My, it's been a while since I've posted here! But my comp went down and the story I was working on was lost, so until I get that back on track here's a separate one that I'm working on intermittently.

Prologue


In Tamriel of olden days, after the defeat of Uriel V and the long regency that followed, the upper levels of society were uncomfortably crowded. There were too many nobles with too much power, wallowing in the freedom that the Elder Council allowed them so long as they paid tax. All too often, this led to struggles for power, both big and small, and varying in intensity. Cities would devolve into armed camps, generals of the Legion would challenge the rightful lords of the land for supremacy and all manner of small villages would be caught up in petty disputes then be ruined. These struggles were universally detrimental to the running of society and to the maintenance of the Empire, and when the Emperor Uriel VI finally ascended to the throne as a fully-fledged monarch, his greatest power of state was little more than a veto, something akin to slapping the wrist of a bear. There was a point when Uriel sent out a call for troops to defend the nation from marauders and bandits, and it was all but ignored. Only the Orcs, seeking status and respect among the 'civilized' races, answered.


In that moment, the Emperor realized that his country was riding a knife's edge, ready to slip into a morass of chaos and disorder unseen since the War of the Red Diamond. And he also realized that that eventuality must be avoided at all costs, by all means, no matter how unpleasant. For Tamriel is the center of all civilization, and should it fall, the world would soon follow. Not to mention, the Emperor likely would be the first to get the axe.


So it was with a heavy heart and a reluctant hand that Emperor Uriel VI signed the Order of Balancing, a secret mandate creating a cadre of assassins meant to serve the Empire by readjusting the scales of society. Or, in simpler terms, to kill those who the Emperor deemed troublesome. This is the story of the most well-known member of this shadow organization, a man who, by his sheer efficiency, toppled kings and rearranged border lines.


He was known to cartographers as the "Damnable Scourge of Our Profession," but history knows him by the name "Anvil."



Part 1



The Third of Heartfire began with a brilliant sunrise, golden rays daintily painting the rooftops of Chorrol and not a cloud in the blue sky. Not too long after the citizens of the fair city came out of their houses, and set about their day's work with unusual reserve for such a glorious morning. They toiled, ate and drank in silence, only exchanging infrequent, ominous glances. For the third day of Heartfire is Tales and Tallows, a day where the spirits of the dead are most active, seeking to enter a living host. And on that night the dead will even walk once more, in the shadows.


Of course, in many parts of Cyrodiil all of that was laughed off and ignored as superstition, the people instead choosing to make merry the whole day through. But the city of Chorrol did not; they knew that it was true. Only two years past, the Count, the Countess and all the Guild house leaders were found dead the following morning. So all the people stayed silent for fear of drawing the dead's ire, and did not celebrate.


All the people that is, save one. In the tavern this fellow sat, drinking and laughing with anyone who would stay near him for more than a moment. His face was red and jolly with alcohol, and he had no truck with any spirits but those he found in his mug. A drunkard and a fool he was called, but only by those who did not know him. The select few that did know him called him Metharial. This name, doubtless, was some affectation to give the Breton a semblance of class, but he refused to go by any other.


The innkeeper who waited on him, however, did not care what his name was. And he didn't care what currency the drunken man paid in either, for the boisterous stranger was causing such a ruckus that every specter and phantom within a hundred miles would converge on the inn. With every bottle of wine the Breton grew louder, until at last Metharial turned to the publican, and muzzily ordered another drink.


"Sod off, you drunken oaf!" half-whispered the innkeeper, still afraid of ghosts, "you've drank enough, now go walk it off, preferably a thousand leagues from here!"


Metharial was taken aback, and glared briefly at the Imperial before forgetting what, exactly, he was glaring about. Then he remembered the publican's harsh words, and decided that he would no longer grace this establishment with his noble presence. Staggering from his chair, he headed for the door, knocking several chairs over on the way. As he reached the wooden portal, he stumbled round to face the innkeeper once more, his head held high to allow the sunlight filtering in to reflect off his golden-brown hair. "And don't expect me to ever return, swineherd!"


The publican flushed, gesticulating madly for the stranger to just leave him be. Metharial obliged him and left, not without fumbling at the door handle a bit.


Now out in the bright sunlight, the Breton regretted suddenly the copious amounts of mead and wine and ale he had imbibed. Stumbling about - much to the disapproval of all onlookers - Metharial finally found a shady alley to hunker down in and sober up. He had indulged himself since early this morning, in the warm glow of a job well done. What exactly his profession was, well you'll soon know, but let it suffice to say that he was a well known figure among his peers. And as such, he garnered much attention from many parties.


One of those attentive parties was watching him at that very moment, though he was unaware. Metharial had always assumed that since he wore a cloak and hood, his identity was more or less secret. But there are few secrets to the kind of person who watched him as he slept off his celebration. Very few indeed. So Metharial the Breton was more than a little startled when he woke up some time later in a pitch black room.

Wow! I've never read a story about some time in the past during another emperor's reign. Ofcourse, I haven't read that many!

I hope the addition comes out soon!!!

A promising start. You definitely write your stories in a "story-telling" way. It's enjoyable and a nice change of pace.

What the others said. It is a good start you've got here, already full of mystery.

Thanks for the comments, guys, they mean a lot to me Even if Steve's comment almost seems sarcastic... Alnd I'm not quite sure what you meant, Metal Mallet, by writing in a "story-telling" way.

Anywho, I already have a few chapters up that I've posted elsewhere, so I'm going to catch this thread up to where I am currently in the story. Don't despair though, my updates are always relatively short...




Besides the blackness, the first thing Metharial noticed was his completely clear head. He had been frequenting pubs since he was just a lad, and he knew that feeling normal after a keg or more was not entirely natural. So, he had been sobered up by someone, likely enough the same someone that had placed him in this room. And he was laying on a bed. How considerate.

Testing his night vision, Metharial waved a hand in front of his face, and could not see it for the life of him. Feeling around his body, Metharial found no blood or tender spots, so he supposed the abduction had been peaceable. More alarming, however, was that his daggers, strategically hidden throughout his clothing, were gone. For a man of Metharial’s profession, daggers are tools of the trade, and also one of the few defenses against death. The Breton swallowed, and began to know fear.

At that moment, a door was opened and bright light poured in over him. Wincing from the sudden exposure, Metharial tried to cover his eyes but still get a glance at the newcomer.“You are Metharial, yes?”

“Well you’re the bloke who kidnapped me, why don’t you tell me?” said Metharial, his eyes finally accustomed to the light.

This new man was tall, his skin fair and hair blonde. He would have been the perfect candidate for an officer of the Empire, and judging by his armor, he was. A rather high ranking one as well, telling by the katana hanging from his belt. Metharial regarded him wearily; getting kidnapped by the government was never a good sign.

A corner of the Imperial’s quirked upwards at his prisoner’s obvious discomfort, and he waved his hand in a vaguely reassuring gesture. “I can tell you, Metharial, that you are in no immediate danger. We have simply brought you here to tell you about a proposition. A business opportunity that we are sure a man of your caliber would be more than interested in.”

“A business opportunity?” asked Metharial, not trusting his own ears but still laughing all the same, “Do you know what my business is?”

“We are well aware of what you do for money,” responded the soldier evenly, his mouth once again quirking into a half-smile, “and we would normally have no part in it. But times, they are changing, and now is the moment when all good citizens of the Empire must serve in their own way. Now follow me.”

The Imperial turned, and walked out of the room. Metharial was on his feet in an instant, padding silently and swiftly for him. Turn your back on me, eh? I’ll teach you—

He was stopped dead by a huge hand swinging straight into his face. Metharial’s head managed to stay in the same place, but the rest of his body kept moving forward and he found himself flat on his back. The Imperial officer’s voice floated back to him, “I see you’ve met Georvy. Don’t bother complaining, he’s a mute. Now come along and don’t try to kill me again, else I arrange it so you spend a few decades in the torture chamber.”

Rubbing his jaw, Metharial pushed himself to his feet and glared at the small mountain of a man that had poleaxed him. Then he remembered he was in no position to glare at anybody, and instead took stock of his surroundings.

The place he found himself in resembled a typical barrack of the Imperial Legion; stone décor, with the occasional carpet thrown over the granite to give a sense of homeliness. Sad little torches sputtered away in their sconces. Metharial sighed; places like this always depressed him. To avoid that, he hurried after his captor, into a small office furnished with two chairs and a desk. The Imperial circled round the desk and sat, leafing through the scattered sheaves of parchment littering the mahogany surface. Metharial was given no direction, so he plopped down into the other chair, a hard oaken affair.

There was silence then, save for the heavy breathing of Georvy as he stood guard outside the office and the shuffling of documents by the officer. The Breton had began to think that they’d forgotten him when the Imperial spoke again. “Have you ever heard of the Red Spearhead?”

Metharial blinked. The Red Spearhead was the legendary group of assassins employed by the Emperor; their existence was denied at every opportunity, and no one believed in them anyways.

“I see that you have,” chuckled the man, “and at any other time I would be telling you most vehemently that there is no such thing as a group of assassins that go about, killing in the name of the Emperor.”

He paused, looking intently at Metharial with that odd half-smile - which the Breton was really coming to hate - playing about his lips. Metharial shifted under his gaze, struggling to wrap his mind around what this man was – or really, wasn’t – trying to say. “So, there is a group of assassins that go about, killing in the name of the Emperor?”

“Perhaps,” answered the Imperial, nodding, “and it might just so happen that this organization has not previously existed, and really has only been a figment of the public’s imagination. But as I said before, the times have changed, and the needs of the Empire have changed with them. As such, we are in need of men with your talents.”

“Hired killers?” asked Metharial wryly.

“Hired killers with tact,” was the swift reply, “these are called assassins. You will not be seen, you will not be heard, you will carry out your orders to the letter. You will be compensated handsomely, well above the free market price for your services.”

“Hm, what now? I don’t remember ever agreeing to this,” said Metharial, getting a little angry at the Imperial’s presumption, “I am my own man, and will not be forced into service.”

The Imperial leaned forward in his chair, peering at the Breton. “We will simply dispose of you if you refuse. So acceptance is your only logical course of action. Remember as well, that we found you once; we could just as easily do so again. You will serve the Empire.”

“The Emperor, you mean,” corrected Metharial.

“Assuredly, they are one and the same?” said the man.

For a long moment, Metharial looked this Imperial straight in the eye. He saw no irony there. Slowly, the Breton nodded. “Very well, I shall serve the Empire.”

“Excellent!” the soldier shouted, almost jubilant, “we shall start you immediately. Ah--”

He extended his hand. “My name is Dauvian. Captain Dauvian of the Blades.”

Metharial shook the extended hand, and when he came away the Breton found a coin in his palm. Looking down, he saw that it was a golden septim. On the side opposite of Tiber Septim’s face, however, there were three spearhead all pointing to a central locus.

“That is your identification as a member of the Red Spearhead,” Dauvian explained, “there are a few throughout the Empire who are instructed to give its bearer all the aid they can provide, although none know its true meaning. You are really and truly alone now, except for us.”

Smiling, Dauvian selected a sheaf of parchment from a neat pile. He handed it carefully to Metharial. “This is your first task. You know the town of Chorrol?”

“Yes, naturally,” said the Breton, regretting ever leaving the inn now.

“That is where you will go.”

A satchel was plopped down on the desktop, chinking nicely with the sound of coin. “For expenses. Georvy will return your weapons and escort from the premises. I expect to hear of your success or death within one week.”

Metharial stowed the money in his coat, smiling wanly. At least he was being paid well. Glancing at Dauvian, he saw the Imperial was busily marking paper. He had been dismissed. Standing, Metharial left the office and collected his possessions from the silent Georvy.

After finally tucking his daggers back into their sheaths and stowing the few choice poisons he carried in his secret pockets, Metharial turned to Georvy once more. To find out where the bloody exit was.

Here is the third part of Metharial's adventures, and the portion which I'm most dissastisfied with. But I'm not quite sure why, so please tear it apart and give me some insight.

There's one more chapter that's already been published, but I'll save that to post until later on this afternoon, to give everyone a bit of time to digest what I've just added.





Yet another day dawned over Chorrol, only the third one since Metharial had found himself abducted from an alleyway of the city. Time had moved slowly for the Breton since then; the journey back to Chorrol was less than a half a day from the old fort where Captain Dauvian had set up his headquarters. During his altogether pleasant march back to the city, Metharial had read his orders. In addition to directions, they provided him with background and explanation for the job. He had then burnt the sheaf of parchment, as instructed; he doubted that he would fair well if it fell into the wrong hands.

The orders, however, troubled him. Not the killing, for certain – he had long ago turned his back on conscience – but rather the sudden and peremptory way he found himself subordinated to another. It was true that Metharial worked for others all the time, but he had always been able to keep his own council. Now, he was forced into a job he did not want. Well, that he had not sought out, at least; murder was really all the same, just the pay that varied. But no matter what the remuneration, Metharial hated the idea of not being his own man, of being just a pawn in some faraway king’s game.

For that was what this was, he had no doubt. Uriel VI was a young man still, he probably dreamed of restoring the glory days of Tiber Septim, and this Red Spearhead was only one card in his hand.

Metharial knew that there was time enough for reflection later though, when he did not have a deadline to meet, so the Breton went back to the task at hand. He was currently loitering about on the streets of Chorrol, reading the city paper, trying to find a window of opportunity. The Chapel of Stendarr loomed in front of him, and that was where his mark resided

Yes, he had been sent to kill a priest, the Primate of the Chapel of Stendarr, named Adrel Prosirus. When the Count, Countess and so many other powerful citizens of Chorrol had been slaughtered two years and three days ago,Prosirus had declared it an act of divine vengeance. He charged that the people of Chorrol had grown lax in their worship of the gods, and worried too much about money and things of the mortal plane. The people, reeling from the loss of all leadership, rallied to him. Almost the ruler of Chorrol at that point, Prosirus installed a puppet Count, the former Captain of the Guard. Now, Chorrol was ruled as a theocracy, with Adrel declaring that the Nine Divines surpassed all mortal authority, even the Emperor’s.

This, of course, did not mesh well with Uriel VI’s plans for Tamriel. Metharial’s orders were to kill Prosirus and frame it on the puppet Count, who would be promptly deposed. With no senior Temple leader to step forth and no man of noble blood left in Chorrol, the Emperor would have a free hand in influencing the appointment of both a new high priest and a strong, pro-Imperial Count. Admittedly, that last bit had not been mentioned in the parchment, but it was easy to see that would be the result.

So Metharial had carefully prepared a few bits of parchment, planting one in the Count’s boudoir and carrying another. These were central to his scheme. Now, having already cased the grounds, the only thing left to do was kill Prosirus and plant evidence. Inhaling deeply, the Breton set aside his paper and walked round to the rear of the Chapel. He was dressed unremarkably, and appeared to all onlookers as merely a man admiring the architecture of the imposing structure. Checking once to ensure no one could see, he leapt quick as a flash onto the wall and scrambled upwards. The building blocks made for easy handholds, and Metharial wore a pair of climbing gloves that increased his grip. A naturally agile man, even for a Breton, he was soon safely hidden amidst the spires of the Chapel.

Now to relax, and to wait. Metharial had survived for so long largely by his patience. The city guards were not out in force during the day, and the ones patrolling were not very vigilant for assassins and killers. After all, why would an assassin scale a building in the middle of the day? Everybody knows the night is the only time that killers strike.

To Metharial, such ignorance was golden. Certainly, he would only make his move in the evening, but it was always best to be in position much earlier, for observation. In order to facilitate the observation, the Breton opened a small trapdoor and climbed down into the Chapel’s attic. The boards beneath his feet were ancient, and more than a few had warped in such a way that there were gaps between them, very handy for spying down on the congregation below.

For the next four hours, Metharial lay down and watched the comings and goings of the Chapel, waiting for one of the lower-ranking priests to close the Chapel doors for the night. At long last, a small man in a splendid blue tunic pushed each one of the doors shut, then headed back to the rear of the Chapel where the sleeping quarters were. The Breton held off for a few more hours, until night had truly taken hold, before he slipped stealthily down from the attic and down among the pews.
Without a sound, Metharial snuck into the priest’s sleeping quarters. Two deacons slept here, but Prosirus dozed in the Primate’s Chamber, located just beyond here. Taking out his lockpick, Metharial swiftly and expertly opened the door into Adrel’s room. Leaving the portal slightly open, the Breton strode up to the sleeping form of Prosirus, drawing a silver dagger from out of his coat. In one smooth motion, Adrel’s throat was cut. Cleaning his blade off on the blankets, Metharial surveyed the room quickly. He picked up a small pile of coin and slipped them into his purse, then grabbed a silver chalice.

Smiling, he dropped it purposefully. It made a satisfyingly discordant ring, and Metharial knew it had the desired effect by the sudden interruption in snoring from the sleeping quarters. The door flew open and a bright light magically burst forth from one of the deacon’s hands. Shielding his eyes, Metharial froze, pretending as if he had just been caught in the act.
The deacon’s eyes ranged over the room, from the fallen chalice, to the intruder, to the slain Primate. His eyes screwed up in rage, and his mouth fell open into a silent scream. Metharial made his move for the door. The priest jumped to stop him, but the Breton knocked him aside handily with an elbow. The second deacon swooped in though, tackling him to the ground. As he fell, Metharial strategically flung out the pieces of parchment he carried, then cracked his head on the flagstones.

The sharp pain made him decide to drop the act, and Metharial promptly flipped the priest off of him. Leaping to his feet, the Breton dealt a backhanded blow to the second deacon who came to his friends aid, and then ran. Now was the truly dangerous portion of his plan; the escape. Drawing attention to yourself is never a good idea, even if necessary, for the detriment to health can be quite severe if a guard’s blade should find your belly. It was a risk Metharial was willing to take, however, mostly because he knew the quality of the Chorrol City Guard.

