The Tale of Sudhendra Vahl: City of Light, City of Magic Options

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The tower was deeply subdued this morning, people moving around on tiptoe as Kallin spoke to me while I broke my fast. “The assassin came in from the southeast,” she briefed me, adding bitterly, “we found a dead guard. He’d been dragged over the hill out of sight. We also found this, outside.”

She handed me a small silver and glass phial. There were only a few dregs of the potion it had contained left in the bottom, but the thick smell rising from the flask was enough to tell us both what it had contained. “Having levitated to your balcony, he used a pick to unlock the door, greasing the hinges so they’d make no noise. How do you intend to respond, Arch-Magister?”

“By tearing a few strips off Master Neloth’s hide,” I replied. “I want to see how much of that ample paunch I can remove before he dies of blood loss or shock. Yes Raissu,” I said, turning my head to address the fidgeting estate manager, “you have something to add?”

“It may be prudent to stay your wrath until you’ve spoken with Neloth’s Mouth,” she suggested. I indicated that she should explain. “I have little knowledge of the Guild of Assassins,” she continued, “nobody does. And those that do have knowledge keep very, very quiet. However, if Neloth had targeted you for assassination, wouldn’t they have had to issue a Black Writ?”

“Which we would have known about,” an exasperated Kallin said, dropping her head so her forehead banged on the table. “Raissu is right, Arch-Magister. The Morag Tong may be a bunch of murderous cut-throats, but they do stick to their rules.”

Kallin then explained to me what she knew of the workings of the Dunmeri assassins. How a Black Writ has to be issued for the ‘execution’ of a target and how the target is made aware of the existence of the Writ. It seemed an odd system to me but it had been that way, apparently, for hundreds of years.

“Everyone out,” I commanded as I stalked into the Telvanni Council Hall in Sadrith Mora. “Not you Arara Uvulas,” I added as the Mouths started to leave. When she and I were the only ones left in the chamber, I spoke, “Last night there was an attempt on my life. Neloth has declared that he considers himself to be my enemy. Give me a good reason I shouldn’t end his life right now.”

Arara looked stricken, glancing about as though in search of aid. Finally, she swallowed and said, “My Master has not been in contact with me for days. In fact Sed, he hasn’t been out of Tel Naga since you became Arch-Magister. He… regrets certain comments he made to you and wishes he had not been so… hasty. I believe he fears that he may have made… an error of judgement.”

I snorted back laughter. Ignoring it, Arara continued, “As for arranging an assassination attempt? It is not something Neloth would do, for fear of precisely this situation.”

“In other words,” I said, “he’s a bully and a coward. Afraid that he’s made a mortal enemy of the Head of House.”

Arara hesitated, then gave a quick nod of the head ~ about as much confirmation that my words were true as I was likely to get from her. “Then if not Neloth,” I mused out loud, “who sent that assassin to my stronghold? Unlikely to be House Redoran, if they wanted me dead they’d do it themselves. House Hlaalu? They could certainly afford to equip an assassin in the armour…”

“Armour, Arch-Magister?” Arara interrupted my thoughts. “What sort of armour?”

“Black,” I replied. “Light-weight, high-quality black armour.”

“Then it was not the Morag Tong,” she said flatly. “Their assassins eschew armour, preferring simple robes. And if it was not the Morag Tong that tried to kill you, then it was not one of the Dunmeri factions that arranged it. Let me call one of the House Guards, they may be able to shed some light on the matter.”

The nervous looking guard listened to my tale and spoke quickly when I’d finished. “Sounds like the Dark Brotherhood, Sed Vahl. If you have been targeted for assassination by them…” he let his comment trail off. I wondered where I could find this Brotherhood. “I don’t know,” he replied in response to my question, “but there is a new arrival in Ebonheart who may be able to assist you. An Imperial by the name of Apelles Matius.”

Delas Mrania was only too happy to sell me a spell to get me to Ebonheart when I spoke to her and, after learning it; I took myself from Ald’ruhn to the Imperial blandness of Ebonheart’s Fort.

