Interregnum, 854 of the Second Era Options

[Destri Melarg]

Book Three: First Seed


2nd First Seed, 2E 854
The Reachman’s Tavern, Jehanna, High Rock
Evening


The young man’s lineage could not be told easily at first glance. On his face was writ the history of the Western Reach. He had a Nord’s height to be sure, but his lean silhouette and pointed ears told of his Aldmeri heritage. His pale skin and small, close-set blue eyes were framed by an unruly shock of blond hair that further marked him for a Breton. He sat with his legs akimbo, well into his cups, and listened with drunken fascination at the venom spilling from the stranger who shared a table and a tankard with him.

“I was at Sancre Tor,” said the stranger. He was a short, choleric Breton gone to fat who waved his tankard to emphasize his point, spilling half his mead on the tavern’s stone floor. “It wasn’t the ‘genius’ of your General Talos that won the battle.”

The young man’s head had drooped during the diatribe, but at the invocation of the name ‘Talos’ he roused himself and focused on the stranger through squinted eyes. “What are you saying?”

“What am I saying?” the Breton lowered his voice. His darting eyes searched through the tavern. Most of the patrons were Reachmen who were too far, or too drunk to hear their conversation. A small group of armed mer, Altmer from the look of them, drank at a nearby table. They were as out of place as he was along the Reach but the Breton relaxed. He had nothing to fear from the Elves.

He turned his attention back to the young man, who sat with his legs splayed and his eyes indignant. The Breton savored the moment; there was a perverse thrill to be had in destroying the delusions of youth.

“Refill my cup and I shall tell you,” he said.

The young man raised two fingers and swayed from an excess of mead. An attentive wench brought two bottles that she placed on the table. The young man pressed some gold coins into her hand and the two exchanged a private smile. Then he turned his attention back to the Breton.

“Now,” he said, “what were you saying?”

“I’m saying that your precious Early-Beard. . .” whatever was to follow became caught in the Breton’s throat. The door to the tavern was flung open and a sudden lightning flash lit the armor of the two figures framed in the doorway. Conversation stopped as they entered the tavern, dripping rain onto the stone floor. Their eyes began to move through the tavern and, as they scanned the faces within, the Breton just knew.

The young man paid no mind to his drinking companion. His eyes were agog and trained on the two armored men whose presence filled the tavern. The first was as tall as any Nord the young man had ever seen. Though soiled and battered, his steel armor still glistened in the lamp light. He bore a heavy tower shield that was slung to his back and a weathered silver mace hung from his hip. The second man was smaller though in no way slight. He was encased in light mail, and his worn green tunic clung to his chest and dripped into a puddle between his boots. He carried a light iron shield comfortably in his left hand, and when he shifted his stance the young man saw the pommel of a silver longsword on his left hip.

The smaller man’s scan of the tavern stopped at the table where the young man drank with the stranger. He threw an elbow into his companion and the Nord’s gaze followed. The young man shifted uder their scrutiny.

Thunder broke the silence in the tavern and shook the empty tankards gathered on the bar. The tall Nord shut the door behind him, muffling the sound of the falling rain, and joined his companion near the young man’s table. They stood to both sides, blocking the exit and the stairs behind the bar. They ignored the young man and glared down at the Breton, who kept his eyes on the table in front of him.

“Sancre Tor,” said the tall Nord, through a voice made hoarse with rage. “I am Valdemar of Skyrim.”

“And I am Alain of Wayrest,” said the smaller man, through a set jaw in a face flushed crimson.

Valdemar kept his eyes on the Breton, but made his comments to the tavern. “Being the craven braggart that this man is, doubtless by now he has made it known that two years ago he stood in stout fellowship with the Nord/Breton host at Sancre Tor. He probably filled his cup at your expense telling you how he fought valiantly in the face of certain death and that, when the fortress was taken, fate or divine providence alone allowed him to escape the kiss of the axe that claimed the heads of so many of his poor lamented brethren.”

“Lamented brethren,” said Alain.

“We were at Sancre Tor,” continued Valdemar, “and what he didn’t tell you through all those tankards of mead is that by his own hand he condemned to death all those whose only crime was calling him ally. What he didn’t tell you is that he alone removed the wards that allowed the invaders to take the high command unawares, and that his reward for this treachery was the right to walk free of that valley when so many others did not. Not to mention enough gold in his purse to buy his own damn mead, and the tavern that it was served in.”

Alain shifted impatiently. Valdemar’s eyes shone with unshed tears, a sight more frightening than the scowl that he wore.

“Two years we have spent on the chase,” said Valdemar, “the wheel stops spinning here.”

“Stand and draw your sword,” said Alain, “or die a coward’s death, whimpering into your cup!”

The young man rose so suddenly that his chair flew back against the hearth. He backed away from the table with his eyes as white and wide as mother pearls. The Breton kept his eyes on the table, but his hands eased down to his lap.

“You’ll be keeping your hands where we can see them,” said Valdemar.

“This is a mistake,” the Breton said, eyes still firmly on the table.

“The mistake was yours,” said Alain.

“So I am to face two knights?” the Breton looked into Alain’s face, he held his hands out to the side. “I am alone, and unarmed. What odds are those?”

“The odds are as fair as those you gave when you opened Sancre Tor to the invaders,” said Valdemar.

Alain drew his sword, the blade whined as it cleared the sheath. He placed the point near the Breton’s throat and held it with a steady hand.

“Have no fear,” he said, “it was the Breton host that you condemned to slavery and death, and it will be a Breton alone who exacts retribution. Now get on your feet.”

The Breton slowly rose from his chair. The point of Alain’s sword rose with him. Without taking his eyes off of his adversary, Alain raised his voice to be heard by all in the tavern.

“Someone give this man a sword,” he said, “I’ll not have it known that I slew an unarmed man.”