Bounding into the large main chamber of the Chapel with the priests crying out for help behind, Metharial ran to the main door and threw it open; no time for subtlety now, the Guard would be sure to have the Chapel surrounded before he could get on the roof. Taking the steps at a leap, Metharial deftly avoided the clumsy attempt of a watchman to hinder him. Now at a dead sprint, the Breton popped the cork out of a flask. Halting for a brief second, he downed the contents in a gulp, making a wry face at the horrible taste.

Still, there was no time to spare for dawdling, even though he was now invisible for a time. The cries behind him had picked up in number and intensity, and there was the sound of many feet running towards Metharial. He turned to the nearest section of wall now, preparing to climb, when he noticed that the gate guard was just standing, looking stupidly towards all the commotion. Ha! He’s bloody drunk! The Nine praise their incompetence!

Metharial found the speed of his departure greatly enhanced by simply knocking out the gate guard and stealing from the town, quick as a shadow. The Breton now snickered as he ran, for the job had been so simple. Within a few minutes the town guard would be reading a note, ostensibly from the Count, ordering the death of Adrel. An enraged township would break open the doors of the Count’s manor, and after searching through his private papers, find a note from the assassin detailing his wishes for payment. Metharial knew the mob mentality well, and they would not allow the man to escape with his life.

Smiling as he traveled the dark forest, Metharial thought that maybe working for the Empire would not be so bad after all.

Reassuring guy, isn't he? I'll expect to hear of your success or your death. Well, at least he doesn't kid around.

Sorry if I sounded Sarcastic!
I really wasn't; just I really like some parts of the history of the Empire and I had wished some time before that a story be written in the past. Then you come along with this story...

but this story is nice. It almost sounds like a quest you would do in Oblivion. Plant evidence that makes it seem someone else killed them and then kill them!

Maybe you seem unsatisfied with your latest update because you made the mission surprisingly easy? That's the only thing that I could find. The mission itself, despite being a "relatively" simply task could've been made more difficult because the timeline pressure, the getting used to being use, etc. Those type of emotions could've caused him to make mistakes he normally wouldn't have.

Of course, you know your character better than I do, so if you know he deals with pressure well and can stay cool and collected while on the job, the results of this update seem suitable.

Overall, I found this update and the one prior to it quite enjoyable. I also must add that it's probably the tense that you write in that gives me that "story-telling" style of writing I mentioned earlier.

That's probably it. I think what I tried for was to make his first mission quick to display his skill, but it came off a little clumsily. I can always deal with that later though, for now I'll focus on the chapters I'm writing.

Here's the next chapter I believe I promised. Your thoughts welcome, as always!






Metharial travelled all through that night, resting not at all. There were horsemen pursuing him, heavily-armed guardsmen with long lances, who used dogs to track his scent. But he was resourceful, and plunged into a fast-moving stream, traveling down it for half a mile before coming out on the opposite bank. The Red Spearhead's base was near enough that Metharial was able to reach it before the Chorrol soldiers found his trail again.

He sighed with relief when the moss-covered stones of the tower were revealed to him. Panting only a little as he trotted into the courtyard, his Breton eyes swiftly picked out the half dozen figures lurking in the shadows opposite him. The moonlight was weak, but he could make out that the silhouettes were armoured Forcing a smile, he called out to them even while drawing his dagger. "Captain Dauvian, are you here to greet me?"

"Well well, Metharial, you have exceeded my expectations," said Dauvian levelly, stepping into a sliver of moonlight, "but have also brought a pack of incensed soldiery down upon us. You are ever so careless."

Metharial blanched at that last. Admittedly, he had not thought out the last part of his plan too well, but he had not expected the Chorrol guards to give chase so quickly. He tried to divert the conversation away from his blunder, "Is the Count dead then? You seem to know an awfully great amount about what has only recently happened."

Dauvian's smile could only be seen by the shadows on his face. "Yes, the Count is dead. The Empire has informants in many places, and near-instant communication with a select few of them."

"Mages' Guild members, then?" asked Metharial.

Dauvian ignored him, motioning to the men behind. They came up then, and Metharial saw that one carried a long, knobbly staff and wore robes rather than chain mail. The others backed away from him as he scratched a pentagram in the courtyard dirt, then draw a circle around that. Metharial could not make out his face, but silver braid on his clothing glowed as he began his incantations.

No one spoke a word, for it is most dangerous to interrupt a Mage, especially when they are attempting to create a teleportation circle. Dauvian walked silently over to stand next to Metharial, and silently handed him a sealed envelope. "Your new orders," he whispered, "but this time you will have full discretion timewise; there will be no deadline. Chorrol was merely a test to see if you could move fast under stressful circumstances."

Metharial glanced at the letter, then glared at Dauvian. He hated being the subject of experiments. At that moment there was a blinding flash of white light, and the Mage called out, "It's ready! Everybody, stand inside the circle and we're back in the Imperial City!"

"Not a moment too soon!" cried out another man pointing beyond the fort's gate.

Metharial turned to look, and sure enough he saw twenty horsemen thundering for them. Dauvian ran to the circle with a hiss, and the Breton followed right after. The Mage stood at the center of the group, his staff elevated over the pointed hat he wore. The barking of dogs was now audible, and Metharial was able to pick out words that the horsemen shouted.

"Hold on then, here we go!" shouted the Mage, and plunged his staff into the heart of the pentagram.

There was a jolt, and Metharial felt as if a gauntleted hand had slapped him cross the face. He stumbled into a pair of strong arms that pushed him forward again before he regained his balance. Pivoting on his heel angrily, Metharial came face to face with the man's chest. A booming voice came down at him, from the region where the fellow's head would be, "Hol' steady there, my li'l chappy, or we'll have a mighty fine accident on our hands!"

Metharial went very still. His eye twitched. No one had ever insulted him so much, with so little reason. Little chap! Baring his teeth, he craned his neck to see this fool's face. The only two discernable features were a pair of watery blue eyes and a shock of a Nord's red beard. Grimacing, Metharial put his hand to dagger, when Dauvian clapped him on the shoulder and gave him a half-smile.

"I see you've met Hoblin," said the Imperial, nodding to the bearded giant, "he's ever so offensive, but I am in need of muscle."

"Assassination is finesse, not brute force," replied Metharial, snorting, "you won't get far with him."

Hoblin chuckled, and said genially, "Tha's your opinion. I mysel' have seens what a claymore can do to a man, so I trust to strength."

Metharial rolled his eyes and gave up trying to talk to the man. Instead he glanced over the room they had teleported into, and the company he had come with. The new surroundings were not impressive; simply another unremarkable stone chamber, and it felt as if it were underground. Metharial's companions, however, were noteworthy.

The Mage was most obvious, a young man almost floundering in his elaborate robes, the peaked cap he wore was ridiculous beyond belief, but his staff emanated power. Next was a Dunmer, all in chitin armor and goggles meant to keep the Vvardenfell ash from his eyes. Metharial had never been to Morrowind, but he knew that the Mer from there were a wary, dangerous lot.

Last were three cloaked figures of average, their skin and faces completely obscured by the dark grey clothing. But each one of them had a sword or axe strapped over their shoulder, making for an altogether grim company. Dauvian must have been following his eyes, for his words spoke to Metharial's thoughts. "Wondering who these people are?"

Metharial nodded. "Well, I'm sorry to disappoint. It would be unwise of me to have all my asassins know who the others are, when I am still not sure of all their trustworthiness. Perhaps later on, after you have proven yourself more to me."

Dauvian then turned from the Breton and addressed the room. "Now, all of you; we are in the Imperial City, in a blocked-off portion of the sewers. This is the permanent headquarters of the Red Spearhead, as dictated by the Emperor. If you will all follow Georvy, he will show you to your quarters and then the layout of the premises."

The group began to file away, but Dauvian told Metharial and Hoblin to come with him instead. Moving at a hurried clip, they went down a long corridor and soon entered a spacious, richly decorated chamber. Tapestries and trophies lined the walls while a merry fireplace and luxurious rugs gave the place a luxurious, comfortable feel. Hoblin gave a low whistle at the wealth on display, and Dauvian's lips turned upwards. "This is the sitting room, where the servants of the Red Spearhead might relax. But right now it is deserted, so I feel comfortable in discussing your next job."

"Jobs, I think you mean," interjected Metharial, "for there are two of us."

"No, I am not mistaken," chuckled Dauvian, "both of you are to be sent out on this next mission, for it is too dangerous - and too difficult - for one man to accomplish."

Hoblin's chest swelled up at that, and Metharial ground his teeth. The Nord stepped forth, nearly shouting. "I've no need of a teeny tiny chappy like this 'un! I c'n fight an' win no matter the odds!"

Metharial too spoke his mind, loudly, "I won't be paired off with this great lump of stupidity! He'll get me killed within a day!"

The Imperial smiled faintly at them both, amusement sparkling in his eyes. "You clearly underestimate each other, but I will not be swayed until you have at least heard the situation."

Nord and Breton alike exchanged glares, but said nothing. Dauvian took this for assent. "The Khajiit city of Rimmen is your destination, in Elsweyr. Rimmen has always been ruled by the most civilized elements of Khajiit society, elements which, although still bestial in nature, were at least able to be negotiated with."

"Ha! Dealin' with the cats is like tryin' to persuade a plant," roared Hoblin heartily, before a silencing stare from Dauvian.

"Anyways, for many years the Empire has managed to keep this city in line. But now, a warlord from the deep deserts of Elsweyr has emerged leading an army of nomads, and with stunning swiftness he deposed and executed the former ruler of Rimmen. He has promised to restore the lost Khajiit glory, and to retake the lands lost to them.

"This is most disturbing to the Emperor. Rimmen is located in a strategic area; a single strike could cut off Leyawiin from the rest of Cyrodiil, and if they took Bravil, they would gain a vital port onto the Niben Bay and could blockade the Imperial City. If ever that happened, and Khajiit struck such a blow to the Empire's heartland, fully fledged revolt would break out across Tamriel."

Metharial took advantage of Dauvian's pause, asking, "But surely the cat people don't have the capacity to wage war on Cyrodiil? I mean, the Legions would destroy them."

Dauvian's face took a grim turn as he replied, "Rimmen held a full compliment of Legionaries; one thousand men. They marched out to face this warlord in open battle, and within an hour they were routed, more than half of them dead. These deep desert cats are nothing like their city brethren; they are stronger, faster and more vicious. The Emperor could defeat, assuredly, but there would be a grievous loss of life."

Metharial nodded, thinking about those words, but Hoblin roared out with laughter once again. "You mean the finest of the Empire were sent running scared by a few kitties? Hahaha!"

"I'm sure the Nords would do much better," said Dauvian slickly, although Metharial noticed the ugly look in his eyes before it slipped away, "and that is why we are sending you two to kill the warlord. He leads an army of eight thousand, and is encamped just outside the walls of Rimmen. It will be difficult to kill him, but losing their leader will demoralize the army. Perhaps it will not disintegrate, but they will at least not attempt to attack Cyrodiil and the Emperor will be able to deal with them at his leisure."

"You're sure this warlord wishes to invade Cyrodiil though? It seems very rash," asked Metharial, "and what is his name, besides?"

"His name is T'Rav Sefirt, and my informants have already told me of talk amongst his soldiers; they believe that they march on Bravil within three weeks, as soon as supplies can be assembled."

The Breton nodded, looking sober. "So we have to kill him before his regiments enter the heartland. And he will have eight thousand bodyguards."

"Sounds fun enough, even if killing Khajiit is like slaughtering babies," said Hoblin, fondling his massive sword, "their armor is like cloth."

"You will find more specifics within the packet I gave you both," said Dauvian, "now get some rest. Yerum will send you to the Elsweyr border tomorrow evening. Then your hunt will begin."

Hmm it appears as if this'll be another test. This time they wanna see how two completely different assassins will work together.

After quite a long sabbatical (most of it forced by yet another crash of my computer) I give you the fifth update of my story...with the sixth soon to follow.





For Metharial, the following morning and afternoon were gloomy ones. After his most successful jobs he was in the habit of going out and swigging down a few pints of good ale, to get himself back into good spirits. And successfully knocking off not just one, but two leading figures of an entire city was a successful job, though Daedra tear his limbs off!

But Captain Dauvian had specifically forbade Metharial or Hoblin from leaving the hideout, so the Breton had been forced to satisfy himself with a bottle of Tamika in his own room. Hardly a fun time, although the wine was good despite being a young vintage. Then Metharial had been shaken awake at midday by Georvy, and told that the Mage would be transporting them away in an hour.

Midday! It was scandalous to be woken up at such an hour; these last few days, Metharial had gotten very little rest. Dauvian would not be dissuaded though, and it didn't help that Hoblin strode around the various rooms and hallways of the hideout, shouting out how eager he was to knock off some Khajiit heads.

That was how the Breton assassin found himself standing in the Mage's laboratory at one in the afternoon. Metharial rubbed his head where he had hit it in the scuffle with those priests, and looked over the room. It was not an overly occult setting, considering its owner, but the few shreds of cobweb and occasional calcinator lent it enough of an arcane feel to be legitimate. The Mage, Yerum, was got up in all his wizardly finery, and had chalked out the usual sets of diagrams for a teleportation circle. Dauvian was nowhere in sight, but the mysterious group of cloaked individuals that Metharial had seen the previous night now filed in through the door. Hoblin raised a shaggy eyebrow at them, and asked, loudly as always, "So, am I to babbysit e'en more children?

The grey figures ignored him and walked straight up to Yerum. After a few whispers between them he stepped aside, and they stepped into the teleportation circle. He glanced at Metharial and the Nord, shrugging. "Dauvian has them on a mission as well, and he's decided to send them off early. Don't worry, you'll be going right after them."

Hoblin twisted his lip at this slight and even Metharial stiffened a bit. It was quickly forgotten though, as the cloaked ones were zapped away and the two of them stepped into the transport ring. Yerum breathed in deeply, smiling at them. "Here's hoping I can send you two close to the right place. It's damnably difficult to do, when there's no circle on the other end to aim for."

Metharial opened his mouth, a little alarmed, but right then Yerum began the necessary chanting. The Breton closed his mouth; very unwise to bother a man about to teleport you several dozen leagues away.

A white flash, and Metharial was standing on light brown soil, with golden, parched grasses up to his ankles all around. A dry heat covered everything. Surveying the landscape from where he stood, all to be seen was dry, rolling hills. Metharial knew that within a dozens leagues even this arid land gave way to the burning sands of pure desert; it was there, just outside the dunes, that Rimmen stood. A shadow fell across Metharial, and he turned to see Hoblin squinting at his surrounding.

"Hmph, so this is Elsweyr? I don' see how any city can survive in this heat," the Nord said.

"Only part of Elsweyr is like this," said Metharial, "to the south there is much jungle, and grasslands before that. But nearly all these northern lands are desert, or close to it. Rimmen and cities like it survive by being at the crossroads of many trade routes, stopover points for goods heading south or north."

Hoblin shook his head. "Pfft, merchant towns. Nary a decent warrior in any one of 'em."

"Well there are eight thousand warriors in this town, I'm sure one might prove a challenge" Metharial said wryly, "but we only need to kill one of them, so let's go already."

The Nord nodded his assent and they set out west for their destination. Two days passed as they journeyed, and Metharial wondered the whole time. Wondered how, exactly, he could possibly make use of a Nord that stood out like a sore thumb. He had watched Hoblin closely, and could tell the man had no gift for stealth, and was too big for it anyways. This man was a warrior, meant to charge straight at the enemy and kill them two at a time, so how could he help in an assassination? It was a business that required silence and speed. Metharial could not help but feel that Dauvian had purposefully sent Hoblin with him so they would both die.

That was a problem, but Metharial had no time to deal with it. Early on the third day, however, the issue was forced. Trudging up a particularly steep rise of land, Hoblin and Metharial's eyes were gifted an amazing sight as they crested it. The sun was still low in the sky, and its brilliant rays reflected dazzlingly off the desert sands that stretched interminably before them. The white rooftops of Rimmen were visible now, and they glowed. Metharial had to blink a few times, and Hoblin shielded his eyes from the brightness. Laughing, the Nord shouted out, "Well, we've reached our destination and it is a bright spot! Let us go and kill this warlord then, and be done wi' it."

He would have marched straight down and tried it, too, had not Metharial jumped in front of him. "Don't be a fool, Hoblin. You see all those tents hiding in the shadow of the city walls? Those are soldiers, and we have to get by them before entertaining ideas of killing their leader."

Hoblin glanced at the considerable camp below and shrugged. "Well then, we'll ha' to kill a few before the warlord goes."

Metharial again jumped before him, blocking his path. "I don't think you understand, fool! There are eight thousand of them, and they destroyed a Legion, so they won't just sit on their hands waiting for your bloody great sword to hack them limb from limb. We must be unnoticeable, and observe the situation, looking for an opportunity. Then, we will strike. But we will strike only at T'Rav, and not try to take on his whole army!"

The Nord stood for a moment, his face screwed up with the big thoughts roiling inside his head. Cautionary thoughts, sensible thoughts; thoughts that did not come naturally to a man of extreme action like Hoblin. The heat was becoming steadily more oppressive as the sun rose, and beads of sweat dewed on his face.

Finally, he nodded. "Very well, chappy, we'll try it your way. Now, what's your plan?"

"Don't have one at the moment," responded Metharial, but quickly went on as Hoblin was about to shout, "but I have a clear course of action that will lead us to a plan. Infiltrate the city, which should be simple, and then ask around the locals for where T'Rav is and whether he moves about."

Hoblin snorted, but said nothing. They waited until dusk, scouting out the fringes of the Khajiit camp and avoiding sentries, then Metharial led Hoblin through to the gates. It was a very simple, for the nomads had left the road into the city unguarded, the gate to the city unsecured and unclosed. It's like they don't care whether anyone comes or goes, thought Metharial, before he realized that they likely did not care. Cities are a symbol of all that weakens their people.Well, that is probably true, but I will still make them pay for underestimating the importance of manning the gates.

