Trey in Mournhold, Chapter 8 Options

[treydog]

It was a measure of my desperation that I would even consider going to Helseth for help. I had come to Mournhold seeking blood and vengeance, and I had found them in full measure. I had damaged the Dark Brotherhood so severely that it would take them years to recover. Of course, even I was not so naïve as to believe that I had finished them- evil has a way of showing up around power and wealth, rather like a noxious weed in a fertile patch of soil. But I still hoped to exact my vengeance on their employer, the man whose help I must now seek, King Hlaalu Helseth. My actions had fueled the madness and plotting of the goddess Almalexia- as a direct result, at least seven people were dead. I could no longer pretend that my need for revenge was the most important thing- I somehow had to save the people of Mournhold from their deity. As I look at those words, they seem pompous, especially coming from a stable boy turned thief, turned adventurer. Who did I think I was, to even contemplate such a thing? The answer was simple- I was the only one who could or would do anything. When nobles speak of “the people,” they rarely have any real idea of what that means. To them, the term means a great, undifferentiated mass of faces that look up at them in admiration- or down at the ground in fear. But each face hides a cipher, an unknown, someone whose hopes and dreams are meaningless to the aristocracy. For me, it was different. When I thought of the people of Mournhold, I envisioned Sunel Hlas and Marena Gilnith and their new-found love; I saw Ra’Tesh, endlessly polishing the bar at the Winged Guar. In other words, I saw individuals, not a crowd of people who were somehow less important than me. And I had forgotten those individuals when I entangled myself in Almalexia’s schemes. That much I could see clearly, that it was my responsibility to repair the damage. But how I was to achieve the task was a great mystery. As far as I was aware, there were no books that detailed the approved method for killing a god- or even for curing one of insanity, for that matter. Regardless, I must do one or the other. In my obsession with vengeance, I had given Almalexia the Mazed Band, had brought the ash storm to the city, had fanned the flames of the goddess’ feverish imaginings to terrible heights. Vengeance must wait on justice. I could not do otherwise.

Lest anyone think that I was driven purely by noble purpose, let me quickly state my other reason for seeking any assistance I could secure- I was frightened and revolted by Almalexia’s apparent plans for me. With Salas Valor safely dead, she was already casting about for a replacement- and she had fixed upon me. The words that I had thought, but dared not say, escaped in a muttered hiss as I left the Temple:

“Your last inconvenient lover is dead, and you think that I am anxious to take his place- with his blood still warm on my hands? You may not be god, but you are no longer human, either.”

As for the idea that she believed me to be the reincarnation of Nerevar- I considered the source. She was insane, manipulative, and power-hungry. She would do anything to maintain her place as a deity. A little thing like defying Temple doctrine regarding the Nerevarine would not bother her in the least. As for somehow “recognizing” me as her long-dead husband: nonsense. She had obviously heard about the machinations that had gotten me sent to Vvardenfell in the first place. With Fedris Hler running her spy network, I was not surprised that the “goddess” had discovered the Empire’s plans to set me up as the prophesied hero of the Ashlanders. But I would not go the way of Salas Valor- I had never believed in Almalexia’s divinity in the first place. So it was that I found myself turning to my despised enemy for help- turning to someone who had tried repeatedly to have me killed.

When I entered the Throne Room, Helseth seemed to be in a rare good humor, with a ghost of a smile stretching his normally closed countenance. I wondered briefly how he could be happy with an ash storm raging outside, but dismissed the thought as of no consequence in the current circumstances. When he acknowledged my presence, I gathered my wits and said,

“Sire, I have some rather serious information to report regarding Almalexia…”

Although it pained me to refer to him as “sire,” my background in the stable was useful. After all, “sire” was an equine term, as well as a form of address to a monarch- and I certainly considered Helseth to be a particular portion of a horse’s anatomy. And before I could even begin to explain, the king managed to live up to- or rather, down to- my expectations. Interrupting, he waved an airy hand and said,

“Oh yes, the goddess. I have plans for you regarding the goddess, but first you must prove yourself. You see, Trey, I require all those close to me to be powerful, able to defend me from any adversary. Perhaps you have met my personal bodyguard, Karrod? He is a perfect example: the finest fighter I have met in all my travels, and loyal to me to the death. I met him many years ago, a deaf and dumb child wandering the streets of Wayrest. The boy actually had the audacity to try and rob my stepsister, Elysana. I marveled at his courage, and took him into my employ. When a dog has been beaten, it will lick the hand of one who feeds it even the most meager of scraps. Now he is my most loyal of servants, and one of my most deadly. I wish for you to fight my champion.”