The tavern was silent; the only sound was the muffled rain tapping on the roof. From behind Valdemar one of the Altmer men-at-arms pushed past his fellows. Valdemar spun at the sound, his hand seeking the hilt of his mace. The Altmer froze; he raised both hands and shook his head once. The big Nord relaxed and motioned the Altmer forward. The Altmer drew his elven longsword and offered it hilt first to the Breton.

“Take up the sword,” said Alain.

The Breton hesitated. Alain placed the tip of his sword against the Breton’s throat and pushed forward enough to draw blood.

“Take it up,” he repeated.

The Breton took the sword in hand. Alain lowered his sword to the floor and handed his shield to Valdemar. He faced the Breton, both men on their guard.

“If I am victorious?” asked the Breton.

“Then I shall mourn my friend,” said Valdemar, “and after I have finished mourning I shall have one more death for which to hunt you down.”

The Breton roared and lunged forward. Alain shifted his weight to meet the attack, but it was a feint. The Breton changed his position and aimed his slash towards Alain’s exposed flank, but the knight was younger and quicker. The two blades met with the clang of silver on steel, and then the duel began in earnest.

_____

The young man stood near the hearth transfixed. For several moments the flight of the two swords shimmered and trailed in the lamplight. Silver rang on steel, with the occasional flash of lightning framing the combatants. Great rumbles of thunder shook the tavern and momentarily drowned out their curses.

And they were both cursing. The knight was the best swordsman that the young man had ever seen. But the older man was canny beyond reason, well versed in sword-craft, and possessed of that diabolical luck that graces evil men. Thrice he had been left open, his weakness so apparent that even the young man could see it, and thrice he had been rescued from the killing blow by some unseen agent that moved him to the one spot whereby he could re-gather himself and duel on.

The curses grew louder. To the young man it seemed that the knight’s sword was slowing, while the sword of the other man grew swifter, bolder. He had taken the knight’s measure and found him wanting. He began to drive the knight back. With each grudging scrape of the knight’s boots the sneer across the Breton’s face grew.

With a bellowed curse the knight went down, his boots sliding on the rain wet stone. The young man’s breath caught in his throat. The Breton’s sneer grew into a smile with no hint of warmth. With the elven sword raised high above his head he rushed in for the killing blow. The young man turned his head from the duel as a flash of lightning exploded against his closed eyelids.

_____

Alain lay dazed on the floor where he had fallen. My sword! He thought. And there it was, still firmly gripped in his hand. He saw his opponent coming forward, sword upraised, framed in the flash of a lightning strike. Instinctively he raised the nicked silver blade but, even as he did so, the thought slammed down on him like a hammer, No time!

The older man’s momentum carried him forward. His blade whistled downward in a blow meant to sever flesh and bone. Alain rolled to his right. For the space of a heartbeat the world in front of his eyes exploded with the sparks from the sword’s impact with the stone. There was a stab of pain across his cheek, and for a brief instant he imagined that the blow had landed. Then through his hazy vision he saw the exposed left knee of his enemy. Alain lifted his boot and kicked out with everything he had left in him.

There was a distinct crack, like the breaking of dry timber that caused everyone in the tavern to gasp, but to Alain the sound was sweeter than all the music in Tamriel. His boot had broken the other man’s knee at the joint and pushed the stressed bones to an impossible angle. The Breton went down with a groan as Alain struggled back to his feet.

In the same way that his code would not allow him to attack an unarmed man, he could not attack a man who was down. So Alain circled his opponent, waiting. The Breton began to push himself backward with his sword held in front of him. His left leg remained straight, but his left foot dragged along the floor on its side. He reached the hearth and slowly struggled to his feet. All of his weight rested on his right leg. His sword was held weakly in his left hand. Alain lowered his sword.

“Yield,” said Alain, “and submit to the King’s justice.”

“What King would that be?” asked the Breton, the sneer returning to his face, “the one in want of a head, or the one bowing to the Ruby Throne? I should have made sure that you were both put to the axe before I left.”

Alain charged with all thoughts of mercy forgotten. The Breton made no move to escape, nor did he raise his sword to defend himself. He stood there in defiant resignation waiting for the killing blow to fall. Alain began his thrust, the momentum of his charge and his bodyweight behind it.

The Breton moved. His right arm shot out to the side, locking onto the wrist of the young man who had shared his table. He yanked hard to his left; the young man lost his footing and stumbled into the path of Alain’s oncoming sword. Alain could not check his thrust.

There was a sound like a faint hiccup, the young man’s breath smelled like honey and mead. This close, Alain could see past the wide eyed shock to the first sense of recognition on the young man’s face, and the draining of the light from his eyes. Alain drew back as if he had touched a blacksmith’s forge. His sword was buried to the hilt in the young man’s chest. A tavern wench screamed, and the young man fell to the stone floor.

Alain stood rooted to the spot. All of his anger and all of his pride had been spent in the young man lying at his feet. The Breton faded to a dim memory beyond the edge of hearing. He stared down at the body of the young man and at the hilt of his sword which comically protruded from the chest.

The Breton raised his sword and set his one good leg for a final swing. Alain did not even react. With a turn of the hip and a roll of the shoulders the elven sword cut through the air. . .and was repelled by the tower shield that seemed to materialize in front of Alain’s neck.

The impact caused the Breton to loose his balance. He went down in front of the hearth. He looked up in time to see the head of a weathered mace coming toward him, held by a giant Nord with murder in his eyes.

This post has been edited by Destri Melarg: Aug 17 2010, 08:42 PM

[haute ecole rider]

I remember how this chapter kept me on the edge of my seat, and I'm pleased to find that on the second read-through it still does!

Ah, Alain and Valdemar! Two of my Sancre Tor heroes! These two, along with Caspar in Hammerfell, have really come to life here, as opposed to their appearance in Oblivion. I really appreciate how you have really made their ultimate sacrifice (as witnessed by the NPC during the MQ) so much more tragic by giving these men voices of their own. Rielus will make an appearance later, as well, if I recall correctly.