Part 6
Prying Some Nails Loose

The swiftest way to collect information, Metharial knew, was simply to take it. That ignored the consequences of such a course of action, but force was still often more rapid, more brutally effective, than finesse or espionage. In the short term, at least.

And Metharial was beginning to realize that that was the key to Hoblin's success. The Nord lacked mastery over the art of subterfuge, but he more than made up for it with the practical application of his fists. And his speed was so great that the lack of subtlety rarely hurt him; his quarry would have no time to react.

This, however, was international politics on a grand scale, with the fate of whole provinces up for grabs. Speed was of the essence, but any action that was too overt might precipitate alliances to shift and cost countless lives in a rising tide of warfare. If any of that happened, Metharial knew, it would jeopardize his payscale; an event to be avoided at all costs. Which was why Metharial's plan incorporated Hoblin's brawn only sparingly. Metharial could see the Nord's usefulness quite clearly now; he was a tool. More specifically, Hoblin was a hammer. Meant to pry and smash, but only at those places, on those nails, where he could make a difference.

*****

The sun radiated a stark, dry heat onto Metharial's head. A single bead of sweat rolled down his forehead and collected on the Breton's brow. He deftly flicked it off with his pinky. Metharial hated sweating; it wasted the body's moisture, moisture that might be vital only seconds later. But in this back alley, among these ramshackle huts of mud, Metharial doubted there would be anything to challenge him. In the two days Hoblin and he had been walking the streets of Rimmen, they had not seen a single weapon hanging from a belt, or in the display of a merchant. The Khajiit barbarians had been very effective in eliminating those who posed a threat to them, and now a deep fear suffused the whole city.

A crash came from the mud hut Metharial had his back to, and the Breton turned in time to see the back door of the place smashed to pieces. A Khajiit was thrown from it, landing on all fours. From the dark interior of the hut a huge figure came forth, having to stoop to pass beneath the low doorway. Straightening up and squinting his blue eyes against the sun, Hoblin glared down at the cat. "You listen here, laddy. Tell me what I want to know, or I'll put a boot up yer tail."

It only hissed back at him, it's yellow eyes mere slits. Metharial noticed that its face was swollen, almost certainly from the force of Hoblin's persuasion. He also noted, without surprise, that it was a female. The Breton smirked. "Having a little difficulty, Hoblin?"

Hoblin spared a dirty look for Metharial before turning his eyes back to the Khajiit. "This one is no so receptive to reason."

"Reason, Hoblin, is a very subjective thing," said Metharial, approaching the Khajiit, "but we've followed a half dozen leads so far, and all of them point to her. I must have this information."

Moving with a speed and agility that one would never guess from looking at him, Metharial got behind the she-cat and seized her throat. A dagger came out from beneath his robes, its blade dulled with greaze so that it would not flash in the sun. "Tell us, or its your life," he whispered," why do you protect them so?"

A gurgling sound came from her, and Metharial loosened his grip. Slightly. Her words could barely be heard. "Because those of the deep desert will make Khajiit strong again. Will kill humans."

"They'll kill your kind just as well," he reminded her, "you're city-dwellers, mere filth to them. Helping us will save you and those you love."

"You know nothing of me."

Metharial shook his head at the Khajiit's stupidity. At her ignorance. But he still knew a way that might make her talk. He hoped it would be enough. "Well, Khajiit. You've convinced me to stop trying. Now, I'm going to cut your tail off. And then burn your fur."

A whine came from the cat, almost too high-pitched for his Breton ears to pick up. She spat at him as best she could. "You would not dare. Every Khajiit within a hundred leagues would thirst for your blood, even T'Rav!"

Metharial smirked at her. "You underestimate my anger. If you had simply told me what I wanted to know, this could have been avoided. But now," he nodded to Hoblin, who drew his sword "you shall lose your ticket to the afterlife."

"Hold...hold on!" she squealed as the Nord took three swift steps and stood over her, his sword raised to strike off her tail, "T'Rav is in the crimson tent at the center of the nomad camp; gold paintings of his victories adorn the outside of it. The girls are brought before him at eight of the clock every evening, and his guards are sent away as he looks them over, until nine."

Metharial nodded curtly to Hoblin, who lowered his sword and returned it to his belt. "You've told us all we needed to know."

With a swift blow, the Nord incapacitated her. "Tie her up and conceal her," Metharial ordered, "T'Rav will die tonight. IT should teach him not to use a Madam from the city but leave her on a loose tether."

HA! What an addition.
It's good to see this will be continued. I really enjoy this story.
Metharial's attitude is just marvelous. And that Nord is a buffoon!!! lol
Though I won't guess how they reach the leader. I have a guess which I hope happens. It would be funny! lol

Thanks for the kind words Steve, I'm glad you enjoy the story.

As for your guess, I think I might know where you're going with that...here's hoping I can pull it off!

Part 7
Swift, Silent, Deadly

"Stop your sniggering, Hoblin."

"I'm sorra, laddie," chortled the massive Nord, his blue eyes misty with mirth, "but you're such a sassy lass..."

Metharial stuck his tongue out at Hoblin and twitched his shawl irritably, before realizing what he had done. The Breton's face went redder than a daedra's heart, and Hoblin's laughter doubtless could have been heard atop the White Gold Tower. Casting about the small hut they had leased, Metharial sought something to throw at the Nord. Finding nothing, he instead said, "Listen, you know that this is a necessary embarassment, so shove a pair of breeches into your mouth to keep quiet."

Hoblin managed to bring himself under control, but smiled cynically at Metharial's words. His hand reached behind his head, fingers brushing the pommel of his formidable claymore. "Necessary? I donna think so, laddie. This here is all that'd ever be necessary if you weren't here."

Checking that his long, flowing robes covered all his body, Metharial eyed Hoblin. The lug of a man actually thought that he could cut his way through to T'Rav, the single most powerful Khajiit warlord extant, and kill him without a hitch. He was either stupid, or - and this was what worried Metharial - he knew something that nobody else did. But there was no time for doubt now that a plan was in action. Only swift, decisive movement would pull off such a risky gambit. But that did not mean Metharial had to be happy about it.

Sighin, he pulled the cowl over hid head, making sure that his face was hidden in the shadows. He had been very careful in choosing his garments, and knew that his species was indeterminable at first look. A rope was tied round his waist to give the impression of a tail beneath the robes, and Metharial's own natural grace allowed him to perform a passable imitation of the Khajiit's gait. It was far from a perfect disguise, but the robes were the normal garb for T'Rav's companions; he did not want his troops to know he consorted with the females of the city. Considering that he publicly denounced all city Khajiit as soulless minions of the Emperor, it would be bad for his reputation.

His libido will be his downfall, mused Metharial. Taking one last look at his harlot's guise, the Breton was satisfied that it was as good as he could get it. "Remember, Hoblin, what to do when the signal is given."

"Aye, laddie. I will."

Inhaling deeply, Metharial opened the door to the hut. A blast of the night's air greeted him. It was dry, and rapidly losing the day's heat. The false Khajiit hurriedly made his way through the twisty streets, past dusty mud huts the cat people regarded as homes, and finally came to a particular junction. It was not really notable at all, really, but four large palanquins and bearers had chosen the spot to halt. The palanquin-bearers were slaves, clad only in loincloths. A half dozen Khajiit nomads were interspersed among them. They were sleek, golden-furred creatures, whose muscles had been hardened from a lifetime of hardship. Metharial took a close look at each one as he approached, assessing their threat.

Almost too late to see it step in front of him, Metharial spotted a seventh Khajiit guard. This one had been concealed along the road, lying in wait for the objects of his master's desires. Metharial stopped short of this one; its savage face indicated a creature who killed on a whim. It grinned at him, baring its fangs. "Hello, prrretty. You come from whom?"

Saying nothing, Metharial held out a scroll of parchment and then held his breath. The Khajiit growled deep in its throat, glaring at Metharial, but it unrolled the parchment. An orange light strobed from the surface of the scroll, and the cat's eyes went wide at it. As quickly as it had came, the light faded away, and the guard stood, stunned. Metharial let himself breathe. But there was no time to lose. Stepping up close to the cat, Metharial gave him commands in a swift, peremptory tone. "You will allow me entrance to T'Rav's quarters along with all the other wenches. You will say that Ilsyri sent me. You will not betray me to your companions, and you will not allow them to discover me."

The Khajiit's eyes were still wider than a Legionnaire's shield, but it nodded, obviously cowed. Metharial stepped back to a normal distance. A sharp inquiry came from the palanquins, "Hey, Sarcha, everything alright?"

The one called Sarcha turned around, shouting back, "This one is clear; Ilsyri sent her. Let her onto one of the palanquins and take her directly to T'Rav."

Metharial nodded to himself and set off for the nearest palanquin. Such an obvious enchantment might have been suicidally stupid anywhere else in the Empire, but a Khajiit's natural retardation when it came to magicka made it a worthy risk. The other guards barely paid him any attention to him as Metharial climbed onto the pile of cushions stacked within the curtains of the litter. But he allowed no satisfaction at the most gratifying way his plan progressed; there was still more than enough room for everything to go horribly wrong.

As the minutes passed, three more Khajiit maidens - although Metharial very much doubted their maidenhood - joined him on the cushions. Finally, he felt the palanquin lifted up onto the shoulders of the slaves, and they began to move. Metharial found himself counting time by measuring each step of the palanquin bearers - they marched in unison, a well-oiled machine. Doubtless oiled by their own blood, courtesy of the whip. Each step carried Metharial closer to his target, and each step increased the speed of his heart's beating. His awareness became focused, more intense. Each one of his faculties increased twofold in power. Countless moments passed, each an eternity to Metharial's heightened senses.

With such perception, he only needed a passing glance to categorize his companions, even with their concealing garments. None of them were worth a second look.

It was a long time before the litter was finally set down, and the curtains pulled back by the guards. Metharial allowed the others to exit before him, carefully noting where they were. Not that there was much to see; the slaves had set the litter down inside a large tent, and the tentflap was closed. Metharial was unperturbed by this, however; if the plan went off without a hitch, rescue would come to him. If it did not, then there was very little chance for survival in any event. "You there, get out from the palanquin."

The Breton came to his feet serenely, and glided by the scarred sentry. He joined the group of Khajiit women, who were now all removing their robes to reveal bare fur. And scanning the tent... there. Standing amidst a group of five barbarian guards, clad in crimson hunter's garb, stood the object of Metharial's dagger... T'Rav Sefirt. He looked every bit the part of a nomad warlord, savage and powerful. In that moment, Metharial began to doubt.

Lol, that's what I thought he would do!
Cool, though, five guards is going to be tough. And I don't think he can convince them he's a Khajiit anymore! lol

I eagerly wait for the next update!

This is definitely a unique duo you got going on here. You got brains and grace and brawn and ignorance. Hopefully the combination of both will prove to be useful. Problem is, brains is by himself right now and it appears he's surrounded by brawns. The next update should prove to be interesting.

Thanks for all the comments guys, I'm enjoying writing this story and your comments only encourage me. But if you have any criticisms as well, don't be shy about telling me, I won't be hurt. But now, the exciting almost-conclusion of the mission!

*****

Part 8
Senseless Violence

Metharial cursed his nerves a thousand times over as T'Rav walked farther into the tent. Self-doubt was perilous; more assassins died from that than any guard's blade. Remember, he told himself, this Khajiit is mortal just like any other. And so are his soldiers, hopefully...

Panic nearly set in right then, as it fully dawned on Metharial just how outnumbered he was. The guards escorting the palanquins had apparently left, for he saw none of them, but they had been replaced by a squad of nomads who looked to be doubly ferocious. There were seven of them, and each one clinked with chainmail hidden beneath their black desert robes. Broad scimitars were strapped across their backs, and axes hung from their belts. Metharial's silver dagger, sheathed in his dainty leather bots, suddenly felt inconsequential and insubstantial, like a wisp of cloud compared to a vast mountain. But T'Rav spoke just then, and Metharial thankfully refocused his mind on the target. The warlord's voice was gravelly, but unexpectedly thin. "These are indeed some of the most beautiful of our race...but Fresya, why is that one still robed?"

Metharial instantly felt seven sets of eyes switch their penetrating glares to him. A particularly tall Khajiit, a golden sash over its chest, growled at him. "You there, who they say Ilsyri sent. How do you dare to defy the wishes of T'Rav Sefirt, the Most Awesome and Ultimate?"

Most Awesome and Ultimate? At that, Metharial's doubts melted away. He hated pretension more than anything else, and this barbarian from the deep desert was the most pretentious creature he had ever heard of; a savage trying to style himself as a king.

Metharial pitched his voice upwards into a shrill, squeaky sound as he responded, "Why, m'lord, I'm but a common serving girl, and I'm shy in front of royalty."

The last word came out as a snarl, and Metharial ripped his robes off in an instant; his dagger was in his hand before the Khajiit guards had even moved. But when they did move, it was with speed almost equal to his own. A scimitar flickered towards Metharial's throat, and the Breton twisted away with very little room to spare. The guards were trying to hem him in, he knew; surround him like a beast and assail from all sides. Metharial was having none of that, and lunged at the nearest soldier, feinting high with his dagger. The cat committed to the ruse, swinging its sword up to knock the Breton's sliver of a blade away.

Metharial ducked then, and sprang at the nomad's exposed midsection. The Khajiit's eyes widened briefly as the point of the dagger penetrated its chainmail and slipped into its heart, before Metharial shoved the now lifeless cat away and turned to deflect the incoming blow from a second guard. As he deftly turned the attack aside with a tap of his dagger, the cat named Fresya shouted out excitedly.

"Ha, this human is so fast, he might be a hairless Khajiit! At last a challenge from this accursed city!"

He snorted at the cat's words. It was a dance, he knew. Dancing away from death, dancing with his dagger. Silver blades sliced the air all around him, but Metharial was a master of combat, after his own fashion. He used his natural speed and finesse to avoid swift death, waiting for an opening to strike. But there were six of them, and Metharial's lungs were already beginning to burn. He needed to knock them off balance.

In a series of expertly executed dodges, deflections and bursts of speed, Metharial wove his way through the guards, coming to face Fresya. This one seemed to be a lieutenant of T'Rav's. Stepping out of the way of a clumsy slash, Metharial raised his palm to Fresya's face and summoned his inner strength...

Every Breton had the ability, the raw talent, to use magicka. Metharial had never fully exploited this ability, favoring steel over mysticism, but even he had developed a few skills over the years for use in tight situations. This was an undoubtedly tight situation, and the blazing red fireball he sent flying directly at the Khajiit soldier reflected that. Fear filled Fresya's feline features, the instinctive, paralyzing Khajiit fear of fire. It was that moment of hesitation that cost Fresya his life, as the fireball exploded on his jaw and disintegrated half his head.

Silence filled the tent, not a single soul stirred. Metharial allowed a moment for the sight to blazen itself firmly into the mind of each cat, then leapt. At that moment, the wenches started screaming. To that point, they had remained silent, even watched with interest. The usage of fire, however, made them realize the danger they were in. Those screams, coupled with the sight of their dead and charred lieutenant, slowed the reactions of the remaining soldiers. Metharial had a foot of steel through the nearest throat within a second, and moved toward a young-looking, crimson-furred Khajiit next.

The cat swung its axe at him, but the Breton sidestepped it effortlessly and flung his dagger out. Blood and other gruesome effluvium sprayed from a punctured eye, and the Khajiit's scream was painful to Metharial's ears.

"Halt! Stop this senseless violence!"

The voice was that of T'Rav, and Metharial was so incredulous that he actually did halt. The Khajiit guards, of course, ceased all movement immediately, a fact Metharial made sure of before he lowered his blade an inch. Looking at T'Rav, who had fled to the far side of the tent along with the wenches, the Breton said, "How is it senseless? I have been sent to kill you, to save the Empire. That is all the sense needed."

"It is senseless," responded T'Rav hoarsely, "because I am not seeking to destroy the Empire; I only wish to bring my race into a new era, an era free from oppression."

"And free from the presence of humans," noted Metharial cynically, "that's the part the Emperor seems to be having trouble with, you see."

T'Rav sneered at Metharial, his canines bared. "Your Emperor is a fool. I must use this guise of a barbarian to unite the tribes, to unite the Khajiit under my banner. Then, I shall establish a truly independent nation. Humans will be welcome, but they will not be the overlords."

The Breton paused for a moment, taking the time to gauge the reactions of T'Rav's soldiers. They did not seem surprised, not even remotely so. He spoke slowly, measuring out each word precisely, "Well, Sefirt, that is an...admirable thing, I suppose...your people have--"

It was then that he threw his dagger, straight and true. Metharial was quite proud of that throw; there was no extaneous motion to telegraph it, no changes in his voice to warn T'Rav. Now, the dagger protruded from the warlord's throat. The deed was done; it was time to escape. Roars of rage erupted from the surviving barbarians, but Metharial raised his hand to the sky. Fearful of more fire, they shied away.

Once again dipping into his reservoir of magicka, Metharial shot a white flare from his hand, which burnt through the ceiling of the tent and sailed upwards into the night sky. Seeing that nothing more deadly was forthcoming, the guards rushed him, eager for his blood.

Calmly, Metharial drew his second dagger from its sheathe on his thigh, skirted the blade of one Khajiit, and ran for the tentflap. A dozen more Khajiit broke through the flap, not wearing the black robes of T'Rav's personal guards but still armed to the teeth. One of them was in the middle of saying, "We know you told us not to disturb you on any account, my lord, but--"

Its voice faded away at the scene of carnage within the tent, was replaced by an unearthly hiss of horror and disbelief. Metharial darted away from the tentflap. He had not wanted to use the scroll inside, for it would be too easy for someone to jump on him, but there was no choice now. Pulling the scrap of parchment from his shirt, Metharial unrolled it hurriedly. Please Akatosh, let Hoblin have done his job well...

With that, the Breton activated his scroll of Divine Intervention. And someone did jump on him just as the magicka whisked him away.