“You’ll forgive me if I am sceptical Dark Elf,” Apelles Matius said, giving me a condescending smile when I’d told him my tale. “If you were truly marked for death by the Dark Brotherhood, we would not be having this conversation.”

“I am not accustomed to being called a liar Matius,” I snapped. “You’d do well to remember your manners. Now, speak to me of the Dark Brotherhood.”

“Well,” he said, quite taken aback. “If you’re telling the truth… which I have no doubt you are,” he added hastily as I smiled blandly at him and dropped my hand to the hilt of my sword, “then you need to travel to Mournhold. That is the only bastion of the Dark Brotherhood in this Province that I am aware of.

“The problem is, Vvardenfell is under quarantine because of the Blight. However, if you speak to Asciene Rane in the Council Hall, I’m sure she would be able to transport you there.”

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How long I lay there, semi-conscious, I have no idea. Finally the pain in my left leg convinced me it was time to do something about it and, crawling like a child, I made my slow way from the rubble into a small chamber. Gradually, I rolled onto my back and levered myself into a sitting position against the wall ~ the pain in my leg having gone from a low hum to a full-blown aria. If it wasn’t broken, it was doing a pretty good impression. Of course, the length of wood sticking through my shin wasn’t exactly helping matters. The corpse propped up in the corner engendered certain morbid thoughts too.

One step at a time Sudhendra, I thought, you can do this. Wincing, since every slightest movement brought a silvery bolt of pain, I reached down and slit the hem of my robe, freeing my leg so I could get at the wooden shard. I cut a strip of fabric from my robe and wadded it up before shoving it between my teeth. Biting down hard on it ~ since I figured that this was going to be painful and I didn’t particularly want to attract more attention than I had to ~ I grasped the stub of wood and yanked…

When the world swam back into focus, there was a sizeable pool of blood under my left leg. “Oh that can’t be good,” I thought, spitting out the wadded up fabric. Leaning over produced another bolt of quite excruciating pain; it also brought my fingers to the strap of my pack. Now, if only the sturdy construction had protected the contents well enough, the results might be worth the agony.

I popped the lid off the small golden phial and drank deeply of the contents. “What you grinning at?” I asked the corpse, gritting my teeth as bone and flesh slowly knit itself back together again. I’m not too certain which was worse ~ the pain of the original injuries or the pain of reconstitution. Actually, on reflection…

When I could stand again, I moved slowly around the chamber until the dead-feeling had worked its way out of my leg. No longer hobbling like some four-hundred year old, I picked up my pack and checked through the contents. Some of the food had got a bit squashed, but there were no major breakages. Food, that seemed like a good idea. As I ate the hastily constructed meal, I squatted and examined the corpse. His clothing was strange, not just because it was very out of style, but also the cut and even the type of garments were odd. Nearby, next to the small fire pit, lay a note. It was badly scribbled and parts of the vellum had worn away with age ~ making it very difficult to read. From what I could piece together, the Man had been a sailor, brought here after a shipwreck and left to moulder and die in this pit.

Glancing up to reassure myself that I could levitate out of here if I needed to, I set about examining the chamber. It was obvious that the collapse of the floor above had breached its walls, making it possible to access the corridors beyond. To my great amusement, a green and malformed foot stuck out of the rubble. Obviously a scouting Goblin who’d got the shock of its life when the ceiling had suddenly come crashing down on it. Shouldering my pack, I moved into the corridor beyond the shattered wall. The one end was blocked and impassable, made so by a far more ancient collapse. The remainder of the corridor took a sharp left turn and ended in another of those oval metal doors.

From behind which I could hear muffled voices. Now, to the best of my knowledge, Goblins don’t communicate in anything more sophisticated than grunts and basic hand gestures ~ although they are capable of understanding spoke words if the speaker speaks slowly and clearly. My best guess? The room beyond the door was where the Altmeri trainers were hidden.

Returning to the corner of the corridor, I unhurriedly took the two crossbows off my pack and checked them over. The fall didn’t seem to have damaged them in any way so, using the foot-stirrups, I quickly loaded both and levelled them, aiming at the door. Concentrating deeply, I spoke the second of the three spells I’d purchased yestere, “Ysbryd ddwylaw.”