The tragedy of the young man's death really brings home the risks of dueling in close quarters with an audience. It amplifies the craven nature of the fat Breton, and adds to the sense of tragedy haunting Alain. First his Breton comrades-in-arms, then an innocent bystander. Valdemar's reaction, as exemplified by this line:

He looked up in time to see the head of a weathered mace coming toward him, held by a giant Nord with murder in his eyes.

only serves to highlight the kind of ruthless, unforgiving honor that drives many a seasoned warrior.

This chapter can stand alone as a short story in itself - so much is said in so few words, and it is so complete in and of itself. The fact that it slots so seamlessly into the rest of Interregnum is a testament to your skill in the writer's craft.

[Acadian]

I recall this one vividly.

Descriptions, dialogue, pacing, the storm, the twists. . .

Simply magnificent Destri. I don't know how better to put it.

[SubRosa]

About Hjolfr's holding, why not just go with balls?

Ahh, this blood-pounding battle is what I remember best of Interregnum 1.0! Action, suspense, and treachery! I loved the Breton as much as I did the first time. That guy really is a good villain.

At the same time this segment also gives us some background on Alain and Voldemort Valdemar. I might be wrong, but I think this was the first mention of them being at Sancre Tor. I wonder how it is that they escaped? Either death in the battle, or a life of slavery after being captured. Most of all I keep wondering how these two might end up serving the same man who slaughtered so many of their comrades and sold the rest into slavery. I cannot wait to see it all!


nits:
You have some heads being hopped:
The Breton savored the moment; there was a perverse thrill to be had in destroying the delusions of youth.
This makes it seem like we are in the pov of the fat Breton.

The young man felt the saliva vacate his mouth and skitter down the back of his throat.
Now we are clearly in the young man's pov.



The tall Nord shut the door behind him, muffling the sound of the falling rain, and joined his companion near the young man’s table.
This long sentence needs either a pair of commas where I inserted them, or hyphens (I find I am using the latter more and more in these situations).


The Breton made no move to escape, nor did he raise his sword to defend himself.
This also needs a comma.


I think you ought to give a name to "the young man". It gets repetitive after while, and seeing that some parts are told from his pov, he ought to have one and be a full character rather than just be a stand-in. Also giving him a name makes him seem more real, like a person. This will add more weight to the tragedy of his death. Just have someone say it early in the story. Perhaps the Breton could ask it? Likewise, all the same can be said for "the Breton".

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Aug 14 2010, 05:47 PM

[hazmick]

Another great chapter, I particularly enjoyed the character of the Breton. Your description of the tavern really set the atmosphere for the mysterious Breton and the fight scene was fast paced and energetic A good chapter all round.

This post has been edited by hazmick: Aug 14 2010, 09:43 PM

[Olen]

That was an interesting part which would almost stand alone. Opening with the young man (I agree a name might have been wise, though equally not giving him one prevents the reader trying to file away another) as the pov character was a good idea and worked well to make it matter that the breton then had him killed. I wonder if it will bother Alain in the long run...

Well written action throughout, very exciting and sustained.

there was a perverse thrill to be had in destroying the delusions of youth

The rather astute things like this really add a lot to this story. They really sit well with the people involved (and with reality).

Nits:

the chest of the young man lying at his feet. The Breton faded to a dim memory beyond the edge of hearing. He stared down at the body of the young man and at the hilt of his sword which comically protruded from the chest. -- 'the chest' jarred the second time, possibly something like 'the potruding sword' would flow better.

“it was the Breton host that you condemned to slavery and death, and it will be a Breton alone who exacts retribution. Now get on your feet.”
The Breton slowly rose from his chair. The point of Alain’s sword rose with him. Without taking his eyes off the Breton, -- the first three were fine because they were different Bretons but the final one somehow jarred them all. Giving the breton a name would sort this. And yes I do seem obsessed with repetitions.

of his poor lamented brethren.”
“Lamented brethren,” said Alain. -- I don't quite see why he said that, it seemed like he was correcting but he said the same.

[Winter Wolf]

Your characters are a great blast to read. Lattia, Earns-his-keep, Dreekius, Arnand, they all just sing off the screen. Epic writing brother!!

“Thank you, Captain, I do feel stronger. Maybe it was seeing the sun this morning after so many days of rain. Will we sail today?”

That is what I love about Lattia. She is always straight to the point. Lookout guys!

"It would be a shame to visit Stros M’Kai and not partake of the local tavern.”

I really enjoyed your take on Stros M’Kai. Each time I read the way you describe the city it always reminds me of Lut Gholein, from Diablo II. Awesome!! The sandstone, the sun looming across the walls, ahhh, the good old days of gaming.

He opened his eyes. He lay on burning black sand that cut into his skin like broken glass. The sky above was on fire. Elissa pinned him to the ground, her long bony fingers clawed at the skin around his neck. Her skin was as pale and thin as parchment, lust and hunger lit her blood red eyes. He was too weak to hold her off. The last thing he felt was her fangs scrape the skin of his throat

The way you write a dream sequence is a delight to read. You have wonderfully mastered the ‘steps of consciousness’ that a person goes through as they try to collate their thoughts. As always you underpin it by the rational thoughts that are going on outside the dream. Epic!!

Your courtroom drama is building to a crescendo. Though how you keep all the storylines straight is a mystery to me.

[Remko]

However you did it, you found a way to improve upon the part in the bar with Valdemar and Alain and the fat Breton and the poor young man getting the sharp end of the stick (literally)
Loved it Destri!

SubRosa, has a point, changing privates for balls gets the message through and it seems to me, Hjolfir would way balls. That; or nuts.

[mALX]

Still catching up, ARGH !!!!! But LOVING it !!!!