That was a very well written battle. I enjoyed the pauses in battle too where he would think and what not, very amusing. lol.
I hope Hoblin did something too! I can imagine he would be a great fighter!

Trust me Steve, you won't be disappointed...

This was the most difficult chapter to write so far, what with all the action going on. I'd really like some feedback on how I did. Thanks in advance!

*****

Part 9
Being the Ninth Part

Hoblin was bored. Not a rare occurrence by any means; he viewed any moment in time not spent fighting, drinking, wooing or otherwise carousing as a moment not worth living. This was an especially boring moment, however, because he was not doing much of anything. Just waiting for a stupid flare to up.

As soon as the tiny little cross-dresser had left the hut, Hoblin had departed by the back door to go and procure some transportation. Horses were a rarity in Rimmen, what with the nomad army taking whatever it needed, but Hoblin's intimidating presence had been more than enough to secure two adequate mares. They were by no means prime racing stock, but they were strong and durable, good for a long journey. Hoblin had taken them to an empty courtyard, secured their bridles to a post, and began the wait. The courtyard was less than a half a furlong away from a not-quite-abandoned Imperial Cult shrine, which had been set up by the Imperial Legion to aid in the conversion of the Khajiit. Now the cultists were all dead, but T'Rav had set a guard of twenty on the building.

Metharial had told Hoblin that this was to catch any Imperial servants who attempted to evade his nomads by using a scroll of Divine Intervention, since such a scroll would transport them directly to this shrine; and into the waiting arms of the nomads. But it also served as a watchpost for T'Rav, as it was set atop a high hill on the western side of Rimmen, giving an unparalleled view of the entire city and the immediate countryside. And now, thought Hoblin to himself, it will serve as the consecrated burial grounds for a score of kitties! His Breton companion would have been amazed by the level of cognition evident in that thought, but Hoblin was always very intelligent when it came to violent humor.

A white light flamed up in the sky, from the direction of T'Rav's camp. The little laddy's flare! Hoblin realized, and a smile flitted across his ruddy features. This would be the first time in several days that he used his claymore. Gripping the hilt of the massive sword, Hoblin drew it in a blur of motion, then let out a primal war cry, meant to set the knees of the foe trembling. Rushing from the courtyard, he stormed up the avenue leading to the shrine, the moons overhead lending his eyes a deadly twinkle.

A Khajiit stepped from the shadows halfway from the Imperial Shrine, looking to find what the horrble racket was all about. He was met with the sight of a huge, roaring block of shadow with pinpoints of light for eyes and fifty inches of steel over its head. That Khajiit did not live long.

But its companions also heard the commotion, and ten of them emerged from their hiding places, curved swords drawn and axes out, thirsty for blood. Nine others, bunkered down in the shrine, drew their bowstrings taut, ready to send speedy death to this apparition from Oblivion. Hoblin roared again and rushed at the largest grouping of Khajiit. He was a Nord after all, descended from generations of warriors, people who only knew what fear was because they saw it in their enemies.

Just as the cat archers were about to release their arrows, a huge crack came from behind them in the shrine proper as air was forcibly expelled from the space it once occupied. Eighteen yellow eyes turned to see a Breton man, dressed in common if tasteful attire, and a scantily clad Khajiit maiden suddenly appear. The Breton twisted, and flung the female off of him before looking about, disoriented by the sudden translocation. One of the sentries, a captain by his sash, hissed at three of his subordinates. "You deal with this one, we shall kill the one from outside."

It was too late for their arrows to do much good, however. In the time it took for them to figure out what to do, Hoblin had closed with the group of nomads outside the shrine. Moonlight only dimly illuminated the desperate combat, but it was clear who the aggressor was, and who had the upper hand.

Within moments, two of the cats no longer had their heads attached, and the rest were being pressed hard. They tried to encircle the mad Nord, but the length of his weapon kept them at bay, forced them to assume the defensive. Hoblin gave another fiersome war cry and jumped at three Khajiit, standing close to each other as if to draw strength from the nearness. With the first sweep of his mighty blade their feeble weapons were knocked aside, and with the second sweep he spilled the guts of one of the cats. The other two scrambled to get away, but his blade severed the hamstring of one and then skewered the other from behind.

Pulling his claymore free, Hoblin faced another cat who leapt at his exposed rear. He swiped off the fingers that swung its scimitar, and with another blow, cleft the creature in twain. Now only four nomads remained standing, and Hoblin had pushed them back to the steps leading into the Imperial shrine. The Nord laughed at them. "C'mon me little kitties, show me your best already!"

A nomad gave a high-pitched scream and leapt at him, putting all of its weight behind an axe it swung with terrible ferocity. Hoblin knocked the axe away and cut the cat across its chest while another Khajiit was already at his side. Its scimitar sliced his arm badly, and Hoblin roared with satisfaction. Finally these creatures show some fight!

Leaving only his right hand on the claymore he grabbed the cat's head. It struck at his ribs, but its blade was foiled by Hoblin's mail. The Nord sent a blue pulse of magicka coursing down his forearm and into the Khajiit's head; the Cold Touch. He let go of the frozen, lifeless head and allowed the body to drop to the ground. Shaking from the blood pounding through his every vein, Hoblin grinned maniacally at the final two cats.

He took a step forward, and they fled back into the shrine. Chuckling, Hoblin bounded up the steps three at a time after them, shouting, "Run and hide, kitties, I'll hunt you down wherever you go!"

The shrine was not a very large or impressive building; just a square block of stones piled up into four walls. Its only windows were mere slits from which archers could fire, and the only other room besides the chapel was a small space behind the altar where the priests had once slept. As Hoblin entered the place he noticed that it was silent. Passing through the arched doorway, a cat jumped at him from both sides. With his claymore still in one hand he blocked the strike of the first, and with left hand he smote the jaw of the second.

The chainmail gauntlet he wore compounded the blow, and a satisfying crack sounded from the cat as it jerked from the sudden resistance to its leap. But Hoblin had not stopped its axe in time; the steel sheared away his shoulder's mail and bit deeply into him. Gnashing his teeth to hold back a cry, Hoblin blocked another attack from the Khajiit who still stood. Then an arrow embedded itself into his chest. Again his mail saved him, but not completely as the metal point drove half an inch into his flesh.

This time, the Nord allowed himself to scream, then beheaded his nearest adversary. His breathing was sharp as he looked into the chapel. Metharial was there, disarmed, badly bloodied and on his knees in front of a Khajiit captain. Six bodies lay around them, and what looked to be a maiden of the cats cowered close by. The two soldiers who ran from Hoblin now stood before their captain, one of them pulling his bowstring back to send another arrow at the Nord. The captain spoke, his voice quaking, "Listen, Nord, we have captured your fellow human. Lay down your weapon, and we shall allow you to live long enough to be judged by T'Rav Sefirt, the Most Awesome and Ultimate."

"Heh," sniggered Hoblin, "the fact that this human is here means that T'Rav is dead. You've got nobody to fight for now, kitty, and I've already slaughtered half your minions. How's about you surrender to me?"

The cat's features tightened with anger. "This one said much the same," it warned, pressing its blade against Metharial's throat, "and look where that got it. Put your sword down."

Hoblin cocked an eyebrow at the space behind the captain, and the cat turned its head in time to see the maiden pull a dagger from a thigh sheathe and slit its throat. The gurgling attracted the attention of the last two soldiers, and the archer let its arrow fly. But Hoblin expected it and dodged, sprinting at full speed for them. Within a few seconds, the only remaining Khajiit was the female.

Metharial stood up, rubbing his temple where he had been cut, and quickly retrieved a silver dagger from its resting place in one of the many corpses. He turned to maiden then, asking, "Why did you come with me, and why did you kill for me?"

"I didn't kill for you," she said angrily, "I killed so you would take me with you. That beast T'Rav were going to rape me, and if I stay here, they will surely kill me."

"Only because you helped us," responded Metharial, "but now is not the time for discussion. Hoblin, you have the horses?"

"Aye laddie," said the Nord, grinning once more, "and I see you've taken off your pretty robes. I must say, you looked more natural with them on."

"Shut up," Metharial growled, but his voice took on a more gracious tone, "although you deserve thanks; you did well with these barbarians. Now, we must leave; T'Rav's soldiers will know the scroll took me here."

Hoblin looked at the Khajiit, saw she was only a little more than a girl. "What about her?"

"She did save me," Metharial said, "so she'll come along with us, for now."

"You won't regret it," interjected the maiden excitedly."

"I'm sure we won't," said Hoblin, although his whole body screamed a warning which argued otherwise.

Ha! Now that was a great battle. You sure do write good battles.
You were right about the Nord, he can fight smartly and not so much like a wild boar! lol

You said you wanted feedback on the chapter but, I don't know if I can say much more than it was good. I enjoyed it very much and I'm looking forward to the next part. I shall wait for more!

Very exciting story so far, you write some great battle scenes

I was smiling when I read this,

"Run and hide, kitties, I'll hunt you down wherever you go!"

Heh. Still makes me smile!

Loving it so far, please continue

Long time, no update. Still, eventually is better than never, right? This is a boring bit though, I just haven't had enough energy to redo it. A more interesting chapter should be up shortly.

Part Ten

A Long Journey Short

Bravil! They had spent days traveling, with little rest. The Khajiit nomads had pursued them relentlessly, often drawing so close that Metharial could hear their voices. Had it only been Hoblin and Metharial, they would have been caught, and most likely have been killed. But fate had given them an unexpected boon; the maid, who they soon learned called herself Siraaj. Thinking back on it, Metharial was unsure what he had been thinking when the escape was planned -- how could he have expected a Nord and a Breton, alone in a hostile desert, to outrun and outwit Khajiit who had lived in the desert all their lives? Perhaps he had been thinking that the nomads would have been thrown into disarray by the death of their leader, and unable to mount a thorough pursuit.

That did not matter now; Siraaj had saved them. With her innate desert-sense, she had been able to guide them along the swiftest route while avoiding the majority of the nomad search parties. Admittedly, they were not too trusting of her at first. She had flown into a fury at their hesitation. "Do you think that I would be spared if they caught me? And even were I to be a traitor in your midst, you are like babes in the wilderness; you will not last long without help. So let me guide you, and take the chance that we might survive if I lead."

Not even Hoblin could say anything to that, so they had listened to her. Metharial was only half-surprised when they were soon across the border and into Cyrodiil, where the Imperial Legion was patrolling and the nomads would have to step carefully. And now, a day later, they were before the walls of Bravil. This Siraaj was clearly a creature of formidable will and had skills to match.

Metharial grinned like a fool as their horses clopped towards the gate; within a few short minutes they would be back in the Imperial City. The mission was done. Of course, he thought, there is the matter of Siraaj. He glanced to where she sat behind him, her muzzle held at a proud angle even with the sun beating down at full force.

She had long since discarded the revealing harem garments, and now wore Metharial's second suit of clothes. Even though the Breton was a man of average size, the clothes billowed on her slight frame, belying her graceful form. She had no weapon of any description, besides the fangs and claws inherent to a Khajiit. Jade eyes and blazing red fur marked her as a beauty among her own kind, and made for a striking countenance to any other race.

Siraaj noticed his scrutiny, and lifted her brow in unspoken question. Metharial shot her a toothy grin, saying, "Just gazing rapturously upon the face of our feline savior."

The eyes of deepest green narrowed at him for an instant, before Siraaj broke into a fit of laughter. "I hope not all Bretons are as disingenuous as you, else I be flattered to the point of extinction."

"Nay, madam," returned Metharial in his most gallant manner, " your features are so radiant as to elicit the most earnest prostrations from the most noble of Khajiit, whose solitary hope would be that you might look upon them with some small sign of favor."

Siraaj feigned bemusement at such a compliment, while Hoblin trotted his huge steed closer to Metharial. "Laddie, your words are as genuine as I am a man much disposed towards philosophy."

"I never knew you were a philosopher, Hoblin," Metharial quipped, "to match that, you must be the grandest intellectual of Tamriel."

The Nord shook his head, perhaps not understanding explicitly, but receiving the tone correctly. He did not have to respond however, as they had soon arrived at the Mages Guild. Bravil, the Breton noticed, had passed by them on all sides without grabbing their attention even once. No small wonder considering the decrepit and dilapidated state it was in, but it still struck Metharial how unimpressive the whole town was. Even the castle simply stood in the background, making no impression whatsoever. He could only be thankful they would shortly be gone from it as their small party dismounted, tethering their horses loosely to a post.

Entering the Guild, Metharial found that it was more or less of the normal occult decoration, only slightly more poorly than any other guildhouse. A portly Imperial Mage in the standard blue robes encountered them almost immediately upon entrance, his sallow face pinched up in a most disagreeable expression. "How can we help you today?"

His tone implied that any amount of menial tasks would be more worthy of his time. Metharial would brook no contempt from a surly fellow like this though, and demanded that he be shown to the Mage Overon.

"I am he," replied the Imperial testily, "now tell me what you need already, there are a couple of mudcrabs who've just laid eggs and I need to perform some experiments...um...ahh."

Metharial had casually flipped out the coin of the Red Spearhead, threw it up in the air, and allowed it to land face-up in his palm so Overon could see. The Mage's impatient demeanor melted away. "I didn't realize...aha, best not to speak of such things. Now tell me, what do you desire of me?"

"Instant transport," said Metharial, "for the three of us, back to the Imperial City."

Overon regarded them all with calculating eyes, gauging the amount of power needed. "Any particular part of the City in mind?"

"The University Arcanum is fine, as long we are sent today."

"In that case, come right along to my apartments; you shall be sipping drinks in the Palace before an hour has passed."

*****

Now, imagine that there is a bird. A bird flying high in the sky, buffeted by air currents, heading over the tops of the Bravil's ragged homes and east. East, to Black Marsh!

Soaring over the Nibenay the land below it quickly turns into an explosion of vibrant greenery from the air. But swooping down to the ground, amidst the verdant flora, the picture is different. What appeared from the air to be so lush and hospitable is a watery, treacherous, swamp. The Empire has struggled to at least partially remove this blotch on Tamriel, hacking at it with blades and burning it with Mages' fire, but have only succeeded in taming Black Marsh's rampant nature at the utmost fringes of the province.

As the bird flies, flickers of Imperial civilization pass by; a hamlet here, a stone road there. However, it is clear that the Emperor's will does not reign supreme here; there are no way posts of the Legion, no soldiers patrolling the few thoroughfares. Instead there are keeps and towers who do not fly the Imperial standard, but their own individual sigils. These are the personal crests of those lords who had fought beside Uriel V, and were granted land in Black Marsh by the Elder Council as a “reward”. In such a hostile place, the Council assumed that these lords would soon falter and fail – as many did. But those who did not fail forged alliances with the native Argonians, and extended their dominions. Most of all, they had nursed their hatred of an Empire that had abandoned them to a dark and treacherous land.

And suddenly, one of these lords’ castles looms directly in front of the bird, its granite walls towering over the surrounding landscape. From the highest tower a forest green pennant with a golden bow and arrow blazoned upon it flutters with the wind. The bird lifts itself towards that pennant, its wings beating the air, when it is transfixed by an arrow not dissimilar to the pennant’s. Like a stone, it drops.

Standing in the courtyard of this grey castle, a man dressed all in white lowers his bow, smiling. Turning to his companions, he says, “The Emperor is wishing to fly high as that bird did. But he shall meet the same fate.”

And here's Part Eleven. Comments are welcome. Comments are requested, even.


Part Eleven
Bloody Business

There were those in the Tamrielic Empire who claimed that the will and approval of the people was the only legitimate basis for authority. Baron Edral had one of those people on an iron table, strapped to heavy rings protruding from its surface by leather thongs. The man’s entrails had long been separated from his body, and the man’s life had followed only shortly after. But Baron Endral enjoyed the sight of mangled flesh, and he delighted even more in the exquisite expression of suffering on the man’s face.

The man had no posed no threat, of course, even with his dangerous ideas. He had been a farmer of potatoes, nothing more. Endral had him tortured and killed nevertheless; it was not beseeming for a lord of Skyrim to tolerate cheek from a farmer. Sadly, Endral did not have the time to admire his handiwork, there were pressing matters at hand, foot and finger, all of which needed urgent attention.

Baron Endral departed his dungeon swiftly. Once he was past the forbidding door of oak and metal, the first matter found him in the form of his Captain, a typical, hulking Nord by the name of Magron. The man was clearly agitated, and when Endral approached him he bowed low from the waist and asked, in a strangely tremulous voice for such an imposing man, “My lord Endral, Kernick and his riders have been ambushed and slain, and the Count Bruma leads a force of five hundred men up Rainer’s Valley.”

Endral rolled his eyes at Magron. “Honestly, if you were any more of an oaf I might have you on my table. Did you think that I was unaware of these events? Pity poor you in your ignorance.”

Magron blanched at the suggestion he should fall victim to the Baron’s notorious fixation. “I…my lord, pardon my…but my lord, if you knew, why did you not tell me?”

Endral laughed at his Captain. “I tell you what you must know, that is all. And I have already made…arrangements for the Count and his ‘army.’”

Captain Magron nodded. He knew that his Baron was a devious man, as well as a cruel one, and if the Baron said that he had made arrangements, then things were taken care of.

Baron Endral dismissed Magron and strode to the Main Hall of Castle Orbund. The Count Bruma was of no account, he knew; it was the Emperor he needed to worry about. The boy had been exceptionally troublesome of late, foiling the power plays of a few of Endral’s friends. And one too many nobles opposed to the Emperor had disappeared in the past few months. Still, Endral knew that even southern Skyrim was mostly out of the Imperial reach.

Entering the Main Hall, lost in his thoughts, Endral did not notice his steward, Olrin, until he had nearly ran over him. Olrin made a small coughing noise, jerking the Baron from his reverie. “What is it, steward?”

