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]

As the tense minutes of waiting stretched out and no attack was forthcoming, I realized that I was safe- at least so long as I did not move from the area of the entrance. Again, the Dark Brotherhood’s mindless adherence to their rules and their hierarchy had worked to my advantage. No more assassins rushed forward to attack me because their orders did not allow them to do so. All the other guards in this building had their own areas of responsibility- no doubt their leaders had told them,

“Guard this hall or doorway with your life. Do not let anyone pass.”

And so, even as they heard the sounds of a life-and-death struggle mere yards away, they remained in place, rooted to the spot by fear of the consequences if they disobeyed their orders and thought for themselves. That rigid discipline gave me the time I needed to complete my recovery and to prepare my spells and weapons for the next stage of my attack.

First, I cast my two favorite spells, Beggars Nose and Bound Longbow. I whispered the arcane syllables with satisfaction- the detection spell unerringly showed me the location of the remaining sentries by revealing their poisoned blades, rendering those weapons “two-edged swords” indeed. Finally, I used one of my precious Chameleon potions and melted into the shadows. The only indication that the hired killers had of my presence was the whisper of steel arrows that flashed out of the darkness to take them in the throat or the back. Those who had made their evil living stalking other men had no chance to consider the irony of their own deaths arriving unseen from the darkness. If the gods existed, if there was justice in this world or the next, those bloody-handed assassins would have all eternity to wonder at the vengeance that had harvested them. Where the previous deaths I had caused made me feel unclean, as if my soul was stained, I knew that the execution of these killers was an almost holy act, something that would bring peace to the unquiet spirits of their victims. As the last sentry collapsed in a shapeless heap, I felt my shoulders straighten, as if a huge weight had come off of them.

Exploring the now-empty corridors, I again found myself with a choice of two doors. One was a circular affair of corroded brass construction, green with age. The other was marked as giving onto the courtyard of the ruined manor complex. Again, I chose randomly, deciding to investigate the nondescript brass door before searching the wider environs of the manor. To this day, I cannot understand how it was that I did not receive some hint of the significance of my choice. In my innocence, I supposed that great evil should be palpable, should give some signal to the unwary. But perhaps that was just wishful thinking, or perhaps it was simply that the aura of the evil I was about to face was lost in the atmosphere of despair and darkness that permeated the entire place. And perhaps it was because Mournhold itself was in the grip of even greater evil. However it happened, when I quietly opened that door, I was surprised to see a Dunmer dressed like all the other Dark Brotherhood assassins, save that he did not wear the usual head covering that rendered them insect-like and anonymous. I had no time to recover from that surprise, for I was immediately subjected to a still greater shock as he cast a quick spell and a magical bow appeared in his hands. I had become so accustomed to the Dark Brotherhood’s disdain for bows that I never expected to see one of them use one of my spells to conjure a bow from thin air. My dismay lasted until a poisoned arrow punched into my left side and awakened me to the fact that I needed to either fight back or get out of sight.

It was one of the most peculiar fights in which I had ever engaged. The two of us stood some fifteen feet apart firing arrows at one another. More amazing still was the fact that the assassin made no move to protect himself. Even when my steel missiles pierced his torso, he did nothing except grunt as if annoyed and redouble his own efforts to kill me. I, on the other hand, was a veritable blur of motion as I vainly sought cover in the open hallway. Arrows hurt when they strike you, even more so when they are propelled by the magical energy of a conjured bow. I quickly realized that I was in a fight for my life- the other assassins had been bumbling fools compared to this fellow. Something about the eerie silence with which he went about the task of turning me into a human pin-cushion unnerved me. He showed no anger, no fear, just a business-like approach to the task at hand. He was simply a craftsman, going about his craft. In the end, what saved me was my potions. Except this time, it was their bulk rather than their magical powers. Anyone who has followed my story for any length of time has by now realized that when I went “adventuring,” I bore a strong resemblance to a mobile apothecary shop. Thus it was that while my arrows generally found a home in various fleshy parts of my opponent, his missiles were frequently deflected by the many vials and packets that I had distributed about my person. In effect, I was wearing a double layer of armor. At last, my silent adversary ran out of arrows and turned to draw his sword. Just as he did so, I sent a shaft which found a joint in his armor between his upper arm and his torso. The steel arrow punched straight through his body and actually pinned him to the wall. It was also clear that it had severed a major blood vessel- his already grayish face took on an even more ghastly pallor and his movements ceased. As his eyes rolled back in his head, he spoke for the first and last time in my hearing. And his gasping final words sent a thrill of fear through me-

“No- tell my liege… I have failed him….”

Before I could begin to frame a question, he suddenly jerked spasmodically and then was still. Whatever answers he might have had for me were gone forever.

The dead Dunmer had graying hair, worn rather long, and a prominent nose and thin, sour mouth. Clenched between his teeth was a small vial, which gave off a pungent odor. That explained the last, violent shudder before he had died. Knowing that he was doomed, the assassin had taken his own life rather than risk giving up any information. As I searched the body, I learned that his name was Dandras Vules, and that he had been the leader of the Dark Brotherhood organization in Mournhold. Besides the usual armor and a powerful magical sword, that seemed to be it. Or at least so I believed until I noticed some rather interesting stitching on his left sleeve. To my experienced eye it looked like the outline of a secret pocket. Turning the sleeve inside out revealed a tightly rolled piece of parchment. When I unrolled the paper the words “Trey, a Breton” fairly leapt off the paper. I sat down rather abruptly and read the words over and over, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. Though the original parchment is now gone, the contents are forever burned into my memory-

The Bearer of this document, under special dispensation of the Night Mother, who has entered in a contract in perpetuity with H, is given special dispensation to execute Trey, a Breton recently residing on the island of Vvardenfell. In accordance with all laws and traditions, the afore-mentioned personage will be executed in the name of H in the most expedient manner possible. All services of the Dark Brotherhood are at the disposal of the Bearer of this binding and non-disputable document.

How many of us are privileged, if that is the word, to see our own death warrant? Having been treated to that signal honor, I can tell you that it was one I would have just as soon avoided.

How long I sat there, staring sightlessly into space, I cannot say. The words on the paper, combined with Vules’ dying declaration, left little doubt as to who had ordered my death. Still, my mind sought a way out. The “contract” referred to the client only by the letter “H.” There were any number of people whose names began with that letter. Except that, as a small voice in my head reminded me, only the very wealthy and very politically well-connected could hire the Dark Brotherhood. And except that Dandras Vules’ had referred to “my liege.” He might have meant the leader of his foul band, but I knew he had not. He was referring to a king, a king who was rumored to permanently remove “inconvenient” people, a king whose name was Helseth Hlaalu. A king who had ordered my death as casually as another man might order dinner.

Here Ends Chapter 3