What was it with the leaders of Mournhold? First Almalexia and now Helseth- “Fight my champion to prove yourself.” I felt bad enough about the death of Salas Valor, even though I did not like him or his Temple. But Karrod had never done anything to me and I had no desire to fight him. It was perhaps a measure of the strain I was under that I actually spoke the words that first came to my mind:

“Why should I fight this man?”

Helseth’s brows drew together in a fierce scowl and he rasped,

“Because I am the king and I wish it.”

In a slightly milder tone, he added,

“I have come to know you a bit, Trey. I believe you can be of some use to me. But the plans I have will require someone of great strength or wit. Perhaps both. The time has come for you to prove this to me. You will return here tomorrow, and you will duel Karrod. If you are able to defeat him, we will discuss my plans for you.”

As far as I could see, this was just another way of trying to have me killed, albeit publicly, instead of through assassination. I had no chance of defeating Karrod in anything approaching a fair fight- and there would be no convenient roofs from which to snipe at him in the Throne Room. I would have to think of something else- soon. Every day that the ash storm raged was another day that Mournhold suffered for Almalexia’s pride- and my foolishness.

[treydog]

Doctoring Karrod’s drink was not something I was proud of. The tactic struck me as being painfully close to the sort of thing Helseth might do. It was a lesson that others have learned- if you fight long enough, you begin to resemble your enemy. How easy it is to justify your actions with the excuse, “But I am doing this in the service of good!” (Or “the gods,” or “my king,” or “my people.”) But I had no such philosophical insights at the moment- all I could see was that I must win. If I could do so without killing the Redguard it would go a long way toward soothing my conscience. Slowing Karrod down would help, but so would a better sword. An old saying had it that “a poor workman blames his tools”- perhaps I could turn that maxim on its head. A better blade might make the difference- all the difference between life and death. I envied the last group of would-be Dark Brotherhood assassins for their adamantium weapons- the rare metal made wonderfully sharp swords and daggers. But those had been short blades, a type with which I had never trained, even though they were normally the weapon of choice for a thief or assassin. It was that last which had prejudiced me. I preferred to distinguish my law-breaking as a crime against property, rather than a crime against persons. The last thing I wanted to do during one of my “explorations” was get into a fight. A fight would mean that I had made a mistake and gotten caught. And I did not have the temperament to be an assassin- I did not like taking orders in the first place and I would want to know why a given person “deserved” to die- and who said so. On the other hand, when I did have to fight, I preferred the weight and length of a long blade- especially the length. Those extra inches of steel meant I could stay as far away from my opponent as possible- somewhere in the next county would have been ideal.

All the talk of re-forging Trueflame made me wonder if I might not be able to find someone to make me a better longsword. Bols Indalen had provided me a list of prices for adamantium, ebony, and glass armor- perhaps he could also make weapons- or knew someone who would. During my wandering in Vvardenfell, I had collected a number of bits of raw ebony. I had not really done so with any purpose in mind- the material simply had a pleasant look and weight- plus the fact that it was illegal to possess. Every time I looked at my collection, it was as if I was throwing a metaphorical rock at the Emperor. I would have liked a glass longsword even better, but raw glass was extremely difficult to find. Ebony would have to serve, so I collected the pieces of ore and went to the Craftsmen’s Hall to see about getting them made into a sword.

When I explained my need to Bols Indalen, he pointed to the Orc who was working at the forge.

“Yagak gro-Gluk is the best weapon smith around. He can make anything you want- for a price.”