The Breton surreptitiously scanned their surrounding, before hissing to Endral. “Lordship, the village elders from Stenton are back. They are demanding your lordship send troops to protect them from bandits, else your lordship find all the sheep to be stolen.”

Endral found himself rolling his eyes again. “Olrin, I have no time for such petty concerns. Placate them somehow, tell them we have no men to send. Anything, so long as they leave and I do not have to kill them. That would look bad, would it not?”

Olrin shivered. “It always does, lordship.”

“Then let us strive to avoid it. Get them away from the castle.”

The Baron shoved past Olrin, his mind already onto other subjects. He had too many matters that required delicate attention...he could not be distracted by the small things now.

*****

The Count Bruma drew up his horse, signaling his guard to do the same. Off to his right, across a trickling brook, his men marched. The Count had taken a spot at the top of a low hill, however, to better his view of the valley. It was a narrow gash of greenery in the forbidding landscape of the Jerall Mountains. A perfect place for an ambuscade, but Rainer’s Valley was one of only three ways to bring a large force up to the Castle Orbund, and the Count was confident that Baron Endral was not aware of his coming. What was more, the Count had received word that his Captain of the Guard had caught and executed the Baron’s raiders back in Bruma, so his rear was safe as well.

Smiling with satisfaction, the Count Bruma cast his glance to a stand of trees to his left. For a moment, it looked as if there were figures in it. The Count dismissed it as fatigue and spurred his charger forward. Not a second later, a crossbow bolt punctured his steel breastplate, and battle was joined.

The Bruman soldiers never knew who it was who attacked them for certain, only that they were deadly accurate with their bows. After the initial shock, the column had formed a line facing the brook, where rows of grey foemen had replaced the Count Bruma at the top of the hill. Twice they charged, and twice were repulsed. On the third attack, the famed axes of Bruma cut down half of the grey strangers, and the unknown enemy broke and ran.

But the army had no stomach for pursuit. Their Count was long dead, and half their number lay with him. Nothing was left but to retreat to Bruma, and wait for the Baron Endral.

Wow! It's good to see this story again.
It looks like the story is about to get really moving! I can only hope that it won't stop..... lol!
You're right, better to eventually have it. When not having it would be much worse!!!

I will await more!

Having to agree wioth Steve.

Steve.....such a lovely name.

Thanks to everyone who's been reading this. And I know this isn't posted in the "critical reviews" subforum, but if anyone has something a bit more in-depth they want to share with me about this story, I welcome that.

Part Twelve
Counsel

“You brought a Khajiit back with you. I suggest you explain yourselves.”

Metharial did not bother hiding his surprise. Dauvian sat behind his desk in a high-backed chair, his face perfectly impassive. Hoblin drew breath sharply, his huge paws clenching into fists. “How do ya know?” the Nord said.

“Because I know.” Dauvian’s response was cold, but the rest of his words were colder, “Explain yourselves now, or I will bring in this Khajiit and have her explain while you two contend with the snake pit.”

Hoblin snarled and his hands twitched towards his sword, but he was stayed by the sound of rasping metal close by. Turning his head slightly, Metharial spied Georvy, the giant mute, standing behind them with a naked blade. Behind Georvy, there was Yerum the mage, his staff glowing red. Metharial looked back to Hoblin. “Hob, I think we’d better just explain.”

The Nord relaxed, shaking his shaggy head. Metharial began to explain to Dauvian the process of acquiring Siraaj, how she had helped them escape to Bravil, and how they had brought her back with them to the Imperial City. He neglected to tell him the name of the inn they had put her up in, but Dauvian must already have known that. The Imperial seemed to know everything.

As the story unfolded, Dauvian remained impassive. The lack of any expression made Metharial just as nervous as outright anger or consternation would have. Dauvian could have been thinking anything, and the Breton would never be able to tell.

Metharial finished, and Dauvian placidly tented his fingertips on the desk. His eyes bored into Metharial, then his gaze shifted to Hoblin. He sighed and leaned back in his chair. “You two are very lucky. This Siraaj is - was – the daughter of an important merchant in Rimmen. She will be a useful pawn.”

“A pawn?" Metharial did not like the sound of those words.

"Yes," Dauvian replied, "a pawn. We shall use her as we see fit to manipulate events in Elsweyr. Until then, she shall remain where you took her."

"So…we’re excused for bringing her back to the city?”

“Excused?” Dauvian’s voice was filled with anger, tightly controlled but undeniably there, “I never said that you were excused for this error. Allowed to live, yes, but I will most certainly not forget how you jeopardized the Red Spearhead. The two of you should consider yourselves on warning; another misstep and it will not go well.”

Metharial swallowed. This man was beginning to scare him, and Metharial was not easily frightened. The precision of his control over expressions and emotions was unnatural; if Metharial had not spent most of his life learning to read people, he might never have picked up on the few clues he had. Being an assassin meant you had to be able to analyze people and understand them quickly, and Metharial could not do that with Dauvian. It had never happened before.

Dauvian noticed his stare. The half smile Metharial hated so came to his lips. “Something you want to ask, Metharial?”

The Breton started to shake his head, but suddenly remembered an oddity in their conversation. “Do you actually have a snake pit, Dauvian?” he asked.

The Imperial’s half smile widened slightly. “Be thankful you have not had occasion to find out.”

“And now,” he continued, “we turn to the details of your next mission…”
_____

It was the dusk of the third day after T’Rav’s assassination, and the highest room of the White Gold Tower was only illuminated by moonlight. Emperor Uriel VI reclined on his sofa, his mind cluttered with so many troubles. To the north, Baron Endral and the Count of Bruma were practically at war. In Morrowind, the Dunmer houses were unusually restless. High Rock was in turmoil, as was Hammerfell; there were too many lords with too many armies and not enough land. Elsweyr, despite the death of T’Rav, was in absolute chaos. The nomads were attacking everywhere, furious at what they believed was an assassination perpetrated by the city Khajiit. And Black Marsh...well, Uriel did not even want to think on Black Marsh. That place was a mystery to him, a fact which made the Emperor very uncomfortable.

As a matter of fact, the only areas that could be considered ‘peaceful’ were the Summerset Isles and Valenwood. Uriel VI shook his head. The damnable Elder Council had allowed the Empire to fragment and splinter, wasting the labors of his father. Uriel had decided many years ago that no one could set it right but him, the Emperor. That was why he had ordered the creation of the Red Spearhead.

Uriel sat up suddenly, ideas blossoming in his head. One of his guardsmen stepped out of the shadows. “Emperor, is everything alright?”

Uriel VI shot a glance at the white-clad soldier. He had personally selected every one of his guards, and paid them a handsome wage from his own pocket, so he trusted them as much as he could trust anyone. “I’m fine, Perelius. Send for Dauvian; I have a mission for him.”

Perelius bowed and moved off to relay the Emperor’s summons. Uriel leaned back onto his sofa and began to refine his ideas. After a few minutes – a remarkably short time for the distance the man had to cover – Dauvian entered. He presented himself before the sofa, kneeling. Uriel bid him rise, saying, “We are beyond the point where you must bow to me Dauvian, at least in private.”

Dauvian nodded. “What do you require of me, my Emperor?”

“Well, I need information on Black Marsh. That place is an enigma; I must know who there is on my side, and who must be gotten rid of. What is more, I need a situation in the north dealt with. I’m sure you’ve heard of it; the Baron Endral is seeking to topple the Count Bruma and install his nephew. It is a legitimate claim, so I cannot officially intervene…but your men can. Resolve it in the cleanest way possible.”

Dauvian nodded again, but his stance was agitated. Uriel raised an eyebrow at him. “Something you wish to say,?”

“My Emperor, Baron Endral is a powerful man, and a vengeful one. If this mission goes awry, we might have the whole of Skyrim up in arms against your reign. Might it be better to allow the situation to work itself out?”

The Emperor shook his head. “Endral must be halted before his influence is allowed to spread. Send your best to deal with him, and ensure that nothing goes wrong.”

Dauvian nodded, his acquiescence clear. “What of the Hammerfell mission?” Uriel said.

“Successfully accomplished. Marone’s mercenary force has dissolved without its captain.”

Uriel smiled with satisfaction. His plans were working to perfection, even with the long odds against that. “Very well Dauvian, well done. Carry out my orders; Endral must be dealt with soon. And your report on Black Marsh must be thorough.”

Dauvian bowed and departed. Uriel wondered, not for the first time, how history would remember his reign. As the Emperor who had united Tamriel and given it new strength, or as the cold-blooded killer who had caused the dissolution of the kingdom? He was determined it should be the first, but so much rode on a knife’s edge. Sighing, the Emperor of Tamriel closed his eyes and went to sleep.

To be entirely honest with you, I don’t have anything particularly critical to say. This is turning into a terrific story, and I'm really enjoying reading it. I like the premise and the setting, and as it progresses more and more strands are being woven into the plot. It's inventive, and has caught me off guard a couple of times when I thought I knew what was going to happen - the introduction of Siraaj being a case in point. Some of the characters are becoming more morally ambiguous, Dauvian being one, which adds to a feeling that treachery could well be afoot.

The biggest strength is the characters of Metharial and Hoblin though. They are quite brilliantly drawn. In fact possibly the biggest compliment I can pay, is that it reminds me of the legendary fantasy tales of "Lankmhar" by Fritz Leiber, which had two of the most memorable characters in fantasy ever - Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser. Superb tales of sword and sorcery, driven by two characters you just love to spend time with. They are such great fun to read about, and I've had the same feeling of delight in following our hapless heroes in this tale.

If I were nit picking a little bit, I would probably mention the lack of description. You're very good at describing actions and events, but I always end up feeling a little vague on the place. It's a fine line between slowing a story down by including too much description, and keeping a fast pace by not including enough. I'm leaning towards there isn't quite enough. When I was reading the section set in Elsweyr, I was craving description of where they were - a chance to see how the two characters viewed their surroundings, but it seemed to be glossed over a bit.

Overall though, this is superb. Wonderful characterisation, exciting, fast paced, some excellently described battle scenes (which has long been one of your strengths), and a wicked line of humour running through it. It's great, simple as that. Look forward to the next part

Agreed. Thanks for pointing that out, it had evaded my notice. In the future, I will seek to address that "nitpick" and remedy it. Again, thanks.

Criticism, witticism, or whatever other -ism you want to offer me is welcome.

Part Thirteen
A Bit of Luck

In the more northerly reaches of Cyrodiil, the landscape was almost just like that of Skyrim - hilly, rocky, cold, and the trees were evergreen. It was quite lovely, in Hoblin’s opinion. He hailed from Skyrim, had fought in its petty wars for most of his life, and now that he was in the south, he missed it dearly. Going to Bruma, however, refreshed his soul. Oh, it was not a perfect replica of his home – the wolves were not deadly enough, for one – but it still did him good.

As his huge mare clopped steadily along the Silver Road, Hoblin took a deep breath of the chilly, almost-mountain air. Dauvian wanted him to kill the son of a certain Lord Kertren, who was the brother of Baron Endral. Hoblin remembered both of those names from his days in Skyrim. The both of them were great lords, and Hoblin had faced their soldiers in battle many times. He was usually on the losing side; those two employed hundreds of soldiers and had dozens of vassals to fight for them. The thought of bringing a shadow over their hearts by murdering this boy was a most welcome one, to Hoblin’s mind. He had hated losing to them in the past, but vengeance was good substitute for victory.

Now his mare had came to the base of a low hill, and the road crested it with heavy forest on both sides. At the top of the hill, there was a small fort. Shrubs and even some young trees huddled beneath its walls for protection, and its stones were overgrown with moss. In short, it had the look of abandonment about it. But, Hoblin noted as he approached, it was not abandoned.

He pulled his horse up before passing beneath the arch of the fort, glancing over the two soldiers who waylaid him. They were Bruman troops, he saw, for their surcoats were all yellow and bore that city’s eagle standard. And they did not trust him one mite, telling by the hard set to their jaw and the way both gripped their spears. It was as well they did not; Hoblin could not appear to be their friend, his orders forbade him.

“What’s yer business on this here road, traveler?” growled one of the spearmen, who had a fearsome red beard.

Hoblin grinned. “Well, ya see laddie, I’m on my way to Bruma. Is there a problem wi’ that?”

“Well there bloody well might be if you don’t just stick to answering questions, not asking them!” shouted the second guard. He was young, and probably only needed to shave once a week. His agitation was apparent.

“Shut it, Urold,” said the bearded guard, before turning back to Hoblin. “Sorry mate, but orders is not to let anyone pass by without boat-er-tane-ning their business, like. So, what exactly will you be getting up to in Bruma?”

“A li’l of this, a li’l of that, and a whole hell of a lot of somethin’ else,” shot back Hoblin, vexed that this was taking so long. He was obviously not going to tell them much of anything, so why delay him any longer? “But I fail to see how my business is your business.”

“Sergeant Greilan, is this man giving you trouble?”

This new voice came from a new man, a knight by the look of him. He was tall, with golden blonde hair, a neatly shaven chin and a silver sword at his belt. The young guard, Urold, piped up in his boy’s falsetto, “Yes, milord, he’s been a right cheeky bug-”

Greilan waved him to silence. When to he spoke to this man, he stood at attention, “No, yer lordship, just a bit of funning between me and this chap. Ain’t that right, mate?”

Hoblin considered the question. This new man was not only a knight, he was a lordship. And if Hoblin was any judge of character – which he was not, but every man has instincts – then this particular lordship would run him through as soon as tolerate any perceived “cheek”. The man had that mad glint in his eye which bespoke of an honorable and courageous fellow who would stick a peasant for backtalk.

“Aye, jus’ a bit of funnin’, milord,” he said eventually, “I meant no harm by it, as this young fella seems to think.”

The knight regarded him levelly for a while. Finally, he turned to Greilan. “Let him through, Sergeant. We can’t detain every man who travels this road, not when Endral’s raiders are still out there.”

Ah, so the Baron has gotten this far south, thought Hoblin. I might not have to travel as far as I thought.

Giving a last, pitying glance to the soldiers, Hoblin spurred his mount forward and passed through the fort. There was another posting of three men at the opposite entrance, but they said not a word. Hoblin shook his head. If Dauvian was correct, they would all be dead soon. Dead, or wishing they were.

*****
Sir Damer Wheck shifted his weight on the saddle. The thing was damn uncomfortable, even after thirty years of riding, and not even the urgency of a coming battle could put it to the back of Damer’s mind. To distract himself, the knight looked up and down the lines once more. The new Count Bruma, the son of the dead Count Bruma, had assembled the forces of his County here, at Lorn Pass. It had taken some urging to get him this far, however.

The boy was only fifteen, but willful as a Daedric Prince; he had actually wanted to hold at Bruma and wait for the Baron Endral to besiege them! He had been blindingly confident that the Emperor would not allow a siege in the Imperial Province and would send the Legion to aid them. Well, Damer Wheck had finally got that nonsense out of his head – they were alone, since the opposing claim was a legitimate one. And with some further counsel, Damer had managed to convince the young Count that Lorn Pass was the best spot to meet the Baron. It was narrow so the Baron’s numbers would matter less, and the rocky terrain made for a difficult advance.

But the boy had refused to pull in the troops his father had sent into the County to defend against Endral’s raiders. Damer had tried to get him to see reason, that it was a ploy by the Baron to weaken his main host, but the child had gone on about “a duty to protect the people” or some other folly. The only duty, in Damer’s experience, was to keep oneself alive.

Still, they had a fine army; one of the finest Damer Wheck had ever been with. Nearly two thousand soldiers, and over two hundred knights and horsemen. Damer wanted to see the Baron smash this as easily as he had smashed the Brumans in the Valley! That had been a bad bit of work, Damer knew. The Count killed, and more than half the men sent dead. The soldiers had needed a bit of a morale boost, and marching forth in such numbers had provided that, at the least.

Now it was the Baron Endral’s turn. Damer knew he had a great host, perhaps even larger than the one they had assembled. He doubted they would be able to break the finest of Bruma, however. A shout rose up from behind Damer; the men had spotted Endral’s forces. Damer, with his old eyes, needed a few more moments to pick out the purple-clad soldiers emerging from the tree line, about a hundred yards distant. There were hundreds of them, that was for sure. A huge purple standard flew over the center of their line, depicting a galloping boar. To the extreme left, hundreds more men appeared, these ones in a hodgepodge of armor, with horsemen out in front. Mercenaries. Damer hated mercenaries. They had no honor and were always killing people with no respect for the code of chivalry; they were very nearly barbarians.

And now, at the far right, Damer saw another group of footmen, their standard’s black griffin on a field of white rippling with the wind. They were the men of Lord Kertren, the father of the claimant to the title of Count Bruma.

It was a tremendous host…there were so many. More than Damer Wheck had ever suspected. More than five thousand, to be sure. He showed no fear though. He would never show fear in front of his men, and never so that the dog Endral could see it. Grunting, he pulled his mace from his belt and raised it over his head.

Horns blew.

The Bruman army, outnumbered and hopeless, began its slow advance. A roar rose up from the opposing force, and Damer saw thousands of glinting blades catching the morning light. He allowed himself to take a deep breath. Damer Wheck had never been an overly religious man, praying to the Nine only when his knightly vows compelled him to do so. But now, he was praying to whatever god or daedra would hear his pleas.

With a cacophony of war drums and flutes, the Baron Endral’s force advanced.

Time passed like it was molasses, slowly and hesitantly, as the two sides closed in on each other. Then, when they were only two dozen paces apart, Damer raised his mace a second time and spurred his horse to a full gallop, his lungs filling with crisp mountain air. As the charge began, he breathed in the freshness, savoring its taste. It might be the last opportunity, after all.

Nice addition!
It wasn't nice of you to stop at such a point though, lol.
I wish I could offer some sort of constructive criticism but, I am not really that good at this writing business so....
Just keep them coming!

Alright, new chapter! And another one soon to come, I can tell you. Comment! I command thee!