[Destri Melarg]

About Hjolfr's holding, why not just go with balls?

SubRosa, has a point, changing privates for balls gets the message through and it seems to me, Hjolfir would way balls. That; or nuts.

SubRosa and Remko – With apologies to our younger readers (who probably avoid this thread anyway), here is the problem with using the word balls:

I don’t have to explain this to Remko, but for 'Rosa’s benefit a (straight) man only lays hands on another man’s, well, balls when he is looking to intimidate, degrade, or otherwise coerce compliance from said individual. It ties into an old joke:

What do you do when an eight hundred pound gorilla has you by the balls?
You listen!

In the situation that I have presented Hjolfr is complaining about having to nursemaid the Cyrodiil Legion, something that a (straight) man does by holding the Johnson of another man. Again tying into an old joke:

Do you want me to hold it for you?

In the situation presented balls simply doesn’t work for what Hjolfr is trying to say. But I must say that this discussion is even more fun than the speculation of whether or not Argonians sweat!

[mALX]

Then there is the discussion of Rod vs batton...

[SubRosa]

In the situation that I have presented Hjolfr is complaining about having to nursemaid the Cyrodiil Legion, something that a (straight) man does by holding the Johnson of another man.

Oh, so you want to say hold on to the penii (the forum turns the exact work I am trying to use into something else) rather than the testicles. Why not go with pricks?

Although it seems to be that if a man is holding another man's penii, that is hardly a declaration of his being straight! Sounds a lot more like Alexander and Hephaestion to me! Mutual masturbation is the most common form of sex between gay men in fact.

Something else that comes to mind is that in Dark Age Scandinavia (i.e. the Viking Era, which the game seems to portray the Nords as being in). Male homosexuality was only frowned upon on the part of a man receiving anal intercourse from another man, as that was seen as being 'womanly'. There was no stigma associated with the man who was 'driving'. In fact, male on male rape was a quite common way of humiliating defeated enemies.

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Aug 17 2010, 02:42 PM

[Destri Melarg]

haute – You nailed it. I think that all four of their stories are tragic, but with Alain I wanted there to be something more behind his actions. It took me a long time to figure out how to portray each of these four men. In the end I remembered the Nord/Breton alliance at Sancre Tor, and I thought it would be interesting if Alain and Valdemar were a part of that force.

Acadian – Right up until the moment I posted this part of the story I debated whether I should include the storm. I didn’t want to lay things on too thick, but I liked the atmosphere that the storm creates inside the tavern. In the end I decided to go with it. I am so glad that it worked for you.

SubRosa – If I had known that the Breton was going to come across as strongly as he did I would have found a way to use him more. The genesis of the character comes from reading about the Battle of Sancre Tor:

Leaving a weak force in the lowlands to draw out the defenders, General Talos approached the citadel of Sancre Tor from the rear, descending the supposedly unscalable heights behind the citadel, and sneaking into the supposedly magically concealed entrance to the inner citadel. This remarkable feat is attributed to the agency of a single unnamed traitor (bold & italics mine), by tradition a Breton turncloak sorcerer, who revealed both the existence of an obscure mountain trail down the heights behind the citadel and the secret of the citadel entrance concealed beneath its illusory lake surface.

Kind of reminds you of Ephialtes, who led Xerxes forces down a small path behind the Greek lines at Thermopylae, doesn’t it?

As far as the head-hopping and commas are concerned you are absolutely right on both counts. The beginning of the scene is told from the Breton’s POV, but I liked the saliva line so much that I thought I could risk leaving it in. Just goes to show what happens when you don’t edit something that you know you should! The lack of commas stems from my tendency to write the way I speak. I generally talk fast, and I don’t take the time to take breaths as much as I should (believe me when I say that I have heard this complaint before). Both issues have been addressed.

hazmick – Thank you again. Please read my comments above for insight into my thinking of the Breton, and for the atmosphere that I tried to represent within the tavern. I don’t do fight scenes as well as some (Acadian, haute, Olen, I am looking at you), I am glad that this one worked for you.

Olen – This next chapter will answer some of your questions over whether the boy’s death stays with Alain. And I am grateful for your obsession with repetitions, though I admit that re-reading them after you have pointed them out is a slightly painful experience . I have addressed both of the examples you cited.

On the subject of ‘lamented brethren’: Alain repeated that statement of Valdemar’s to 1) underscore the fact that the men who died at Sancre Tor really are lamented (by him and, to a somewhat lesser extent, by Valdemar), and 2) to comment on the irony that the Breton would be falsely mourning the deaths of those he condemned. I had hoped to convey a bitter tone in his comment that I thought would be apparent, given the context.

Winter Wolf – Welcome back! And I see that you have updated Aradroth’s story. I have never played Diablo II, but now I feel like I should. Just the name, Lut Gholein, sounds interesting! Your comments are, as always, a treasured source of confidence that I draw upon in the continuation of this story. Thank you once again!

Remko – Another welcome back! How are Rales and Zerina doing in Mournhold? I have always wondered, do you use a companion mod for Zerina, or is she strictly made from imagination? I hope you saw my comment above answering yours and SubRosa’s suggestion.

mALX – Take your time, this story isn’t going anywhere. Oh yeah, what’s a batton? Is it a baton that is so large that it needs two t’s to hold it (like Kurdan’s axe in hautee’s story)?

SubRosa and Olen – The young man is given a name in the chapter that follows. The Breton will remain as history remembers him, nameless.

* * *

3rd First Seed, 2E 854
The Fortress of At-Stuhn, North of Jehanna
Dawn


At-Stuhn, called ‘Old Stuhn’ in Jehanna, clung to a peak of ice and stone that commanded views for miles throughout the Western Reach. It was built in the First Era by the Nords under King Vrage, and named for their deity who fought the Aldmeri pantheon. An appropriate name considering that the fortress was used as a staging point for the liberation of High Rock from the Elves.

