Mail and I’ll give you a promotion.”

My first step was to visit the barracks, housed in the lower levels of Fort Hawkmoth. Most of the guards were unwilling to talk to me but one; a Redguard by the name of Sader was disposed to talk. He told me that Furius Acilius had recently been passed over for promotion and had gone AWOL. I hardly thought it coincidental that Furius Acilius had gone missing two days before the Lord’s Mail vanished. I took a look around Acilius’ quarters but, apart from a scribbled comment about Vatinius that make me smirk, there was nothing of any interest.

Both of the Troopers assigned to the Shrine snapped to attention, clenched fists crashing against their cuirasses as they saluted me. Despite my time with the Legion, that was one thing I still hadn’t gotten used to. The door to the Shrine clicked open and I stepped into a fairly typical Imperial Cult Shrine. Multi-denomination tapestries hung from the walls ~ except for behind the altar, where a rich green and gold tapestry depicted Julianos. There were the usual sacred objects on the altar, a small silver platter for collecting donations and a large silver chalice. The green and gold cloth that covered the cold stone block confirmed that this was a Shrine devoted to Julianos.

I understood why the Imperial Cult adopted this multi-denominational style in Morrowind but I missed the majesty of the individual Shrines that I remembered from my travels around the Illiac Bay. Not that I was particularly moved by the idea of the Divines any more ~ the things I had experienced in my time here had seriously undermined my faith in the religion of my childhood. Shaking off the melancholia that my childhood memories always seemed to induce, I returned to the task at hand.

There were no windows in the Shrine, nowhere that somebody could have clambered in and stolen the artefact. The heavily reinforced door couldn’t have been broken down without attracting the attention of people nearby. Nor had I missed the flare of magic when I’d inserted the key into the lock ~ such locks (requiring both mundane and magical means to open them) were extremely rare and notoriously difficult to pick. And, given that Furius Acilius was, by all accounts, a career soldier it was unlikely that he’d have the skill to pick such a lock.

Something had been tugging at my subconscious while I examined the door. Turning I surveyed the small, austere chamber. A close-fitting door and no windows… So, where was the breeze that was fluttering the edge of the tapestry nearest the door coming from? The wall behind the wall hanging looked solid enough but a quick chant of “Ostendo sum” soon revealed the truth.

The flare of reddish-purple light settled along the outlines of the hidden door, a loud click denoting the fact that the unlocking spell I’d just read from the scroll had done its work. The heavy stone door creaked open to reveal a small stone cell barely big enough for me to get into. The floor of the cell was covered with dried mud; the rough reed mat that covered it caked with the stuff. Since there was no obvious other exit, I placed my hand against the back wall of the cell and pushed. There was a click and a large section of stonework moved backwards to reveal a dark opening.

The muddy floor of the cave left me in no doubt that the thief had used this secret way into the Shrine and that it would take someone who knew Ebonheart extremely well to have known of this hidden access ~ someone like, let’s say, a career soldier who’s been stationed at Ebonheart for years and has, for the sake of argument, recently been passed over for promotion.

The dimly illuminated tunnel meandered through the rock coming, at last, to a meeting place where three other passageways met. With a shrug, I turned to my left and pressed on down the rocky passage. I had gone barely a hundred paces down the tunnel when I was confronted by a snarling legionnaire. He wasted no time on words, the Imperial broadsword already sliding from the scabbard at his waist as he rushed towards me.

The crash of steel on steel echoed through the cave as I blocked the scything blow Acilius aimed at my head, the impact making my arm quiver. I retaliated, pushing his sword up and away with the Blodskal and slashing the heavy blade inwards. He danced back a step, bringing in his broadsword to deflect the blow. Now it was my turn to back-pedal in order to avoid his upward cut.

We eyed each other warily for a moment, each taking measure of our opponent. Acilius was strong but lacked finesse ~ like so many in the Legion he relied on his training and had no… style. With a grunt, he proved my point, slashing in a powerhouse blow that would have done serious damage if I hadn’t blocked it. My return blow scored a mark across his cuirass. Gripping the sword tightly, he aimed a series of vicious overhead blows at me, forcing me backwards.