Part Fourteen
Welcome, Welcome



The town of Vilnar was an exercise in contradiction, as Metharial saw it. It was a fairly large place, but an abjectly poor one, but commanded some of the strongest trade in Black Marsh. It was surrounded by nothing but swamp, there were no rival lords within a hundred miles and bandits were nearly extinct around here, yet the whole town was surrounded by a strong palisade and the forbidding stone tower housed a sizeable garrison. The only thing Metharial saw that really made sense was the golden bow and arrow on all the guards’ green tabards. He had it on good faith – which, in these parts, meant any faith at all – from a farmer that the ruling lord of Vilnar extorted the people and used the wealth to fund his great army while keeping the commoners in poverty.

Of course, that could have been a lie, since the farmer had gone on to say that the army had more men than there were stars in the sky, and that vampires were killing off his cattle, and an incubus had deflowered his daughter, and the gods were not favoring his crop this season and a hundred other things little better than superstition. The character Metharial portrayed, however, invited such confidences; he was a pilgrim of the Nine, come to see their holy shrines even in the darkest of dark places like Black Marsh. People respected pilgrims for their asceticism and the fact that one likely would not stab them for a gold piece. They confided in them since a holy man would never betray their thoughts. They gave them cheap lodging and free food, too, something Metharial never turned his nose up at.

So Metharial trudged into Vilnar a bewildered assassin, but the world saw his raggedy grey robes, sandaled feet and necklaces devoted to the Nine and knew him to be a trustworthy, humble pilgrim. Who most certainly did not have several blades secreted about his person. The guards at the gate into Vilnar did not even seek to question him about his destination; they simply nodded their helmeted heads at him and dipped their halberds in a show of respect. Metharial smiled at both of them and then lifted a necklace devoted to Akatosh to his lips and murmured to himself. The guards assumed he was praying. He was actually just moving his lips.

Metharial walked down the main street, although it was more of a trudge as he sank ankle deep in mud with every step. There was not a cobblestone in sight, and the heavy humidity made everything damp and clammy, even when the sun shone straight down, as it did now. Lining the street were a few run down shops with chipped signs and two double-storied inns whose doors were hanging on the hinges. Several patrols of green clad soldiers marched past Metharial, and more soldiers were standing guard in pairs every few dozen paces. Down the cross streets Metharial could see dozens of houses – if you could call them that. They were more like hovels. Ramshackle, ragged and ready to collapse were the words to describe Vilnar’s dilapidated state. The Breton shook his head, wondering how any man could be as insensitive to the suffering of others as the Lord who ruled this place was.

Those were thoughts for less pressing times, however. Metharial ducked into the nearest inn, its sign announcing to all the world in faded letters that the Merry Flagon was the best for rest. Inside, the Merry Flagon did not live up to its name. The common room was crowded, but the men hid behind their drinks and their conversation stopped when Metharial entered. After looking him over for a few moments, the publican came up to Metharial. He was a dark-skinned, fat fellow who had many wrinkles at the corners of his eyes from squinting suspiciously at people. He was not squinting now, because Metharial was obviously a pilgrim. Metharial said as much to him, and the man relaxed completely. The conversation that had ceased picked up again. He invited the Breton to have a cup of wine for no charge, and offered him lodging for what he claimed was a reduced rate.

The publican led Metharial to a table set slightly apart from the rest of the common room and put out a small clay cup of red wine. Metharial smiled at him and made a holy sign in blessing of his host. Metharial supped at his wine silently and slowly, taking in the occupants of the inn. Most appeared to be townsmen interspersed with the leathered countenances of farmers. Each and every one had a hunted look about him, and when they spoke to each other it was in low voices, the exact words indiscernible. Their clothing was universally tattered and dirty. These people had next to nothing, Metharial saw, and what little they did have was used in this inn to try and wash away their troubles for a while.

It was sad. The purpose of this journey was not to report on the state of the peasants, however. Metharial put on his most pious face and motioned over the innkeeper. He came over quickly, even disregarding a few of his other customers. “Yes, pilgrim, how can the Merry Flagon serve you?”

“I must ask about the state of spirituality here, and you seem to be the most knowledgeable,” said Metharial, lowering his voice, “perhaps you can tell me about the leaders of Vilnar? For, it is well known, the character of a leader affects the character of the followers.”

“Ah,” breathed the publican, lowering himself into the chair next to Metharial, “well, you have a good eye, pilgrim. I hear everything, and remember it all. Nothing gets by Jafur Morolin of the Merry Flagon they say!”

Metharial nodded gravely. “I believe it is so, Jafur. So, tell me about Vilnar.”

“Well, it is a good thing you've come by,” said Jafur conspiratorially, “things are in a bad way here. My customers are losing their faith.”

“Why is this?” said Metharial feigning surprise, although that tidbit of information would have shocked nobody. It did help to explain his unusually cordial reception by the inkeeper, though; men of faith were most in demand in times of crisis.

"Because...we are poor. They are poor. I am poor. There is no wealth, no prosperity."

Metharial nodded knowingly, fingering his holy necklace. "Tell me why this is."

Jafur wiped his brow and his eyes flicked across the room. "Not my place, pilgrim. I could lose my inn if I said something wrong."

"But Jafur," said Metharial, leaning in closer to the pudgy fellow, "I am a servant of the Nine. I must know the truth so that I may beseech the gods for a truthful answer. And I will not - I cannot, for my vows prevent me - betray what you say to me.

"If you have any faith at all," Metharial continued, his expression turning accusatory, "you will answer my questions. Not to do so is a most grievous sin."

That did it. The people of Black Marsh clung to the Nine like a babe to its mother; they had nothing else to cling to. That was why they had accepted Metharial as a pilgrim with so few reservations, and that was why Metharial could bully this man into spilling his guts.

Jafur moaned just a little, before nodding his head. “No one will ever call me a faithless man, so...Our lord is Jedethai Etlund, and he is a great man, the Nine bless his soul. But his officers, especially the governor here in Vilnar, are harsh men who treat us like or cattle. They’re used to giving orders and having them followed to the letter, if you get me, and when they aren’t followed to the letter, they…react badly.”

“Badly? What do you mean?”

“Ha, what do I mean?” asked Jafur, “well, an example...three weeks ago, Kedan Erom didn’t bow low enough to Captain Seifert – they have us bow when an officer approaches, you know, like they’re royalty or something! – and Captain Dirulis had him flogged to within an inch of his life in the town square.”

Metharial shook his head sadly. “Why don’t you appeal to Lord Etlund?”

Jafur laughed briefly. “All appeals to Etlund must go through the Governor here in Vilnar, and Governor Porenum would have us flogged to within an inch of our loves for making such an accusation.”

“Not a good situation, then,” Metharial observed, and Jafur shook his head in agreement. “Why are there so many soldiers about, Jafur? I must have seen two dozen in two dozen steps.”

The publican shook his head. “I don’t know, pilgrim. More and more men bearing the Golden Bow have been flowing into Vilnar the past month, but Governor Porenum pretends as if nothing has changed. Even Commander Tebilus was seen coming into town, although he went straight to the Tower.”

“Commander Tebilus?”

“Lord Etlund’s second-in-command. Rumors say that Lord Etlund has ordered the Commander to assemble an army here for an offensive…but there’s no one to take the offensive against!”

“You said Tebilus went to the Tower? What is the Tower?” asked Metharial. This was the information he was really seeking.

“The Tower? Oh, yes, it’s the only stone structure in town. You must have seen it as you came into Vilnar. The Tower towers over everything, aha.”

Jafur sat back, pleased with his pun. Metharial smiled indulgently, before leaning back and yawning expansively. The innkeeper leaned in closely, his face concerned. “Are you tired, pilgrim? You must have traveled a long way.”

“Yes, I have come quite the distance,” Metharial said, “I must apologize, but I am very tired. Might you show me to bed?”

“Of course, of course,” laughed Jafur, “you should have said something and not have let me prattle on like some goodwife. Tobur!”

A freckled redhead teenager popped up at Jafur’s elbow suddenly, flashing his gapped teeth in a subservient grin. “Yessir, Mister Morolin?”

“Show the pilgrim to one of the good rooms, and hop to it! He needs rest.”

Tobur nodded and bowed profusely before beckoning Metharial to follow him. Just as the Breton moved to do so, Jafur grabbed him by the sleeve and beckoned him to bend down. "Good sir, say nothing of what I've told you to anybody. It is the truth, but the truth is not well-received by some ears.

Metharial smiled and patted Jafur on the shoulder as he straightened up. Raising his voice loud enough so that most of the room could hear, he said, "Jafur Morolin, you are a man close to the heart of the Nine. They smile upon you with their grace."

Jafur beamed at his blessing. Metharial then allowed Tobur to lead him to the back of the common room and towards a set of rickety stairs when a gust of wind and a loud banging announced a new entry to the inn. Metharial turned out of curiosity, and paused when he saw a tall, golden-haired, green-clad soldier bearing Etlund’s sigil on his chest. His blue eyes gazed with determined scorn wherever they rested. In a sharp, commanding voice, he spoke. “The honorable Lieutenant of the Lord’s Horse, Norvis Feurile, approaches! Pay your respects!”

Instantly, the entire common room was on its feet and bent at the waist in a deep bow. The blond soldier turned to face the doorway and bowed as well, although not as deeply. Metharial quickly emulated the rest.

The door opened again, swinging wide, and another golden-haired, blue-eyed soldier came in. But this one did not wear a green tunic. Rather, he wore a brilliant white tabard, and the helmet held at his side was silver in composition, made in the likeness of two birds’ wings nestling around a cylindrical cap. His chest still bore the bow and arrows, but the emblem was of such brightness that it overwhelmed the eyes even in the inn’s dim light. At his belt hung a sword more beautiful than any Metharial had ever seen. Its pommel was set with a magnificent diamond which broke the light hitting it into a dozen different rays. The scabbard was dotted with milky white jewels and laced with silver. His armor was silver as well. Apart from his eyes and the sigil, everything about him was silver or white.

Very hard on the eyes, thought Metharial wryly, he could almost be an angel. The “angel” seemed to float into the room, regarding the occupants with a regal glare, as if they had no right to be in his presence. Behind him, another half dozen green soldiers filed in, looking much less angelic and much more battletested. Their leader turned to his announcer. “Ardel, let them sit down. I hate to see them on their feet in my presence.”

Ardel straightened up, his face pale. “Take your seats, commoners, at the order of Norvis Feurile!”

“And tell somebody to serve us wine. If I must sleep here I might as well drink here, no?” added Norvis Feurile.

“And bring us wine, at the order of Norvis Feurile!”

Tobur turned to Metharial. “We had best be getting you to your room sir. It’s said that Sir Feurile’s men tend to fight wherever they go, and that Sir Feurile loves to watch.”

They slipped up the stairs unnoticed, and Tobur showed him to a small room with a small cot. The boy ducked his head respectfully before leaving Metharial alone. He waited a few minutes, listening carefully to the hallway outside his door, before taking off his small haversack and pulling out a change of clothes. It was a normal, dark colored suit for night work, one providing complete freedom of movement and complete silence, unlike the pilgrim’s robes he wore.

After putting these new clothes on, Metharial contemplated his next move. The obvious choice was infiltrating the Tower and rummaging through Commander Tebilus’ personal belongings, maybe even interrogating the Commander himself…but that was an inordinately risky move. Even walking these streets was risky, with so many soldiers around. Another option had presented itself, however: Norvis Feurile.

He was a Lieutenant, a fairly high position, and his obviously noble background must allow him privileged access to his superior’s confidence. It was possible that he knew why so many soldiers were being rallied in Vilnar. Metharial decided; he would get Sir Feurile.

He settled back to wait. The sun was only just going down; the sky was a beautiful crimson. He slept for a few hours, restoring his energy. When he awoke it was just past midnight. Slipping stealthily from his room Metharial climbed down the steps into the common room. It was abandoned now and the torches were burning low in their sconces. The Breton noticed that some of the chairs and tables were broken where they had been whole before, and a smear of blood was on the floor. Metharial tiptoed to the door he had marked as leading to the kitchen and opened it without a sound.

In the kitchen, he found Tabur snoring on a mattress of burlap sacks next to the furnace. Drawing his dagger, Metharial bent down and jerked the sleeping boy up jerkily, hand over his mouth. Tabur kicked and tried to scream, but all motion stopped when the Breton placed his chilly foot of steel on his throat. “Now, Tabur,” growled Metharial in his most threatening tone, “you will tell me where Sir Feurile is sleeping. When I uncover your mouth, I don’t want to hear you whimper, or scream, or do anything but tell me where he’s sleeping, or I’ll cut your throat, you understand? Nod if you understand.”

Tabur nodded. Metharial moved his hand off his mouth. Gulping, the boy said, “On the s-second floor, the f-fourth door on the right. B-best room in the i-inn.”

Metharial belted him over the head, knocking the boy out cold. If he kept his mouth shut, Tabur could probably avoid getting involved. Metharial hoped he had enough sense to see that.

Part Fifteen
Pardon Me

The fourth door on the right, as it turned out, was locked. Not really any problem for Metharial; he had been picking locks since age sixteen. His father had taught him. This lock was not a very well-constructed one either, and it practically sprung open at the sight of Metharial’s pick. The door swung wide with only a slight sqeak of rusting hinges, inviting Metharial inside. The room was completely dark save for some moonlight leaking in through the window, but the Breton’s eyes had already adjusted.

He could see the big feather bed where Sir Norvis Feurile slept peacefully, completely unaware of the present danger. Metharial shut the door silently, and slinked over next to Norvis. Asleep, the Lieutenant of the Lord’s Horse looked to be a boy of not even twenty. Metharial might have pitied for him, if he was not already convinced that this boy was nothing more than swine. Rich swine. Looking over the knight, he noticed he wore a silver pendant in the shape of a lantern. Its glint was like that of a star, far more than the reflection of moonlight allowed. Metharial’s curiosity was aroused, but he knew that other information was much more important.

The Breton worked swiftly and silently to tie up Norvis. It was a mark of long training that his touch did not awake the boy until he had a gag of bed sheet firmly over the knight’s mouth. The knight’s eyes snapped open wide as Metharial’s blade pressed to his throat. Grinning toothily at him, Metharial bent down until his face was only a hair’s width from Norvis’ nose. “Well, old friend, time to talk. When I take this gag off, you’ll say nothing until I ask a question, and you’ll only say enough to answer my question. That way you won’t have to bleed, understand?”

Norvis nodded imperceptibly as Metharial’s dagger delicately sliced his skin. Metharial carefully pulled down the gag. As soon as he did, Norvis surged up, baring his teeth and growling, “You’ve no idea who you are dealing with. Within a we-“

Metharial shoved the gag back in his mouth, stifling the threat. Shaking his head, the Breton moved his knife from Norvis’ throat to the skin beneath his nostrils. The knight whined when he began to cut…

It was never fun, torturing people. Although Metharial was an expert at it, he sometimes could not stand how everything became stained with crimson, and the pathetic whimpers of his victims. He truly did pity Norvis Feurile now; the boy would carry these scars with him for life, both outside and in.

But it was necessary, for speed was of the essence. Metharial knew of nothing speedier to loosen lips than the infliction of pain, besides the ever-expensive use of magic. Magic was not need though, as Norvis looked to be willing to answer any questions. With only a small amount of blood soaking the sheets, too.

“Now answer me truly, Norvis Feurile,” whispered Metharial, pulling down the gag, “Why are so many men being gathered here, in Vilnar?”

A small sob escaped from the boy as he spoke, “Lord Etlund is going to destroy the Legion outpost at Drevania. Vilnar is at the crossroads leading to Drevania; from here, the army can split into three separate groups and surround the outpost, cutting off any means of escape. I was to lead four hundred men and guard the eastern road while Commander Tebilus and the main force crushed the outpost.”

Metharial nodded. That made sense, as there was only one sizeable garrison of Imperial troops left Argonia now, and driving them out would give Etlund free reign to do as he wished in the province. That certainly bode ill for the Emperor; Dauvian would probably have a new job for Metharial directly after getting this information. But he still had to know more. His instructions had been to assess the situation, and resolve it if necessary, although he had not been given authority to kill Jedethai Etlund.

“When will you attack, Norvis?” asked Metharial kindly.

“Commander Tebilus has ordered the vanguard to move in two days’ time,” gasped Feurile, seeming to regain some courage as he continued to speak, “the Legion has only four hundred men. In a week, they’ll be dead, whether or not I am. You will pay for this!”

Any other words were halted by the gag. Metharial wiped Norvis’ blood off his dagger onto the pillowcase, deep in thought. He had enough to prove Etlund was a traitor, that was certain. It felt wrong, though. Something was out of place. As he thought, Metharial again noticed the lantern pendant that Norvis wore. He wanted to know what that was, but he had already spent too much time here. On impulse, Metharial grabbed the pendant. Norvis Feurile’s eyes widened and he strained against his bonds as Metharial ripped the slender chain from his neck. There was a blinding flash of white light.

Metharial’s night vision disintegrated into floating black specks. Calmly, he put the pendant into his pouch, knowing that panic would be surer to cause his death than temporary blindness. Heavy footsteps pounded from the hallway towards the room. Metharial lurched to the window, fumbling with its latch as his vision tried to reassert itself.

A strident knock sounded from the door, followed by an equally strident voice. “Sir Feurile, is something wrong? Only the guard spell went off. Sir Feurile! Open the door!”

The window slid open just as the door was kicked off its hinges, showering the room with wood shards. Metharial leapt from the sill, dropping two stories but landing in a forward roll. Coming to his feet much dirtier and soaked from the mud, the Breton sprinted away. Shouts of alarm came from the inn and were taken up by a dozen other voices - a dozen other enemies. Metharial ducked down a narrow alleyway and into the comfort of its shadows as the his enemies’ cry multiplied exponentially, leaping to a hundred new throats. This did not bother the assassin though, as each new shout only pinpointed the location of his foe. He was no skittish peasant, to be scared out of his hiding hole; he was a seasoned killer and an accomplished spy who used the guards’ own voices against them, to better avoid them. Or, as the unluckiest of them might find out, to hunt them by.