Later, during the War of Succession, the fortress changed hands so many times legend holds that the stone walls still bleed. In Jehanna they say that Old Stuhn is haunted by vengeful ghosts in Nordic mail, and that the howling wind from the mountain is testament to their continued suffering. It is a legend that is upheld by the stronghold’s current tenants, the mysterious Witchmen of High Rock.

At the base of the pass leading to the fortress gates Hecerilar waited with his band of mer. This high up their breath froze on the thin air before falling to the snow at their feet. Conversation was scarce, the mer still half-drunk. The horses threw their heads and dug into the snowy trail, their eyes wide in the unnatural stillness.

Hecerilar ran a whetstone over his blade, or what was left of it. For the seventh time since leaving the tavern he questioned his decision to lend it to that foul Breton. Dishonor now clung to the sword like a stain; as soon as they reached home he would exchange it in the armory.

While he entertained thoughts of home with the scrape of the whetstone in his ears, the gate to the fortress opened. The pitched whine unhinged the skittish horses and it was all they could do to calm them. A hooded figure emerged through the gate, his cloak flapping like a banner in the wind. Hecerilar returned the whetstone to his pouch, where it scraped against the heavy bronze amulet he now carried. Those still mounted climbed from their horses and joined with their fellows on bended knee as the cloaked figure drew closer. Hecerilar sheathed his ruined blade and knelt in the snow.

“Get off your knees and fetch my mount,” said the voice inside the hood.

“Yes, my lord,” said Hecerilar.

He rose and signaled the others to follow suit. One of the mer led a white stallion forward and the cloaked figure mounted. As he adjusted his weight in the saddle the hood fell from his head revealing the features of Aran Direnni.

Hecerilar climbed into the saddle. “Back to Jehanna, my lord?”

“South,” growled Aran, “and quickly.”

“Yes, my lord.” Hecerilar held his tongue. Since leaving Glenumbria he had noticed a change in the Castellan. Whereas before the Direnni patriarch had barely acknowledged his presence, in their journey across the Wrothgarians he had been downright chatty. Whatever the Witchmen had said to him inside that fortress had produced a cloud that it was not Hecerilar’s place to try and remove. He would be there to provide his sword or his counsel if the Castellan required. Otherwise he would perform his duties in silence.

They retraced their path down the mountain. The falling snow had erased the evidence of their ascent, so it seemed as if they marked the trail for the first time. Hecerilar’s hand sought out his pouch, and the heavy bronze amulet within. Running his fingers along the raised surface was a habit recently acquired and still too new to question. As an Altmer, he could feel the pulse of magic within the bronze, and he recognized that the raised symbols on the surface held some significance. But neither his skill nor learning was such that he could define its purpose. If he felt any regret for lifting it from the Breton’s mangled corpse he had not found reason to address it.

“You were sharpening your blade when I approached,” said the Castellan, “did you have trouble in the tavern?”

“No, my lord,” said Hecerilar. He closed his hand around the amulet. For a brief instant he calculated his options; he could retain his treasure, or he could seek the Castellan’s favor. The decision was not an easy one.

“Two Bretons fought a duel in the tavern,” he said, “I lent my sword to the vanquished. When I went to retrieve it,” he pulled the amulet from his pouch and held it up by the chain, it rocked like a pendulum with each step of his horse, “I found this on the body.”

Aran held out his hand. Hecerilar hesitated before presenting the bronze to his master. He prayed that the Castellan didn’t notice. Aran held the amulet up to the light, rubbing his fingers along the raised symbols. His eyebrows lifted and a smile spread across his face.

“Where did you find this?” he asked.

“On the body of a dead Breton in the tavern, my lord, I could feel the magicka pulsing through it, and I presume those symbols are lettering of some kind.”

“The man who wore this is dead, you say?”

“Yes, my lord, killed by the mace of a very large Nord.”

“A Nord?” said Aran, “I thought you said it was two Bretons dueling.”

“It was, my lord, the Nord was seconded to the other Breton.”

Aran regarded Hecerilar with a bemused expression. For a moment the only sound was the crunch of hooves into new snow. Aran turned his eyes back to the amulet.

“This first Breton,” he said, “the one who wore this amulet, did he have a second?”

“No, my lord, when we arrived at the tavern he was drinking with a young Reachman. But, alas, that lad is dead now.”

“This sounds like some duel,” said Aran.

“That it was, my lord.”

“Take me to this tavern.”

“Yes, my lord.”

They rode in silence for a time, winding down the trail from the mountain. Aran continued to study the amulet. The sun shone bright in the eastern sky and reflected off the snow all around them. Last night’s storm had drifted north to fall on the Sea of Ghosts, and as the dazzling white trail gradually faded into mud curiosity got the best of Hecerilar.

“Can you determine what the charm does, my lord?” he asked.

He knew that he had overstepped, and the look that the Castellan gave him confirmed it. He was about to apologize when the Castellan spoke.

“It has a fortify luck enchantment,” he said, “very powerful if I’m not mistaken, curious that this Breton was slain while wearing it.”

Hecerilar could have left it at that, but he couldn’t help himself. “And those symbols, my lord, are they letters?”

“Daedric letters,” said Aran.

Hecerilar relaxed, downright chatty, he thought to himself. He nodded to the Castellan but he needn’t have bothered. Though his eyes were on Hecerilar, his gaze was someplace else.

“They spell out the name of Clavicus Vile,” he said.

_____

3rd First Seed, 2E 854
Castle Dungeon, Jehanna, High Rock
Morning


Behind cold, damp iron bars Valdemar chafed in sack cloth clothing.

“Ho guard,” he called out to the sullen Reachman who passed in front of his cell.

The guard turned. He had sagging jowls, a lazy bottom lip, and both of his filmy eyes drooped. His hand caressed the handle of a truncheon that he carried in a loop on his belt.