There was the strangest doubling sensation, as though I was still standing at the corner of the corridor but was, simultaneously, standing right beside the door. I pictured my doppelganger opening the door and, down the corridor, the metal portal swung open. There was a sudden silence from within, and then a steel-armoured High Elf appeared in the doorway. He grunted and pitched backwards as twin bolts slammed into the armour covering his chest. Even as a questioning voice rose from inside the room, I was casting down the crossbows and racing towards the door, the Ebony blade sliding from its scabbard.

I dived low, rolling through the door as a heavy blade crashed into the solid frame. Coming to my feet, I saw that one of the Altmeri was down but not out, cursing as he fumbled for a healing potion. The other was very much up and alive, turning towards me with a wickedly sharp-looking blade in his hand. Reaching down as he advanced, he pulled a shorted, curved dagger from his belt.

Our swords clashed briefly, I had to step quickly backwards to avoid a slashing blow from the dagger that would have done severe damage had it connected. I’ve never fought an opponent that used two blades before and it was increasingly difficult to deal with him, as he seemed able to effortlessly counter my every strike while his own skill with the twin blades was stretching me to the limit. As we fought, the knowledge that the other trainer was still alive and capable of joining in at any moment hovered in the back of my mind.

As we locked blades, I brought my knee up sharply ~ catching him in the one unarmoured spot. As his eyes crossed, I shoved him away as hard as I could and spat, “bob beichia blygedig a blygedig ail.”

He grunted, beads of perspiration appearing on his forehead as the weight of every item he carried suddenly quadrupled in weight. On unsteady legs, he moved towards me, gritting his teeth as he struggled to bring up his now weightier sword. Stepping back, I repeated the cantrip, grinning as he fell to his knees. Muscles bulged as he fought to stand ~ a scything cut ending his efforts by crushing his Temple and smashing his skull.

“Narro haud veneficus,” shouted the second trainer, the shock of the spell cleaving my tongue to the roof of my mouth. Bereft of magical offence, I took refuge in the magic he couldn’t stop. The scroll was exactly where I needed it to be and, hurriedly, I spoke the strange words written there. There was a metallic groaning noise as dust motes swirled in the air. The figure that manifested between us was slim and shapely, tall and indisputably feminine. With a metallic creak, the blank golden features turned in my direction, the head rotating through an impossible 180-degrees. At that moment, the Altmer moved.

Light flared deep inside hollow eye-sockets as the head whipped around to face him, a harsh crash accompanying the sudden straightening of limbs. A short glass sickle appeared in the hand of the Golden Saint while across the left arm a shimmering golden shield appeared. With an unearthly shriek, the Summoned threw itself at the armoured Mer, the hand-held scythe effortlessly ripping a gaping gash in the steel armour. I watched aghast as the butchery began ~ the hapless Mer pinned to the wall by the bulk of the Golden Saint as the sickle rose and fell with mechanical precision and relentlessness. The screams, as fine droplets of blood were replaced with larger splashes and then gouts of the stuff, were pitiful to hear.

Dripping with gore, the Golden Saint turned to face me. Emotionless features stared into my face as the demonic Summoning slowly sparkled and faded. Surely the sardonic quirk of the mouth at the last instant before dissolution was a figment of my imagination? The slow, smouldering hatred of that blank gaze was no figment. I shuddered; Atronachs were ferocious creatures ~ that I knew from personal experience. Golden Saints were a higher order of creature, surpassed only by the Dukes and Barons of Oblivion (and, of course, their infernal masters: the Daedra Princes themselves). What I had not anticipated was the sheer lethality, the cold and calculating, murderous hatred of the thing.

Securing a nearby room, I looked at the remaining scrolls that Dratha had given me. I had expected the Golden Saint to be a killing machine, like the Atronachs I had summoned in the past. But, while the Atronachs had clearly resented the Summoning, I couldn’t shake the feeling the Golden Saint had been furious and, with some cold intelligence, plotting vile and bloody revenge.