Puddles splashed all around Metharial as guards searched for him. They were incredibly difficult to see at night in their forest green tunics, and Metharial had to thank his instincts for being so keen as he narrowly ducked past a troop of five heavily armed soldiers, heading for the eastern palisade wall. The guards were most like to think he would go west and get on the main road, which led to several homesteads and villages. Indeed, it was the way that he eventually intended to go, but first he had to throw them off the scent.

A mouse could not have made any less noise than Metharial the assassin as he flitted here and there through the town of Vilnar. Soldiers all up in chain mail, armed with fearsome halberds, axes and crossbows and torches to sear their vision came within just a few feet of Metharial. Any one of them could almost certainly have killed him, but they never knew he was near. It’s almost too easy, thought Metharial. Lords and nobles, all of them think that the more swords you have the safer you are. Well, there are a thousand swords in Vilnar tonight. Where is their safety?

Soon he neared the edges of the town; he could see the shape of the palisade looming a few dozen yards ahead. It was a crudely constructed thing, he knew, with an earthen embankment shoved up against the wood to provide a walkway for the guards. They had left the ditches outside the wall left from digging the dirt up unfilled and planted stakes in them, so there was a trench running all round the town except at the gates. It would be easy enough to get over the wall, more difficult to survive the drop.

Somehow managing to be more silent, the Breton stole towards the palisade. The people of Vilnar had built houses everywhere, only a scant fifteen paces from the palisade’s embankment. It was frightening how easily Metharial came to within a stone’s toss of the wall. It would be frightening, that is, if anybody knew about it but Metharial.

There were only a few guards patrolling the embankment, but their eyes were towards the town. Doubtless most of the soldiery were throwing a cordon around Vilnar’s center, hoping to ensnare Metharial, and that left the perimeter rather undefended. It was moronic, and although Metharial had expected the guards to be confused and uncoordinated, he had not expected them to be so stupid. It made his escape ever so much easier though, so he would not be one to complain.

His dagger did not flash by the moonlight as crept the final few feet to the palisade. He could see the black outlines of three guards. The bright glow of a torch came from a fourth, but that was far and away. Metharial laid down on the embankment as one of the guards patrolled his way, completely oblivious. The Breton waited until the man had walked a yard past, then silently rose up like a wraith come to claim its victim.

A moment later, a spray of blood moistened the packed earth, and Metharial lowered himself over the top of the palisade. The wall itself stood twelve foot tall, and the ditch beneath it was another six feet. Fortunately, the stakes were all pointed away from the wall, so when Metharial dropped, he was not skewered.

But, as the gods would have it, his right foot landed on a rock. There was a crunch and Metharial could not help but scream out from the pain that jolted up his leg and coursed through his body. A thousand spears seemed to have pierced his ankle. He was surprised, even as he crawled through the ditch and then scrabbled for handholds to pull him out it, that he could even move. The pain was of a paralyzing intensity, so overwhelming to his senses that Metharial simply wanted to give up.

“Ho there, halt your scrambling!”

Metharial had just pulled his chest over the lip of the ditch when he heard that call. Pain and terror mixed into a heady concoction, one which lent him strength enough to propel his body over the side. Something zipped into the mud next to the Breton; a crossbow bolt. Breathing heavily, Metharial managed to attain his feet and set to running. Ten steps later he fell down, unable to push through the nauseating agony. Another bolt hit the ground, but a few paces to one side; the darkness still shielded him. But the voices behind him were growing more numerous; he had to get away. The terrain he was on now was flat, muddy, and absent of plants or any other cover. A strip of land fifty paces wide had been cleared by Vilnar, to keep both the swamp and bay and the Argonians where they could be seen, if they wished to visit.

It made a daunting barrier. Beyond that cleared land, there lay the swamp, a patch of gloom seemingly deeper than the rest of the night. Moaning incoherently, Metharial summoned every last ounce of his strength. With pain threatening to rend his mind from control of his body, the assassin came to his feet and ran. He ran.

The air was split by streaking bolts of death, but he ran. It was a long time that he sprinted. An eternity compounded by the prospect of death, and by the misery of his injury. So it was much to his surprise when Metharial tripped over something and landed face first into a thorny bush. He laid there for a few moments, hardly able to breathe.

Finally he pushed himself up, and set to crawling deeper into the swamp. The whickering of horses sounded out behind him; perhaps the Lord’s Lieutenant of Horse had come to find him?

But Metharial knew he was going to be safe enough once he got deeper into the swamp. The settlers he had spoken to, one and all, attested to the fact that Etlund’s soldiers were afraid to enter the swamplands. Come to think, none of the settlers had ever been too keen on the idea either, they much preferred to stay on their clear-cut fields. Any further musings on the subject were impossible though, as it took all of Metharial’s will to force his body to go forward. Go forward he did, however, at a snail’s pace. His pursuers were not far behind, but it sounded from their alarmed voices that they did not relish entering the swamp.

Now his skin stung from the thorns that had torn at him, adding to the overall throb that tortured him. His breath came in shallower drafts now; he was gasping. The flora around him began to deform into mere blobs, and the darkness assumed a viscous aspect to his eyes. A new wave of nausea swept over the Breton. After he had finished retching, Metharial found that movement was no longer an option. His arms and legs would not obey their commands.

It was hard to tell when he blacked out, since the only thing to see was darkness.

A very interesting story so far. Your assassin does seem to take a lot of very big risks, perhaps a bit to big considering the necessity of secrecy in his profession.

From your description as he ran into the swamp, I'm thinking perhaps there are some poisonous plants that have contributed to disabling him. I'll be looking forward to finding out.

Nice Story!
Its a great point though, lol.
"If you have any faith at all," Metharial continued, his expression turning accusatory, "you will answer my questions. Not to do so is a most grievous sin."
Just keep them coming!

I doubt anybody even remembers this story, but it's back! And I hope to read all of yours very soon too. I hope you can enjoy it, and if so, please tell me. If not, please tell me how you I could have changed it!

mplantinga, you're a very observant fellow, and yes, he does take risks. Partly that is who Metharial is, partly that's a failure on my part as the author. But I am working on it. And jackalvin, your comment is also pretty incisive, hehe. That statement is maybe one of the hints in this story as to what I believe.



Part Sixteen

Guts and Gore

The city of Bruma, Hoblin thought, would surely look better wi’out a whole army of villains seekin’ to break its doors down.

Standing on the high slopes of the Jerall Mountains, the Nord warrior had a grand view of the city and much of the countryside, snow-covered as it was. The city itself lay at the center of the vista; high stone walls overtopped by the Castle Bruma. Its walls looked to be guarded by no more than a few hundred guards. Surrounding them was nearly five thousand men, from what Hoblin could see, all serving under a sable galloping boar on a purple field. They were building catapults and siege towers from the verdant pine forest which speckling this county, so much of the land surrounding the camp was devoid of tree life. The effect was that of an eerily blank landscape, except for the artifices of war. Hoblin had avoided the city, never having been one to walk straight into the bear’s den; he circled ‘round and scaled up the mountains, trying to ascertain the exact nature of the situation.

From what he had seen, the besieging army was divided into three groups. One consisted of Barons Endral’s hardened troops; Hoblin had spotted the Baron himself on one occasion when the Nord had dared to venture close. Endral was a slight man with the most cruelly imperious visage ever seen. Even his men, no strangers to brutality, shied away from looking at their leader in the eye. The other fellows were either foot soldiers in black and white following a gryphon banner or scraggly mercenaries, following no banner except maybe one knit from gold.

And their numbers had swelled considerably. When Hoblin had first arrived, there might have been just over three thousand, and the whole mass of them looked bruised, fresh from the fight. But day by day, columns of mercenaries, gryphon soldiers and Endral men had arrived, until the force was its present size. Hoblin found it hard to believe there was not already a full legion close by, ready to smash this threatening host. After all, Barons and Lords and Counts could mess about all they wanted with petty fiefdoms like Bruma, but leading five or six thousand men into Cyrodiil, the Imperial heartland? That kind of thing could get any noble killed, no matter what connections he had.

As it was most likely going to, noted Hoblin, fingering his axe. The harsh call of a crow snapped the Nord out of his brief thinking spell. Shuffling briskly to his horse, Hoblin mounted up and turned the beast westerly. As he plodded along through the knee-high snow drifts, Hoblin’s thoughts turned to his mission. He knew where Endral’s nephew – the rival claimant to the Bruman Counthood – was living. The boy had moved into a modest, if comfortable, farmhouse a few miles from the city. Twelve knights guarded the cabin day and night, and almost a hundred mercenaries were hunkered down only fifty yards distant. They were close by, but Hoblin reckoned the few trees screened the house pretty well; it was noise that would alert them. Hoblin was good with noise; he always made a lot of it, no matter what happened. He needed a distraction, in that case. But rack his brains as the Nord might, he could think of nothing that might serve.

A low moaning wind gusted, shaking the pines and whipping around the many rocks until it sliced into Hoblin. The Nord shivered briefly before clamping down, his jaw set. He had been away from the cold winds and deep frosts of the north for too long, it seemed. Anger bubbled up, anger that he could be subject to such a pitiful thing as the weather. Nevertheless, his expert eye searched for someplace to get out of the wind, which had developed into a freezing gale. Pulling up on the reins, he took shelter behind a tall boulder, as the wind blustered with increasing fury.

Dismounting, Hoblin stamped his feet to get the blood moving again, not sparing a glance for the smooth rock face protecting him. Instead, he studied a nearby copse of evergreens, searching for any signs of movement. The Baron’s army was not very enamored of scouting parties, but he had seen enough to be wary when moving through the open. For an instant, he thought he did see some movement…but it was a flash of yellow, not of white or purple as he had expected.

It was gone as soon as he had realized it was there, however. Hoblin was experienced enough to trust his eyes in most cases, but he wondered if the snow glare had gotten to him; the bright sunlight reflecting off the ice could play any number of tricks with a man’s mind. Hoblin had once known a fellow named Gjold who ran off into the tundra one bright day, screaming “I’m coming, laaaadies!”

Yes, the north was a strange place. He had most likely hallucinated seeing that yellow. Besides, all the Brumans were sealed up tight in the city. Hoblin rubbed his hands together, trying to generate some kind of warmth, when a slight creaking came from behind. Turning his head slightly, the Nord looked back at the boulder. Nothing.

Shaking his beard from side to side, Hoblin berated himself for letting the cold affect his mind. Hearing doors open, out here in the middle of nowhere.

Creak. Hoblin wheeled, drawing his claymore from its scabbard, face contorted into an animalistic snarl. If he was going to hallucinate, he would teach the damned hallucinations to bother him much more! Stalking up to the boulder, he noticed a patch of screed and a scraggly sapling which had concealed a very small wooden door from his passing glance. The door dropped down just as Hoblin turned, and the Nord stalked right up to it. Whoever was in there – goblins, bandits or necromancers – he was going to teach them a lesson. A lesson on not making a fool out of Hoblin. With one huge boot, he kicked in the door and without further ado dropped straight into a small, stuffy cave.

He landed right on top of somebody, too, knocking them to the ground with a stifled shout. Hoblin was a big man; that fellow would not be getting up very quickly. But telling by the sound of steel snaking out of sheaths, he would be the last of Hoblin’s worries. Reverting to a defensive stance, Hoblin was unsurprised to see that the cave was brightly lit by torches. By the firelight he made out probably a dozen men, dressed in the manner of Bruman guards; yellow surcoats over light mail. One and all, they wore a hunted, desperate look, and more than one was wrapped with bloody bandages.

“Lower your sword, intruder, and get off my man. Or die.” This came from the closest of them, a young officer whom Hoblin instantly recognized. Golden blonde, immaculately shaven and clean despite the disheveled state of the others… and deep blue eyes which spoke of a man utterly devoted to a cause. He had met Hoblin at the Bruma border, along with a man named Greilain –who Hoblin now saw, standing just behind the knight – and also with a young scamp named Urold. Who, now that Hoblin looked, he was standing on.

Over his head, the telltale creak of bowstrings pulled back and now eager to release told Hoblin that the flashes of yellow he had briefly spotted before were no looking down on him. Carefully, he lowered his blade and stepped to one side, hopefully taking away the angle for some of the bowmen. He flashed an uncertain smile at the knight. “A hundred thousand pardons, me lord, but I were perusing the forest when I thought I espied a bandit’s hole. Had I known it were you heroes –“

“I despise lies,” pronounced the knight, who, Hoblin noticed, had not bothered lowering his sword. “I have never been able to abide them. Now, I recognize you; you passed by my outpost just a few days ago. I cannot believe that was a coincidence, your timely arrival to Bruma just as Baron Endral arrived, and I cannot believe that you wandering about is simple ‘perusing.’ Tell me the truth.”

“Aye, I’ll tell the truth,” Hoblin said. “But I’ll only tell it to a man whose name I at least have the knowing of. So, out with your name.”

Urold, the young guard, had regained his feet and was quaking with anger. Waving his spear at Hoblin, he shouted “You’ll not be making demands from Sir Geddard, ya scummy rogue!”

Sir Geddard waved him to silence, sparing the whelp a brief glare before turning it on Hoblin. “There, you have my name. Sir Geddard of Tranheld. Now tell the truth!”

The Nord warrior first put away his claymore, regretting the necessity of it, before speaking, trying not to let on more than he wanted. “Well, you know of the bonnie lad who this Endral fights for? The one who means to take your Count’s lands?”

“Orway, son of Kertren.” The name sounded acidic, coming from Geddard’s mouth. “I know he is the reason so much bloodshed has come to our home.”

“Well, Baron Endral brought him along. Probably so he can put him on your boy’s throne all the quicker after ripping it out from under him,” said Hoblin airily. “But he keeps him apart from the main force, most like so the boy doesn’t have to see what war is really about.”

Unpleasant chuckles arose from the Brumans, their smiles holding no warmth, only cold hatred. The bowmen outside dropped in unceremoniously as Hoblin spoke; three of them, two carrying freshly killed bucks. Sir Geddard frowned at Hoblin, and he brought his silvery blade up so all could see it. “If this Orway met with us, we would surely give him a lesson on warfare. One he’d never recover from.”

A general murmur of assent rippled through all present, except for Hoblin. “Strong words, and true, I am certain.”

“Who are you to gauge the truth of my words?” snapped Geddard. “I am a knight of Bruma. You look to be a common travelling scoundrel, selling his sword to anyone with a silver piece.”

“True enough, me lord,” replied Hoblin wryly, “I am naught but a common travelling scoundrel - who happens to know where this Orway is stowed away. Far from the front lines, he is. Well protected, I can tell you right now.”

The Nord barely had time to react before Geddard was upon him, his cool silver sword pressed firmly against Hoblin’s throat. “You know where Orway is? You can lead me to him?”

Struggling to keep his hands down, Hoblin nodded his head fractionally. “I can do this, Sir Geddard. But the laddie’s well protected; more than a hundred soldiers are encamped nearby, and he’s guarded by a squad of Endral’s knights. You will need more men than what you have.”

As quickly as he had moved, Geddard withdrew. Sheathing his sword, the man turned to look over his men. Fifteen, by Hoblin’s count. Shaking his head, Geddard muttered to himself. “Skelda might have another dozen men. Who knows, he may have collected a few more. Or lost a few more. Lublis was taken a few days ago; Cathnus has deserted.” Still muttering, the knight wandered to the back of the cave, where Hoblin could see a crude chair and table set up. Flopping into the chair, the knight signaled Greilan over.

Giving Hoblin a worried look, the Bruman veteran hurried over to his commander, who whispered into his ear. Straightening, Greilan turned to the assemblage. “Jowan, Urold.”

The two named stood forward. Both were not past twenty years in age, but Jowan’s left sleeve was caked with blood, and his arm was clearly stiff for movement. Greilan regarded them both severely. “Jowan, you’ll go to Skelda, and tell him to meet with Sir Geddard’s party at Dragonclaw Rock in two days. Urold, you’ll try to find Ogdel, and tell ‘im the same.”

The young soldiers saluted, Jowan with grim determination, Urold pale with trepidation, and departed. Greilan turned to the rest. “All right, you heard me, we’re going to Dragonclaw Rock. Eat and rest while you can, because we’ll not be stopping on the way for tea or crumpets or whatever else you fairies enjoy.”

It was obviously some kind of high humor to these men, because immediately following the pronouncement hearty laughter erupted. Brittle laughter though, Hoblin noted; it was high-pitched and ended suddenly, like a carrion bird’s calls. Sir Geddard was simply slumped in his chair now, apparently poring over a roll of parchment, but his eyes were dull. Hoblin looked questioningly at Greilan, who only shrugged helplessly. The Nord sighed. He was in the company of defeated men, driven to follow orders only by a knight who did not know how or when to accept defeat. Corpses walking, that was all they were.

*****

Siraaj supped at her tea daintily, staring politely at the opposite wall. There was not much else to stare at, really. The rooms of the Tiber Septim Hotel were gaudy, to be sure, but they lacked character, anything of true character. They were simply gilt and cushions, meant to tack on an air of refinement.

Still, for a prisoner, she could be doing much worse, Siraaj reckoned. One of the dank, smelly cells of the Imperial Prison, for starters. No, she much preferred being shut up in a swank hotel than in jail. Although it was, she thought, looking pointedly at the Orc standing guard outside the door, still imprisonment. Only it was imprisonment with a plush velvety exterior. She could not leave the Tiber Septim; she could not leave the Imperial City. And she had not seen anyone recognizable for weeks. The lady who ran the Tiber Septim was pleasant enough to her most of the time, assuming she was the concubine of some discreet gentlemen who did not want his mistress wandering the streets, but she was no real company with all her fussing and pandering.