Sensing, rather than seeing, that he’d changed his grip on the hilt, I swung the Blodskal downward, the greater mass of the Nordic blade knocking the broadsword from Acilius’ hand. I had barely registered that I’d disarmed him when a thunderous punch to the face drove me backwards. I blinked, my vision blurred from the blow, and saw him stoop and pick up his sword again. I gave him no time to prepare.

“Never,” my sword crashed into his upraised blade with a force that made my arm shudder.

“Hit,” I blocked his blow, the blades singing as they crashed into each other.

“A,” his steel blade shattered as I smashed the Blodskal down on it as he raised it to block the blow.

“Lady!” I finished, driving the point of the Nordic blade into the Imperial’s throat and slamming him back against the wall.

Rolling Furius Acilius over, I undid the silver clasps that held the glittering cuirass in place. The armour came off after a few minutes struggle and I held the heavy, padded cuirass up to examine it. It was made of some dark metal and appeared to be overlapping scales. The edges of the armour were decorated with fine gold scrollwork. That was not, however, what kept me there holding the heavy armour. Visions of combat danced in my head, snatches of scenery that I almost recognised, the crash of steel on steel and the screams of the dying mingled with the triumphant cries of the victors.

Shaking myself all over, I looked at the armour and licked my lips. The overwhelming urge to put it on and just… well, take charge had faded. With a shaky sigh, I placed the cuirass on a rock and opened my pack. Handling the scaled Lord’s Mail as little as possible, I dropped it into my pack. A careful exploration of the caves revealed the rest of Furius Acilius’ belongings ~ a sack containing a couple of hundred Septims, a pair of pauldrons made of the same dark, scaled metal, and a glass-bladed sword. My exploration also revealed a water-filled passageway that led to a door. This egress opened out onto a small sandy beach at the foot of the cliffs: above me loomed the bulk of the castle and keep. It must have pleased Acilius to have stolen the Lord’s Mail and, quite literally, hidden it under the noses of those he felt had cheated him.

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First thing this morning I headed to the Wing’d Guar. I had a two-fold purpose, firstly to break my fast and secondly, well it had occurred to me that an Inn was a very likely place to pick up some gossip. And some of that gossip might put me on the track of this anonymous author. And I desperately wanted to find him before Tienius Delitian found out that there was no fourth Mer and turned his attention to the search.

I spoke to a Redguard named Therdon after my meal. He knew nothing about the Mer I sought and seemed more concerned that he had just lost his job. “I don’t know if it’s any help, you being a pillow-fluffer,” I said, suppressing my amusement at this burly Redguard lamenting the fact he’d lost a job making fluffy pillows, “but Bols Indalen ~ the blacksmith at the Craftsmen’s Hall is looking for an apprentice. His last one… left suddenly.”

“Well,” he said, uncertainly, “I really don’t know if I’m cut out for that sort of work.”

“Look at it this way,” I said, tongue firmly in cheek, “instead of folding fabric, you’ll be folding metal.” To my amazement, my sardonic comment seemed to strike a spark of interest in Therdon. “I’ll do it,” he declared firmly as he stood up from the table. “I’ll go and see this Indalen fellow right now.”

That seemed to be the only bit of luck I was going to have at the Wing’d Guar, nobody else knew anything about the mysterious author of ‘The Common Tongue’ either. Or, if they did, nobody was saying anything. Despondently, I made my way back to the Great Bazaar to continue where I’d left off yestere. I’d been asking questions for a while before I went into ‘Ten-Tongue’ Weerhat’s Pawn Shop. The Argonian intimated that, for a price, he could provide useful information.

“Trels Varis… author Common Tongue is,” the Argonian said, making the ten 10-Septim pieces vanish from the counter. “This one not know that one,” he continued, “at Hall of the Craftsmen first Varis heard.

“Now,” Weerhat continued, having apparently exhausted his knowledge on that subject, “this one has scroll for Vahl-Mage. Very good price, very powerful, good-friend-Vahl wishes?” I asked to see the scroll and Weerhat opened a box under the counter and produced a yellowing roll of parchment. Unrolling it, I examined it briefly ~ Weerhat wouldn’t give me long ~ and realised it was a powerful spell indeed: a Sixth Barrier.

“Ssssixty Sssseptims,” the Argonian hissed. I blinked, that was a good price ~ so good, in fact, it was about a tenth of what the scroll was actually worth. I quizzed Weerhat on the provenance of the scroll but all he would say is that it was provided by someone named Ahnia.