“What do you want?” asked the guard.

“My friend and I,” said Valdemar, “what are we charged with?”

“Take me for a magistrate, do you? How the ‘blivion should I know? I just watch the prisoners.”

“Then we’d like to speak to the magistrate.”

“Oh sure,” said the guard, “I’ll just go fetch him for you, wait here.”

The guard chuckled at what he perceived was a good joke and disappeared down the corridor. Valdemar waited until he heard the heavy door close and lock.

“Alain,” he called loud enough to be heard in Northpoint, “are you awake?”

There was no answer from the cell across from him. Valdemar pressed and pulled against the iron until bits of rust stained his palms, yet still the bars remained firm. The candles in the hall cast scant illumination to the cells. Beyond the iron bars of the cell across from him was a space as dark as a cloudless night. And in that space he knew that his friend rested with heavy heart.

“Alain!”

“I hear you,” a hoarse voice answered from the darkness.

“Well, thank Tsun for that. I was starting to think that you hanged yourself with these prison issues, of course, that would alleviate the smell.”

No answer came from the shrouded depths of Alain’s cell. Keep him talking, Valdemar thought to himself.

“When do you think they’ll let us out of here?”

There was no answer from the darkness. Somewhere inside the walls, a restless rat skittered.

“Alain!”

“I don’t know,” said Alain, irritation straining his voice, “maybe never.”

“What do you mean never?”

“They don’t usually let murderers go.”

“Who’s a murderer?” asked Valdemar. “Not I, or you either. That Breton dog got what he was owed.”

“I murdered that boy,” said Alain.

“No!” said Valdemar, “no. He murdered that boy, not you. He put that boy in front of the sword, not you. If you allow this to be your end, then he will have murdered two people in that tavern, not one.”

“I know that,” said Alain, “I’ve been telling myself that very thing all night. But it was my sword, Valdemar, my hand. It was my eyes that watched the light leave his, and it is my soul that has to carry this weight.”

“Then carry it with honor. That boy was a Reachman, not some wine-swilling poet! If it is meant to be, his soul will find its own way to Sovngarde. All that you can do is live on, fight well, and keep to your honor. Otherwise, what did he die for?”

There was a soft scrape in the darkness, and Alain appeared at the bars of his cell. “You are a good friend, Valdemar.”

“I know this,” said Valdemar, “I also know that I saved your life last night, so now it belongs to me. I will not have it wallowing.”

Alain almost smiled, but then the door down the hall opened and voices filled the corridor. The guard appeared and stopped in front of Alain’s cell. He fumbled for the proper key. Behind him stood the Altmer that both knights recognized from the tavern the night before.

“Your lucky day, your release has been secured,” said the guard. “The Castellan of Balfiera wishes a word with you.”

The lock clicked, and the door opened with a whine along its hinges. The guard turned and tried to simultaneously watch Valdemar while making a futile attempt to fit the right key into the lock of his cell. Alain stepped into the corridor and bowed before the Altmer.

“Lord Castellan,” he said, “you have our gratitude.”

The Altmer’s laugh nearly drowned out the sound of Valdemar’s cell door opening. The big Nord stepped into the corridor. The guard backed away wide-eyed, and his hand moved toward the handle of his truncheon.

“That mail they issue you is not very thick in the rear,” Valdemar said. His eyes bored into the guard, “if you pull that stick I will make you regret it.”

The Altmer laughed again, then turned and faced Alain.

“Save your gratitude,” he said, “I am Hecerilar, Captain of the Castellan’s bodyguard. He awaits us in the tavern. Let us retrieve your things and be off.”

He turned toward the exit, the two knights followed. The guard remained where he was, watching the three of them fade down the corridor while a steaming puddle spread around his boots.

_____

3rd First Seed, 2E 854
The Reachman’s Tavern, Jehanna, High Rock
Morning


Scrubbing blood stains from the floor was definitely not what Sosile had signed on for. As she leaned into her brush she cursed her lot in life yet again and wondered how she had come to this place. It wasn’t her fault that men found her pretty, or that they tended to be more generous with their coin when she was around. She had not asked for an agile mind or a good memory, and she had not honed those two attributes learning her letters so that she could wipe blood from the floor of a tavern along the Reach.

She felt the eyes of the Altmer lord upon her and she shuddered. He had the eyes of a wolf eyeing the sheepfold. It was Sosile’s experience that eyes like that were always dangerous, because no matter how much they took in, they always yearned for more. She kept her eyes on the floor.

I will make Gaston pay for this, she thought; his little thing will shrivel and fall off before I share his bed again! She had been at it for hours, using steaming water heated in the hearth, and copious amounts of sload soap. Yet even now, with her arms raw with fatigue, the foam on the floor was still pink. Thetrick’s blood, she thought, all that is left of him is being scrubbed away with sload soap. The tears reformed in her eyes at the thought. She looked at the second stain near the hearth. The sneering Breton’s stain had not been touched, nor would it be as long as Sosile held the brush. If not for him Thetrick would still be alive. I hope he rots in Oblivion! I hope the skin is flayed from his bones, and I hope the daedra use his little seeds for dice!

The Altmer lord was still watching her. Sosile could feel his eyes from across the room. She risked a glance in his direction; his cup held the finest vintage in the house, yet it remained untouched. He was handsome by any measure, but the hunger in his eyes made Sosile’s skin crawl. His bodyguard was scattered throughout the tavern, bored mer feigning alertness. They would react quickly enough to any threat to their lord’s person, yet they would not presume to share his table. Sosile leaned into her scrubbing.

To keep from thinking about what she was doing, she allowed her mind to wander upstairs to her room above the hearth. Her birds would be active now, longing to spread their wings. They were not so different from the goats she once tended, the goats she wished she were tending still. The birds were no substitute, but they helped fend off the loneliness. She would see to them when her work was finished.

