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]

Still enveloped in that peculiar calm, I gathered the items I had selected the previous night. As I carefully tightened the straps on my armor, I looked regretfully at my quivers of arrows, knowing that they would be of no use to me today. Even if I could have managed a bow in the confines of the Throne Room, I would not. I understood that this was a different sort of fight, one in which style was almost as important as winning. The duel was a “command performance” – my chance to prove my worth to the king. Actually, that was a pretense- this was simply Helseth’s latest ploy to have me killed. I had to not only thwart that scheme, but also do it in a convincing fashion. It was simple- I had to not get killed and make it look easy. When I entered the Throne Room, the king bestowed upon me the look of a cat contemplating an oblivious rodent. Gesturing expansively, he intoned,

“Ahhh...you have come to meet Karrod in battle. Good for you. Karrod is looking a bit under the weather today, but no matter. Perhaps you've heard that Karrod has never been defeated in battle? It's true. Amazing, don't you think? Regardless, this will be a fair fight. You may both use whatever weapons are at your disposal. I wish you both luck. None are to interfere, and you will begin on my command.”

I paid no attention to Helseth’s taunting blather, but focused entirely upon Karrod. If anything, the Redguard warrior looked even larger than I remembered and his blood-shot eyes did nothing to lessen the menace that seemed to surround him like a cloak. Still watching my soon-to-be opponent, I gave a curt nod to acknowledge Helseth’s recitation of the rules. He mercifully ceased his bleating and signaled the other guards, who withdrew to the perimeter of the room, leaving a cleared space in the center. And now it was just Karrod and me. I experienced a brief spate of mixed feelings- on the one hand, I respected the Redguard for his fighting prowess; but on the other hand, I had nothing but contempt for the elf he served. Nevertheless, it was the man himself who mattered, and so I raised my beautifully-worked ebony blade in salute to him. For it was not about kings or plots or intrigue anymore; it was about two men facing each other with swords in their hands- something Helseth would never understand. I still did not want to be there, did not want to fight Karrod, did not want to kill or be killed- and yet, I knew to the very core of my being that this was where I must be. My doubts, my fears, my complaints- I took them all and sealed them away. The place was here and the time was now.

Karrod returned my salute and I got my first good look at his sword. It was clearly of great antiquity and also of Dwemer make. The blade was oddly shaped, as if it had been shattered long ago and reshaped by a competent but unimaginative smith. Still, the edge looked sharp enough to shave ice, and I knew that Dwemer metal was durable and could sustain serious abuse without losing its strength. For long seconds, neither Karrod nor I moved. Then he brought his blade down into a guard position and took a careful step to the right. I mirrored his move, turning to keep my shield toward his blade. The only sounds were the hoarse breathing of the guards and the scuff of our boots on the marble floor. And then, in an explosion of movement, the Redguard charged me. Where before there had been stillness and slow movement, now there was a spinning, leaping demon, a blood-red blur intent on spilling my blood upon the white floor. Almost as frightening as his speed was the utter silence with which he conducted his attack, broken only by an occasional grunt of effort. Thrusts and slashes too numerous to count reached for my head, my legs, my torso, then back again toward my head. I had no time to counter-attack, but could only retreat, using both sword and shield to defend against the deadly flurry. Even though I was successful in blocking the blows, the power behind them nearly numbed my arms to the shoulder. It was hardly credible that a human being could hit so hard and so fast. I knew that I would have to fight back quickly, before my shield shattered from the constant assault.

My counter would have to be careful as well as quick. The usual diversionary tactics, such as a loud shout or a pretended slip, would probably not work and might even get me in deeper trouble. And then it seemed that an alien presence entered my body, as if it were putting on a coat. I seemed to be merely a spectator as my right index finger straightened and pointed at Karrod. Words of ancient magic issued from my lips and a small fireball flashed toward the Redguard’s face. However, a cat-quick strike of his blade jarred my hand and the fiery orb whizzed past his ear, to spray harmlessly against the wall. Although the fireball missed, its near passage did cause Karrod to blink, giving me just enough time to beat aside his sword with my shield and score a gash along his ribs. The wound was not deep, but bled profusely and seemed to drain some of the warrior’s determination with it. Perhaps it had been so long since he had sustained a wound that he had forgotten how to ignore the pain. Or perhaps the long night drinking brandy was beginning to show an effect. Whatever the reason, Karrod’s quick movements slowed a bit, and mine seemed to speed up. I worked a dangerous strategy- darting in to send a probing stab or slash and then hastily backing out of reach. Though wounded and slowed, he was still as deadly as an avalanche, and I took my life in my hands every time I came within his reach. I learned the truth of that when a sudden thrust got past my guard and gashed my left thigh. I gulped the healing potion I held in my shield hand before the wound could sap my strength.

The fact that Karrod was unable to follow up what should have been a decisive hit told me all I needed to know and I pressed my own attack with renewed energy. The opening sequence was reversed, as I now forced the Redguard back with blow after blow and he went completely on the defensive. Even so, his skill was so great that I could not end the fight with a single thrust. Instead, I had to nick his arms and legs as he guarded his torso and head. At last, a deeper wound went into his leg and he fell to one knee. Dropping his blade, he gasped,

“Hold! I am beaten! You are the greater warrior, Trey”

Even greater than my surprise that I had survived was the revelation that Karrod was not mute, after all. I nearly dropped my own sword in surprise. In the background, I heard a rumble of astonished voices and Helseth babbling something, but my attention was still upon Karrod. His face was a study, as he looked both stunned and…. Hopeful? There was something odd here, something that I did not fully understand. Something more had just occurred than a duel. In that moment, a bond sprang up between Karrod and I, a feeling that it was destiny that had brought us together, rather than Helseth. Regardless of what he might have believed, the king was just as much a pawn as I. I knelt to put an arm around Karrod’s shoulders and pressed a couple of my healing potions upon him. In truth, he hardly seemed to need them- his wounds appeared almost to heal as I watched. I glanced down at his oddly-formed blade and had a sudden inspiration. Grasping my own sword, I reversed it and presented it to the Redguard fighter. Such a formidable warrior deserved a blade in keeping with his abilities- besides, even though it had probably saved my life, I felt a bit guilty about having Ra’Tesh get him drunk the night before. And so I put the hilt of the ebony blade in his hand and said,

“This blade served me well and I see that yours is damaged. Take this sword as a sign of my respect for you.”

He looked at the sword with wonder and then set it aside. Taking up his own weapon he told me,

“When I was a child, my father gave me this weapon. He told me that as long as I had it, none would defeat me in battle...until the rightful owner came to claim it from me. I know now that you are the one of whom he spoke. I give it to you freely. May it serve you as well as it has served me.”

And as I grasped the hilt of the ancient Dwemer weapon, I thought I heard a voice in my head saying, “Done!”