“Where do I find this Ahnia?” I asked, but received no reply. I had to make several threats before Weerhat broke down and admitted that this Ahnia was a thief and that he usually met her in the sewers underneath the Bazaar. I have no doubt that Weerhat is adding a very healthy mark-up to the scrolls ~ if I can contact this Ahnia and come to some arrangement well, it can only be to my benefit.

With at least some idea of where to start looking, I headed over to the Craftsmen’s Hall. Therdon had done what he said he would, applied for the apprentice’s position with Bols Indalen. He was delighted to be back in work and gave me a couple of tools by way of a thank you. While I prefer to have someone like Indalen make repairs to my armour and weapons, there is no doubt that sometimes an urgent repair is needed and there is no blacksmith around. For that reason, and that reason only, I have developed some small skill in the art of metal bashing.

The locked door opposite Albrege’s shop intrigued me. It was the work of heartbeats to crack the lock with a quick pulse of magic and, before the guards came back downstairs, I was inside. Inside tuned out to be a small storeroom – several ingots of metal and chunks of raw Ebony festooned the shelves. Of much more import, however, was the securely locked trapdoor ~ well, securely locked to anyone who isn’t a thief or a mage.

The rapidly drawn swords of the three burly men made a very unpleasant hissing sound as I dropped from the end of the ladder into the small office. Several options flickered across my mind: a blatant lie might get me out of here or some violence might be needed. The latter option didn’t seem to be a very good choice as the three heavily built Mer separated carefully from their tight little group, approaching me from the front and both sides. The cool regard of the only Mer in the chamber who hadn’t drawn his sword made me consider the lying option too.

“Are you Trels Varis?” I asked, ignoring the three others and stepping towards the slightly built Mer.

“That would be me,” he responded, adding, “What’s it to you stranger?”

“Are you the anonymous author of ‘The Common Tongue’?”

“I have no comment,” he replied, a faint grin on his face.

“So you are the author I’ve been looking for,” I said. “It would be wise if you stopped printing lies about Helseth.”

“Nothing I’ve printed about Helseth is a lie young lady,” he snapped. “Every word in ‘The Common Tongue’ is the truth. And I intend to keep on printing the truth about Helseth ~ unless you think you can stop me.”

“Oh, I think I can stop you,” I said. As the guards tensed, I continued blithely, “I think you’re a decent Mer and I think a donation of oh, let’s say, three thousand Septims to the local orphans and widows fund would do it.”

“Very clever,” Trels said, waving his guards away from me. “Very clever indeed. I think we’ll have to pack up our presses and move from here to another location. But I accept your donation in the name of ‘The Common Tongue’. I will print nothing new about Helseth ~ unless there are some more conveniently timed deaths by natural causes.”

That seemed to be the best promise I could get from Trels Varis so I agreed, handing over three thousand Septims of my hard-earned cash as I did so. It was with a heavy heart that I returned to the Royal Palace, leaving behind me the noise of several very complex presses being comprehensively dismantled.

“I see,” Tienius Delitian said when I told him what had happened, carefully keeping the name of Trels Varis out of the conversation. “Well, I would have preferred that he’d been dealt with a little more… forcefully but, providing he keeps his word, this is an acceptable solution. You have impressed Helseth, not an easy task let me tell you. He has instructed me to provide you with some money to cover your expenses and a small token of his thanks.”

The purse I was handed contained three and a half thousand Septims, a sum that covered my expenses and gave me a little extra. I had an uncomfortable feeling that Delitian knew far more about my activities the last few days than he was letting on. How else would he have been able to calculate my expenses so accurately? The ‘small token of Helseth’s esteem’ was a sword, of a kind I’d never seen before. Massively long, it was made of the same grey metal as my Daedric cuirass and, like the armour I wore, strange patterns swirled across the surface of the metal. Nor was its length and mass (it was more like a Nordic claymore in length than anything else I could call to mind) the only notable features: it was bound about with some fearsome spells. Etched into the top of the blade were the words “The Oath of the King”.

I was still examining the blade when a guard marched in and whispered something to Delitian. Looking up, he passed on the message, his surprise evident in his voice. “The Lady Barenziah wishes to speak to you. Please accompany the guard to her private quarters.”

This post has been edited by OverrideB1: Sep 21 2005, 08:00 PM