Trey In Mournhold, Chapter 3 Options

[treydog]

First, I apologize for the over-long delay in getting back to this story. Job change, severe writer's block, and my usual autumn depression combined to stop my writing cold. Anyway, for those who are still interested, here is the next installment.

T.

Chapter 3

The long struggle against the goblins had left me physically and emotionally spent. So great was my weariness that I would not even think of the purpose that had originally brought me to Mournhold. The Dark Brotherhood were agents of death, mercenaries who killed without honor or remorse, concerned only that they receive their blood money. And, just at the moment, that description hit too close to home for my comfort. Like the goblins, the assassins likely made their lair in the ruins of Old Mournhold, and I could not bear the thought of returning to those spirit-thronged tunnels. Although I was a thief, by definition a creature of darkness, the dark of a moonless night was far different from the unrelieved blackness beneath the city. At least when I crouched upon a rooftop, the air was wholesome- filled with the scents of cooking fires and stable yards- the odors of life in all its glory and simplicity. Under the city, every breath was labored, the air tainted with a miasma of deaths old and new, and thick with the plotting of deaths still to come. What I needed desperately was the light of day and the rumble of humanity going about the business of living. I wanted to wander through the Great Bazaar, acting as if I had nothing in mind beyond seeking a bargain on some exotic piece of art or craft from a far place, a place that had never heard of goblins or assassins.

Before making my way to the marketplace, I washed away the worst stains of my labors at the fountain in the Brindisi Dorom. As I did so, I was not certain that the High Ordinators would not object to my ablutions. In truth, I rather hoped they would make an issue of it- I held no very great love for Almalexia’s version of the Temple at that moment. Other than a few penetrating glances, my impromptu bath drew no reaction though, and I was soon refreshed and on my way. Although the idea of a real bath with hot water and soap tempted me to take a room at the Winged Guar, I was not ready to confine myself indoors just yet. Satisfied that my appearance would no longer cause some concerned citizen to call the guards or the healers, I proceeded to the Great Bazaar, where I frankly acted like a country lout loose in the big city for the first time. There was talk of a play to be performed, and I waited for a few minutes in hopes of seeing such a novelty, but there seemed to be some delay, so I moved on. As I climbed the steps, staring at the shops and plants and people, I became so distracted that I failed to notice a young Dunmer woman until I placed my foot directly in the midst her lunch, which she had set out upon one of the steps. She accepted my profuse apologies with more weariness than grace, and began to gather up the remains of her ruined meal. When I offered to at least pay her the price of a decent dinner at the inn, she merely sighed and said,

“That would be nice, but I really have no time to talk. There’s much work to do… No time for silly fancies like dancing or dinner. Oh, but what I wouldn’t give to meet someone new.”

The way she said it made clear that she was really just thinking out loud rather than trying to interest the bumbling Breton who had just clumsily trodden on her lunch. Still, it seemed that I should at least offer her a sympathetic ear if that was what she needed. She was still fairly young, older than I- perhaps in her 30s- although it is always hard to judge such things among the Elven races. Her eyes were interesting- sad, thoughtful, with a spark of intelligence lurking in their depths. Recalling my own recent travails with employment, I agreed that work could be wearing. She nodded and said,

“Yes, that's right. Believe it or not, I had no intention of working here when I came to Mournhold. It's quite a sob story; are you sure you want to hear it?”

When I signaled my assent, she continued,

“Well, it's mostly my fault, really. My name is Marena Gilnith, and I grew up in a small village in the south of Morrowind. They cared for me a great deal, and only wanted the best for me. But when they arranged my marriage to a wealthy nobleman, I couldn't take it. He was disgusting, and I wanted nothing to do with him. So I ran away, and ended up here in Mournhold. I was convinced that I'd be able to find the man of my dreams. Only, it hasn't worked out that way.”

She gave a self-deprecating shrug and continued,

“I was foolish about it, to be sure. I never considered that I'd need money to survive on my own. I was determined, though, not to go crawling back to the village and beg forgiveness from my parents and that loathsome man. I'd make it on my own, and only then would I contact my parents and let them know where I was. So I started working... and now it's all I do. I never have time to meet anyone. Let me know if you meet any nice, single men.”

It was the sort of request you hear fairly often- usually spoken in jest. But somehow I knew that she spoke from sincere hope, and a part of me responded with equal sincerity. It was as if our lives had followed similar paths, paths that could lead to loneliness and bitterness- if no kind stranger intervened. And so I said,

“Give me a little time, and I will try. Whatever chances, I will meet you here at this same hour in two days’ time.”

Perhaps it would have been wiser to refuse her request or to pretend that it was simply a joke, but it was hard to ignore the unspoken appeal in her eyes. Maybe I felt the need to do something that celebrated life instead of death. Or maybe I responded to the fact that she had confided in me, a stranger. In any event, though I had no idea of how to accomplish the task, I agreed. In truth, I wasn’t certain that I knew what a “good man” was; I definitely knew nothing about finding one. But as I considered more deeply, I realized that much of what I knew about choosing horses could apply to men. You wanted a good temperament, determination that did not shade into stubbornness, intelligence, loyalty… maybe I could manage this after all. Of course, that assumed that I could find any men who sought marriage- I did not really think Marena was interested in the other sort. That made things a bit more difficult- somehow, I doubted that even fabled Mournhold had a shop or market for marriageable men.