The door to the tavern opened and the captain of the Altmer bodyguard entered. Sosile recognized in him what she knew all guard captains possessed; hard eyes, rough hands, and a face that was cold and humorless. Sosile saw the glint of light off the soiled steel armor behind him and her heart jumped into her throat. The guard captain preceded the two knights whose handiwork, even now, Sosile addressed.

The smaller of the two, the Breton, still had the haunted look to his face that Sosile had seen the night before, when his blade had impaled Thetrick. Her heart went out to him for that. In her mind she knew that Thetrick’s death wasn’t his fault, and she could see how much he suffered for it. But that did not make her fear him less, and it did not assuage her grief.

Of the giant Nord Sosile could not say. He was standing right next to the Breton. Sosile knew that his head rested high up on those broad shoulders, but like everyone else in the tavern she could not tear her eyes from the mace that he wore at his hip. She had seen first hand what he could do with that cold, battered piece of silver. The stain near the hearth was a grisly reminder.

The two knights were brought before the Altmer lord. Sosile pulled her eyes back to her brush and the faded remnant of the stain on the floor, but she craned her ears to hear every word.

“My lord,” said the Captain of the bodyguard, “these are the two men you wished to see.”

She recognized the Breton’s voice from the night before, “Lord Castellan, thank you for your generosity. I am Sir Alain of Wayrest, and this is my comrade-at-arms Sir Valdemar of Skyrim.”

“You are every bit as Hecerilar described you, gentlemen,” came the cultured voice of the Altmer lord, “I am Aran Direnni, please join me.”

Castellan, Direnni, Sosile’s mind reeled, What is Balfiera’s interest with the Reach?

“Wench!” the voice of the guard captain cracked like a whip, “bring drinks for the table.”

Sosile stood and hurried to the bar. She used the basin to wash the pink foam from her hands while Gaston prepared a tray that he filled with wine, ale, and mead. When he gave it to her his hands shook, his face was gray, and the whites of his eyes shone like searchlamps.

Sosile took the tray and carried it to the table. As she came within earshot she heard the voice of Lord Direnni:

“. . . friend does not seem to share your gratitude, Sir Alain.”

“Sir Valdemar speaks with his weapons, my lord,” said Sir Alain, “in that respect I am sure he would be happy to express his gratitude.”

Sosile emptied the tray on the table. She kept her eyes on her work, and tried to be as invisible as she could short of a spell. When the tray was empty she backed away from the table, laid down the tray, and returned to the bloodstain on the floor.

“In that case,” said Lord Direnni, “I find myself in a position to allow him to express his gratitude, unless you are both bound by some other obligation.”

“Any obligation we had died last night on the end of Valdemar’s mace, my lord,” said Sir Alain.

“Good, then I shall do you the courtesy of being direct. Hecerilar tells me that you tracked your quarry for two years throughout the mountains of High Rock. I have recently been directed to a cave that lies to the south. A ride of two or three days I have been told. You may both show your gratitude by guiding us to this cave, and helping us deal with any difficulties that may present themselves on the road.”

A cave to the south! Sosile’s hands began to shake worse than Gaston’s.

Sir Valdemar’s rumbling baritone sounded for the first time. “You were told wrong, Lord Castellan. Alain and I chased that traitorous cur, sure enough. But we did not track him down, we were told where to find him.”

“Told by whom?”

“That we do not know,” said Sir Alain. “We were contacted through a third party, an old friend of mine from Hammerfell.”

“Is it not curious that your mysterious benefactor chooses to remain anonymous?”

“I suppose it is, my lord,” said Sir Alain, “but since his information proved good we saw no reason to press the issue.”

“I see,” said Lord Direnni, “and since you have no idea who this person is I trust you feel no burden of obligation?”

“It does not come before our obligation to you, my lord,” said Sir Alain.

“Good, then finish your drinks and meet us outside the main gate,” said Lord Direnni.

Sosile heard the sound of coins bouncing off the oak table and the scrape of boots trailing out the door. Then the tavern was quiet except for the sound of her gentle brushing.

“They are gone now,” said Sir Alain, his voice so close that Sosile jumped from the sound. “You can stop pretending not to listen.”

Sosile turned, he was standing over her. She saw the hilt of his sword, the same sword that had spit poor Thetrick. She dared not move.

He knelt beside her. “Peace, girl,” he said, “we aren’t going to hurt you. And your curiosity is a secret we shall gladly keep if you will but answer a few questions.”

Sosile saw kindness in his eyes. “What do you wish to know, my lord?”

“I recognize you from last night,” he said. “The boy who I . . . the boy who was killed, did you know him?”

She nodded.

“Who was he?”

“His name was Thetrick, my lord,” she said. “He was no one important, just a simple boy from Jehanna who should not have died last night.”

“On that we agree. Tell me more about him.”

“He was kind, and he was sweet. He wanted to be a knight.” She felt the tears in her eyes and did nothing to stop them. “He came in last night to say goodbye. Today he was supposed to venture south to join the army of his hero, General Talos.”

Sir Alain turned and looked at Sir Valdemar.

“Bloody Oblivion!” said the giant Nord.

“You said we should honor his memory,” said Sir Alain.

“No,” said Sir Valdemar, “I said you should keep to your honor. How would the dead at Sancre Tor feel were you to continue down this path?”

“The dead feel nothing,” said Alain, “but I do. Our friends died in battle, and we honored their memory last night. But this Thetrick was innocent, and his memory begs to be honored as well.”

The two men stared at each other, further discussion went unspoken. Sosile’s knees began to ache from such long contact with the stone floor. Sir Alain broke the silence.

“General Talos is half Nord.”

A smile formed on Sir Valdemar’s lips, “and half Breton. Damn.”

“South then?” asked Sir Alain.

“Aye,” said Sir Valdemar, he held out a hand and helped Sir Alain back to his feet. “After we finish holding little lord Castellan’s hand.”