I turned to the Orc craftsman, who acknowledged me with a surly grunt. Although he had probably heard my conversation with Bols, I had to go through the whole thing again. When I finished, he barked a laugh and shook his head,

“So- what do you think, puny Breton? Take lumps of ore, throw them in the fire, bang them with a hammer a couple of times, and ‘hey, presto’- it’s a sword?”
Again he gave a scornful laugh and continued,

“Good sword takes many days. Heat the ore, hammer, fold into a blade, cool the blade and let it rest. Heat again. Hammer some more. Fold some more. Cool again. And so on. Also, have to sing Orc song while making the blade so as to not leave out any steps. Orc song takes a long time to sing. You fight big Redguard tomorrow, right? Yagak can’t make good sword in one day. Stupid Breton.”

With that, he turned back to his work.

At that moment, I nearly gave in to despair. Even with a hangover, even slowed by my alchemical compound, even if he was feeling generous- Karrod would still kill me. Or else I would be condemned to living on the run for however long I had left until Almalexia or Helseth caught up with me. I stared at the purple lumps of ore in my hands, seeking answers in their depths. Salas Valor’s decision to fall on his own sword began to make a great deal of sense- at least he had chosen the time and manner of his death. Something of my thoughts must have showed on my face, for Yagak turned back with a more or less sympathetic look and said,

“Hey, wait a minute. I’m not really that grumpy- it’s just an act I put on to keep from being pestered all the time. Let me see that ebony you brought.”

As he examined the ore, I could not help but notice that his speech and grammar had improved remarkably. After several moments of careful study, he looked up at me and said,

“These are some fine specimens. I can make a good blade out of them. But- it will still take many days.”

As my heart sank, he turned to a wooden chest and pulled out a cloth-wrapped object and continued,

“However, I just happen to have a finished ebony longsword here that the customer never picked up. Probably got eaten by a daedroth…. Anyway, here’s the deal- I’ll trade you this blade for your ebony ore plus 10000 septims.”

It was an attractive offer- or would have been if I had the cash. Normally, such a sword would cost over 20000, so the Orc was giving me a fifty percent discount. What it meant was that he was willing to haggle- and I would be more than happy to accommodate him. Without even bothering to uncover the blade, I gave the bundle a contemptuous flick and snorted,

“Oh, that’s generous! Here I went into dark places under the ground, fought smugglers and undead and the gods know what else for that ebony, and now you will be so kind as to take it off my hands for a blade the customer rejected- AND 10000 drakes. How about this- I keep my ebony, give you 3000, and don’t tell anybody where I got the sword so you won’t be embarrassed?”

Yagak puffed up at my insults about his workmanship, but I could tell from the gleam in his eye that he was actually enjoying it. Bols Indalen quietly brought a couple of stools and some mugs of matze- he could tell this was going to take a while. And so it did. At last, after we had traded mortal insults, each threatened to leave, apologized, blustered, and cajoled, I had an inspiration.

“Yagak,” I said, “you look like a sporting ma-, um, Orc. So how about a wager? You give me the sword to use tomorrow against Karrod. If he kills me, you get all of my possessions. But if I win, I get to keep the sword. I will go ahead and give you the ebony ore right now, no strings attached. You can’t lose. If I die, you get the sword back. If I win, you will be the weapon smith who forged the blade that defeated Karrod.”

Yagak let go a laugh that sounded like rocks rattling down a mine shaft. He grabbed my hand and pumped it fiercely, saying,

“I like your style! It’s a deal!”

Then he turned and took the cloth covering from the sword. All this time, I had been negotiating over something that I had not even seen. And it was just as well- for the sword was the sort of thing that dreams are made of. Looking into the black blade was like staring into the depths of a starless night sky- it seemed to go on forever. The light actually appeared to bend as it passed the edge. The hilt and cross-guard were worked from adamantium, but seemed to flow directly from the blade itself. There was no engraving or adornment, save for a single piece of polished ebony in the pommel. It was the finest example of the sword-maker’s art I had ever seen. Almost unwillingly, I reached out to grasp the hilt and raise the sword to a guard position. As I had known it would be, the weapon was quite heavy. But the balance was so perfect that I almost did not feel the weight. For the first time, I thought that there might be a chance that I would live past the following day.

This post has been edited by treydog: Oct 25 2006, 09:49 PM