[treydog]

Firmly putting aside speculations upon the peculiarities of wizards, I entered the sewers. My previous explorations had convinced me that the Dark Brotherhood would be found somewhere beneath the Manor District- my rough map indicated a connection from the tunnels under the Bazaar and those of the residential area. Mindful that I would need to husband my magical resources, I avoided combat whenever possible as I sought the entry to the Dark Brotherhood’s hidden base. Wasting my magical energy, not to mention my blood, on wandering goblins or unquiet spirits would be of little use in the battle that I could feel was looming. When I reached a door in the northeast section of the Bazaar sewers, I knew that I was close. The seemingly random scratches on the doorframe were as plain as a tavern sign to one who knew how to read them. This was the gateway into that corner of Mournhold that the assassins had claimed as their own.

I prepared my spells and my weapons, then reluctantly opened the door and slipped through into a partially collapsed tunnel. A faint whiff of the incense that the Dark Brotherhood used in their arcane rituals confirmed my reading of the marks on the door. This was the place where I would find my answers or my ending- I would leave only when I knew who had set the assassins on my trail- or not at all. It did not take long for me to discover that my faith in my stealth and in chameleon potions had been overly optimistic. Though I held the Dark Brotherhood in contempt, I could not deny their skills- whether they detected my presence from the subtle changes in air currents from the opening and closing of the door or perhaps from my scent I do not know. However it was, they knew that an intruder was in their midst and they sought me with frightening skill and persistence. But if I had been naïve, they were arrogant- too certain of their reputation and the fear that they were used to striking into the hearts of their victims. So, though they hunted for me with great enthusiasm, they did so as individuals or in pairs. More, they shouted back and forth, giving away their locations and allowing me to avoid being trapped. The Dark Brotherhood had spent too much time striking at unsuspecting victims- they had lost the ability to stalk and take prey that had fangs to rend them in turn. So, while they swarmed and shouted, I slew them with arrows and sword. It did not all go my way- I suffered from their poisoned blades more than I care to recall.

As I evaded and ambushed the assassins in their tunnels, they reminded me of nothing so much as vermin- pestilent creatures feeding upon the poisonous vapors that seemed to seep through the city, causing madness and hatred. Even as they battened on that atmosphere of discord, they gnawed at the foundations of the city, weakening it as a parasite weakens its host. And like vermin, they were not the cause of the disease that gripped Mournhold, but merely a symptom. Their evil thrived because those in power had made a place for them, used them, nurtured them. They lived like vermin and I slew them like vermin- without remorse, because it was necessary. And even if I took no joy in the killing, there was a certain satisfaction. It was not a task I would have chosen if I had been left alone, but it was one that I would accomplish in as efficient a fashion as I could. Thus, even though I avoided the assassins that I could, by the time I reached the central chamber of their outer base, I had accounted for half-a-dozen of the black-clad murderers. Their poisons had also taken a toll on me- they were long-lasting as well as potent. Still, the fact that the Dark Brotherhood seemed to have an almost pathological attitude against using bows or thrown weapons worked to my advantage- and I was grateful for that small blessing. I suppose that restriction on weaponry came from their “traditions.” No doubt, they believed that it somehow increased their mystique to be able to approach an opponent unseen and slip a poisoned blade between his ribs. As far as I was concerned, if you had to kill someone, you did it as efficiently as possible, with as little risk to yourself as you could achieve. Dead was dead, and stylistic flourishes had no place in the serious business of making sure it was the other fellow whose life spilled out on the floor.

All too soon, the rough tunnels gave way to a gallery that still held the remnants of the old city. Amongst the ruined columns and broken slabs of stone, I came upon two doorways. Both doors were framed with archaic script that identified the ruined complex of buildings as “Moril Manor.” One doorway gave entrance to the east building, the other, to the north building. While I hesitated, trying to decide which one to choose, I also considered the fact that this was almost certainly the home of the senior members of the Dark Brotherhood. It would suit their vanity to take up residence in a ruined mansion, to pretend that they were members of the aristocracy. Of course, they would probably fail to see the irony of the fact that their “manor” was nothing but a ruin, a dead shell inside a dead city. On the other hand, they would be likely to employ more capable guards than the pitiful sentries I had defeated in the outer tunnels. Whoever awaited me beyond those doors would be more skilled, more dangerous. Of course, they might also have the answers I sought- most important, who had hired them. No flash of insight or feat of rational deduction came to aid me- my choice was random, or so I believe. In any event, I selected the north building as my starting point.

My fears regarding the presence and quality of my opponents were realized almost instantly, as two Dark Brotherhood door wardens attacked from the shadows flanking the door. Worse, they were soon joined by two giant rats that they had obviously trained to fight intruders. As had happened before, I was actually aided by the sheer number of enemies ranged before me. Where they had to maneuver around one another and interfered with each other’s attacks, I could strike freely and be sure of damaging an opponent. Even so, I had to resort to my potions to stay alive and had an interesting several minutes dodging poisoned blades and diseased rats. Even as I cut down the last of the assassins, I was aware that the shouts and the clash of blades must have been clearly audible throughout the building. Battered and bleeding, I prepared myself for the onslaught of the next wave of guards. While I waited, I felt a wave of despair wash over me. Although my restorative potions had saved me yet again, this last fight had been difficult. My armor and my sword were beginning to show the effects of near-constant combat and my limbs felt as though they were made of lead. How I longed to lean up against the wall and close my eyes for just a few brief moments. But I knew that if I relaxed for even a second, I would never rise again.