Sir Alain turned back to Sosile. He reached into his purse and produced a small stack of gold coins. He pressed them into her palm.

“For your trouble,” he said, “and your toil.”

Sosile knelt on the floor for a long time after the two knights left the tavern. Her skirt was wet with pink foam, and the gold coins rested light in her hand. She closed her fist around the coins and got to her feet. She walked past the bar and Gaston and climbed the stairs to her room.

Inside she was greeted by the insistent squawk of doves and ravens in a light iron cage. She ignored the birds and went to her desk under the frosted window. She tore a thin strip of parchment from a roll and scratched a hasty message with her quill. Then she reached into the cage and scooped her swiftest raven, who perched on her shoulder with a triumphant squawk towards his fellows. She laid the strip flat on the desk and checked her message:

Clan Direnni seeks the King of Worms. They have secured the services of the two knights toward this end. Please advise.

Satisfied, she rolled the message and attached it to the leg of her raven. Then she opened the frosted window and tossed the raven into a cold wind heading south.

This post has been edited by Destri Melarg: Aug 17 2010, 11:16 PM

[SubRosa]

You can still give "the Breton" a name in the story. Just because history did not record it, does not mean he never had one,or that your readers cannot learn it. For example, I do not believe Aran, Varla, and Lattia are anywhere in the history books, but you still gave them names. Same for Arnand, he only appears in the history books as "a High Rock nightblade". You seem to have an aversion to giving characters a name. I know I hate coming up with them myself, as I am so anal about it being just right, but the truth is that it makes the character become much more realistic.

Very neat history behind At-Stuhn. Knowing the story behind an area always adds more depth to the setting. However, it all comes across as telling, rather than showing. I suggest trying to make it more plain that Hecerilar was ruminating about this history. That would make it flow more naturally from the story.

OTOH, I loved how you used Hecerilar to link the previous segment with the new one. That was a very elegant way to maintain a steady flow through the scenes.

So the mysterious Breton had a fortify luck enchantment going for him. I was wondering about that during the fight, with the way you described him always being able to slither his way out of danger. That it is an artifact of Clavicus Vile is intriguing, considering how Interregnum started.

How the ‘blivion should I know.
This is a nice lore-friendly phrase. But perhaps it should end with a question mark?

Sosile was wonderful. Her feelings of frustration at being reduced to scrubbing floors in a tavern ring so true. Likewise her impression of Aran's ruthless ambition. Finally her birds which at first seem to be just pets. All add up to make her a rich, breathing character. I was not surprised to learn that she is a spy, given all the things you had shown us about her. Nicely done.

Also, excellent use of Thetrick's death to lead Alain and Valdemar to Talos's army. As I just said the last time, I have been wondered how they of all people would end up as Blades. Now I see! Brilliant!

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Aug 18 2010, 01:13 AM

[haute ecole rider]

I truly love what you have done with Alain and Valdemar (and Casnar, and eventually, I hope, Rielus).

Hecerilar ran a whetstone over his blade, or what was left of it. For the seventh time since leaving the tavern he questioned his decision to lend it to that foul Breton. Dishonor now clung to the sword like a stain; as soon as they reached home he would exchange it in the armory.

This rings very real considering what I know of various warrior-cultures, including Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Native American, Bedouin, Norse, etc. Having an Altmer express distaste at the dishonorable man who held his sword and caused the death of an innocent bystander is even more powerful.

The exchange between Alain and Valdemar in the prison is outstanding. I really enjoyed getting to know these two characters. So far they have remained true to their personalities in the Sancre Tor quest of the MQ line in Oblivion.

One nit:

The guard captain preceded the two knights who’s handiwork, even now, Sosile addressed.

I believe you meant whose.

You have introduced yet another intriguing character in Sosile. Her part makes me want to know more about her. And the exchange between Alain and Valdemar when they learn that Thetrick intended to join Talos' army, the general who slaughtered hundreds (thousands?) of their own comrades at Sancre Tor, and when they realize that Talos himself is half Nord and half Breton is the stuff of which legends are made.

[hazmick]

"a steaming puddle spread around his boots." It's always good to see a guard pee himself.

Oooh, the king of worms? An amulet from Clavicus Vile? Sounds exciting.

I like the character of Solise, there is a lot to be discovered. will she be playing a major part in this story?

[Olen]

I take back my comment about giving the young man a name previously, you used it's revelation in this part to great effect in demonstrating the affect it had on Alain. As for the Breton, if it expressly says he had no name I can see why you didn't give him one.

The way you show Alain was good, he has the guilt but also the knowledge that it wasn't really his fault, though he has trouble believing it. Certainly his joining Talos now makes rather more sense and is a logical progression.

And as ever the twist at the end... perhaps she won't be the throw away character I expected, and another subplot is tied in. The amulet sort of joins another too, I'm amazed you can keep track of it all with the story's 'simple outline'.

[Remko]

Very nice Destri. Loved Alain's feeling of guilt and Valdemar's assessment. "I saved your butt, so it's mine. Now, stop whining."

About Zerina; she only exists in my imagination. I kinda misplaced my MW game

[Acadian]

Wonderful again.

So, with the discovery that the amulet possesses a strong luck enchantment, I see now why that pesky Breton was such a challenge for Alain.

It was my eyes that watched the light leave his,

This is beautiful.

The guard captain preceded the two knights whose handiwork, even now, Sosile addressed.

What a magnificently crafted entrance!

I recall the brilliance of you incorporating carrier birds into this the first time. No less brilliant this time.

Wow!

This post has been edited by Acadian: Aug 18 2010, 05:06 PM

[mALX]

Sosile is still scrubbing floors, she is such an interesting character for having such a bit part in the story - does her sending that raven with the message mean you are going to expand her role? If so...YEAH !!!!! Awesome write !!!! (as usual, lol)