In fact, Siraaj had not had a real conversation in some time. Her Orc guard was pleasant enough – for a brutish, foul-smelling Orc, even if he was dressed in fine burgundy clothes – but he was most certainly not of the speaking variety. Or the thinking variety. He struck her as the drinking variety, although all her best attempts to get him drunk had failed miserably. Sighing, she realized the only mildly exciting thing that had happened since her arrival at the Imperial City was this mildly warm cup of tea. Frustrated, she set the porcelain cup down too hard onto the table, and it made a little tinkle when it broke. Hissing, the Khajiiti maiden bared her fangs at the dozens of little pieces; now she was going to have to clean all of this up…

“Do you enjoy the accommodations, Mistress Siraaj?”

Siraaj spun in her seat upon hearing the cool, almost mocking voice. Standing at the doorway was an Imperial, tall and self-assured, with the most infuriating smile constantly hovering on his smug face. He was not in Legion armor as she had last seen, and there was no huge mute to protect him, but Siraaj could recognize Captain Dauvian of the Red Spearhead at a hundred paces. He was the man who had put her here, and the man who had told her that it was only good fortune that kept him from ordering her death. But she let none of that show through, instead putting on what passed among humans for a Khajiit smile. “Ah, Captain Dauvian. It is well to have a visitor. I must say, it has been a while.”

Dauvian continued to smile and ignored the unspoken question, instead strolling over to Siraaj’s bedside. Feeling the coverlet between thumb and forefinger, he turned his slate grey eyes on her. She shivered at the emptiness they emanated. His eyes were a window onto an emotionless plane; he felt nothing for her. Not hatred, contempt, not anything. But that strange smile…

His voice jolted her, although his tone was softer than goose-down. “The Tiber Septim is such a lovely place, agreed?”

Trying to will her fur from standing on end, Siraaj simply nodded. Dauvian continued, voice silky. “But like all lovely places, there are unseen dangers. Why, you might slip, fall, and crack your head against a table corner, and that would be the end of that, wouldn’t it?”

Siraaj looked sharply at the man. “Have you something to say? Or are you just threatening me? I know you can do what you want with me; I’m already shut in here night and day. What do you want!?”

Dauvian’s smile took on a delighted turn. She realized he had been baiting her, trying to bring out her emotions. Well, no more of that, Captain Dauvian. You will find Siraaj more undreadable than the blankest book.

But the Captain did not let her resolve set; he swooped like a vulture for the feast, leaning on her table just an arm’s length away. Bending down, he brought his amused smile level with her; she wanted to claw it off. “Mistress Siraaj, what is your father’s name?”

She thought a moment before answering. On the one hand, he most likely knew. On the other, possibly he did not. She wondered whether he would kill her if he caught in her in a lie, when Dauvian suddenly straightened up and let his hand brush over the hilt of his dagger. “His name is Imraaj Dalr, and he is a merchant who sells wall hangings, fine luggage, and dates.”

“Ah, but we all know what’s hidden inside those wall hangings? And in the hickory chests? And underneath the piles of delicious dates?” Dauvian asked, although she could tell he knew already.

“And he also sells weapons – Bosmeri bows, enchanted Altmeri arrows, Imperial swords, Nord battle axes…he sells all that and more, in bulk, to people who do not want to be seen arming hundreds of warriors.”

“Yes,” said Dauvian, clearly pleased. “Now, I want you to tell me all the names of his buyers, and all you know about them.”

Siraaj shook her head. “I know nothing of his buyers. Father always tried to keep his business dealings separate from the family; I only learned of it because one of his caravaners dropped a wall hanging and nearly skewered me with a Redguard pike.”

She almost giggled at the memory, terrifying as it had been at the time, before seeing Dauvian’s. The smile, of course, was still stuck to him, but his eyes had dilated, and his fists were clenched. Bringing his face so close to hers that his breath condensed on her fur, the man hissed at her. “I know you know, Siraaj. You must tell me. Remember. I did not expect you to, but you must; or I will be forced to use…less pleasant means than simply asking.”

Dauvian stood again, control fully regained. He grinned at Siraaj; not a smile or a quirk, but a grin. “I will come again in the morning tomorrow. And then, you will tell me.”

With that, he exited. Siraaj was left with more questions than she could sift through. Why had he been so brief if he was as desperate as he seemed? Why wait until the morrow? None of it made any sense. Especially the part where he wanted to know about her father’s clients. They were criminals for the most part, and not likely to bother the Emperor. Taking an unsteady breath, she glanced at the Orc guard; he was still there. For the thousandth time, she ran her hands over her bodice, where she had managed to stow a small dinner knife. Siraaj wondered if the time was coming when she had to use it.

But as the afternoon wore on, her courage to take action faltered. All her time was spent thinking and little else, and on all sides she could only see danger if she should try and escape. That Orc guard would most likely kill her, firstly. Secondly, the city guard surely had her name and description in case she ever evaded that one – she would never get out undetected. And Dauvian undoubtedly had eyes and ears all over the Empire…she could never truly escape.

Soon, the light from her window was all but gone, and the Orc was closing her door so she could change and go to bed. The key slid into the lock, and turned with an ominous click. She dejectedly stripped out of her simple wool dress until she wore just her shift, before lying down to sleep. Happy oblivion came to her swiftly, thankfully, and her eyes drifted shut.

And snapped back open again what seemed like a second later, although the pitch blackness meant the hour had gone past midnight. She could not say what had awoken her, until the noise came again – a clicking from the door. It was the sound of a key being turned in its lock, but slowly. So slowly that the sound might have escaped any but a Khajiit’s ears. Moving silent as only one of the cat folk can, Siraaj grabbed her knife from beneath the pillow where she had placed it, and rolled off the bed. With a final click, the lock was fully disengaged, and the door opened.

Siraaj had near perfect night sight, of course, and her eyes adjusted very quickly. The person who crept into her room was a woman, probably a Breton by her size and stature, and bore a Glass dagger. The wickedly curved blade had a reddish tinge to it – a sure sign of enchantment. Siraaj’s grip on her knife tightened. Assassins with enchanted weaponry cost a great deal of money – and meant that the one who hired them placed a great deal of value on silencing their target.

Her throat constricted, but Siraaj pushed away all fear. She did not mean to die hear, in some chintzy hotel room provided by a man who was most likely going to kill her too!

Snarling silently, she leapt over the bed, knife slicing through the air at the assassin’s shoulder. But the killer was not so easily taken, as the woman smoothly grabbed hold of the wrist bearing the knife, while her other hand brought the dread dagger up to slice Siraaj’s throat.

The Khajiit though, are not idly named some of the fastest creatures in existence. Siraaj chopped at the Breton’s wrist with such speed and strength that her paw cleanly knocked the dagger out of her hand, and then brought her palm into contact with the woman’s face. That sent the assassin sprawling, and Sirraj was on top of her instantly, dinner knife just breaking the tender skin on her throat.

“Who are you?”

The woman’s eyes widened, and she looked towards where her dagger had fallen; well out of reach. They widened further when Siraaj increased the pressure from her blade, causing a rivulet of blood to trickle down the sides of her neck. “Tell me!”

“I – I – I am Sacharissa.”

“Who sent you?”

Sacharissa smiled like a death’s head. “I will not say. The Night Mother would have my soul.”

Siraaj sucked in air before she could help herself. Dark Brotherhood? “I will have your soul, and more besides, if you do not tell me, Sacharissa. I will use your essence to imbue this mere kitchen knife with fiery death, and murder everything you love if you do not tell me!”

The death’s head grin never wavered.

The Khajiiti sighed. She would have to do something that she loathed. There was one way she knew to get anyone to tell her anything – the Rej‘daar. Ignorant Imperials called it the Khajiiti Eye of Terror, and it was said to entrap the souls of the living, but those were stories told to scare old women and foolish young men into going to their chapel more often. No, the Rej‘daar was an ancient means of extracting information, known only to a few Khajiit. Her father was one of them, and he had taught it to her.

Breathing as deeply as she could, Siraaj channeled every scrap of anger, remorse, pity…every emotion she felt or could feel into one tight ball. Everything else inside her was a void, empty of thought, empty of intelligence. Some said this was the animal nature of the Khajiit; every scrap of being attuned and focused to one goal.

With a shudder, she released it.

The sight might be described as coming face to face with a demon for the first time, and realizing that you are not imagining it; it is real, and standing right in front you. Everything it him radiates malevolence; the saliva-slick fangs, the stiff bristles of fur, the glowing green eyes whose slits for pupils look like cracks into eternal pits of damnation. And you know – you just know that the only way to survive the encounter is to tell this demon everything.

For Sacharissa Breslan, Slayer of the Dark Brotherhood, the sight was no different. She could not scream, so instead she answered. “I GET MY ORDERS FROM DEMESTO, AN ALTMER WHO LIVES IN SKINGRAD! Oh gods, please spare me…please Sithis, pardon my failure, allow me to live…”

Siraaj saw no reason for letting Sithis enter into it. The dinner knife rised up and slammed down into Sacharissa’s chest. A spurt of crimson blood spurted into the air and hit Siraaj in the muzzle. The Rej‘daar shattered, emotion once again flooding into every nook and cranny of her mind. She sat dazed for a few moments as she tried to sort out what had just happened. Slowly, she remembered what the assassin – Sacharissa, she had said her name was – had told her. And then, after that, she had…

The maiden touched paw to face, felt the blood, and looked down to where the knife was still jammed firmly into the woman. Sacharissa’s eyes had the glazed look of death upon them. A thump came from the hallway, and Siraaj dimly recalled that the Breton had not shut the door behind her. Hot tears of shame flooded her eyes; this was why every Khajiit who knew the art refrained from using Rej‘daar. Sometimes, you did things you could not control. Even though this Sacharissa had been a murderer, Siraaj had never wanted to kill her.

Trying hard not to sick up, Siraaj stood and faced the doorway. The Orc lay stretched across the floor; his fall must have woken her originally. The proprietress lay stretched out nearby, but her chest rose and fell. She had only passed out from the shock. Siraaj noticed how detached she was about all this suddenly; one moment there had been tears, the next…nothing.

She quickly washed herself up and got dressed. Stuffing a few changes of clothes into a traveling bag and reluctantly grabbing up the enchanted dagger, Siraaj turned and left her room for the first time in many days.

The future did not look bright, but at Skingrad she might get some answers.

Oh, I remember this story! Even if it takes five years for you to finish; I will still be reading this GENIUS story!!!

I also remember the story, and it was nice to see an update. I will admit I had to read it again from the beginning to remember what had been happening, but that helped me to remember why I enjoyed it the first time around.

It is unclear to me, as I imagine it is supposed to be, why the Dark Brotherhood would be after Siraaj. The nomadic Khajiit would be unlikely to make use of something so "Imperial" as the Dark Brotherhood, and if she really isn't involved in her father's business, the list of other possible suspects becoming unsatisfyingly short.

That is something of a mystery, isn't it? One that I'll get to in time, no worries, and hopefully one whose conclusion will 'satisfy'. Heh, stay tuned, there's a lot left in this one (although who knows how fast I'll be able to get through it!).

And thanks for commenting, means a lot to me

New chapter! And I've edited the opening post; go check it out. But not before commenting about the new one! Pacing is a little slow, I'm feeling, but a lot of action is forthcoming in the next couple of chapter, I assure you. I'm a little excited

Part Seventeen
Stranger in a Strange Land

Consciousness came gradually. At first, he mistook it for the waking dream – all was dark and impenetrable to the eye. But his thoughts flowed unimpeded by sleep’s clouding influence, and came to realize that he was indeed awake, but his eyes would not open. His nose warned him of some unfamiliar odor, sharp but oddly pleasant. It was smoky, yet did not scour at his windpipes like smoke; the effect was instead soothing. He felt as if his throat and lungs were being caressed by soft hands. The air was moist and warm besides, so that his whole body was slick and comfy, as he might have been in the womb. A low hiss like that of a lizard came from somewhere left, and his wounds felt tender dabbing from a wet cloth. Wounds?

Metharial could not understand why he had wounds. Yes, that’s who I am! Or why he was so weak he could not pry open his eyes or twitch a muscle. It did not matter, he supposed. The odd, enjoyable smell and tender care was enough to send his mind spiraling back towards peaceful slumber, when a rustling nearby pulled him back. A chill blast of air followed, eliciting a low moan as he was rudely torn back to full awareness.

The constant hiss suddenly turned into a voice. “Clossse that door, fool. He isss not ssstrong yet.”

There was further rustling and sound of feet scuffling, and then a recognizably human voice replied. “When will he be strong enough then, Stranger-to-Death? You have been treating him for days with your hossali bush incense and ointment of the wanra reed. I’m beginning to think a Healer might serve better.” The man’s tone bespoke of tightly held anger; hot eagerness concealed by a veneer of control.

Stranger-to-Death? What kind of a name is that? Metharial’s mind, languid from inactivity, was working itself back up to speed at a maddeningly slow rate.

“Heh, you might ussse a Healer…if he could sssurvive the journey,” said the lizard voice in its sibilant way, “You know asss well asss I that the Marshhh Shhhivers are not sssomething to trifle with, Vautisss.”

Metharial groaned, and the dabbing increased in tempo. But it was no pain that made him whimper - it was the revelation of Marsh Shivers. His mind suddenly raced at speeds close to panic. The diseases of Black Marsh were legendary – and rightfully so. They were nearly always fatal to humankind, and it was said that Marsh Shivers ranked high on the list of most painful. And most deadly.

This Vautis fellow was all cool impatience though; he certainly had never heard of Marsh Shivers. “As you say, Stranger. But I warn you, I can only let him lie for one more day. I must get my answers!”

“Be calm, Imperial, the Breton will … recover.” Metharial thought this Stranger-to-Death was crazy, but hoped his name would hold true. “I ssstake my honor as shhhaman of Bleekisss upon hisss sssurvival.”

That must have satisfied the Imperial, for the brief rustle and rush of cold air that announced his entry came again for his exit. The hissing voice spoke again, this time to Metharial, as the lip of some flask or bladder was pressed between his lips. “Drink thisss, crazy-ssskinwalker, and you will walk once more…”

A putrid liquid flowed down Metharial’s gullet, tasting like a cross between rotten mudcrab and swamp slime. But his head fogged over almost instantly and he felt all worries detach from his mind. They floated away as Metharial slipped back into a peaceful stupor.

*****

The next time he awoke, Metharial’s eyes popped open immediately. At first he could not see much; the only light source was weak, and it cast huge shadows or broad rays, making the contrast confusing to underused sight. But after lying for a few moments Metharial remembered how to see, and he could soon make out his surroundings.

The building was not Imperial, that was for certain, unless he had been asleep for much longer than anticipated and mud daub had meanwhile come into fashion. The sloping walls curved to form a dome shape, the only two open slots being the doorway – bound shut by stretched blue hide – and a smoke hole. The pallet Metharial lay upon was shoved up against one wall and only stood a foot off the ground. And it was made from straw. At the center of this strange house, underneath the smoke hole, of course, was the firepit. Dormant now, the ash of recent burning remained. But what lay around the firepit interested Metharial more; the rest of the structure was blank of items, but all around the pit flasks filled with a rainbow of liquids, exotic and undoubtedly dangerous plants, indescribable meats and huge bones were stacked, one atop the other.

It had the look of an alchemists’ dream and nightmare clashed together. Wondering where he could possibly be, Metharial surged up. Except his leg, remembering what he had put it through the last time, screamed out in agony and the Breton dropped back to rest rather than force the issue. He sighed, and instead rummaged through his pockets to see what his saviors had left him – at least his clothes.

“You’ll find nothing, ssskinwalker.”

This time his leg had no contrarian arguments when Metharial leapt to readiness, hands groping for absent knives. His eyes scanned the shadows again, and this time he saw the scaly creature. An Argonian, its coloration such that amidst the brown mud walls, it nearly disappeared. Dark orbs stared unblinking at him, but sharp needles for teeth flashed into a mockery of a smile. Its voice he recognized to be the one watching over him before. “Do not worry ssskinwalker. We will not hurt you. The tribe of Bleekisss is friend to the Emperor.”

Metharial looked warily at this Argonian – whose name he remembered now. “How do you know I am a man of the Emperor, Stranger-to-Death?”

The Argonian’s horrific smile came again. “Because Vautisss saw the metal, and sssaid that it sssaid you were. Myssself, I do not underssstand how metal ssspeaksss to you humansss.”

Hand flew to belt pouch and blood fled from face. Metharial knew what Stranger meant – this man, this Vautis had seen his coin, the coin of the Red Spearhead. And known what it meant. He could not know for certain, but it seemed awfully good fortune to have a contact here…wherever here was. “You are concerned, friend?”

Metharial looked up at Stranger-to-Death and forced his face to smooth over. “Only so far as I should be. Where am I? And how did I end up here?”

“You are one of the privileged few ssskinwalkersss to be admitted into Balisss…the greatessst of the free tribesss. We do not acknowledge thisss ssskinwalker lord, Etlund, and we refussse to trade with hisss filthy merchants. How you came here, well…I do not know.”

“You don’t know?” asked Metharial. “How’s that?”

“Being Ssshaman doesss not require that I leave my home. And often requiresss that I do not,” replied the Argonian, “the outside world only reachesss me through thossse I mussst heal and the talesss they tell. Perhaps Vautisss will speak more.”

The Breton nodded. He was surrounded by Argonians who despised Lord Etlund; perhaps the situation was not so dire after all. But where were all his things?

Stranger-to-Death slid to his feet as Metharial toddled awkwardly, and flowed to where the Breton stood. “Your leg isss not yet good,” he hissed, “you mussst be patient…”

The blue hide flap pulled back just then, revealing a foggy outside before two cloaked figures slipped in. One stood a full head taller than Metharial, and his cowl did not hide bluff, handsome features. A part in his cloak revealed plate armor, and the outline of a sword stood out at his hip. The other shape proved to be Argonian once its hood was pulled down. It stood a hand shorter than Metharial, with green scales to contrast Stranger-to-Death’s brown, and gripped a hooked spear tightly.

The man stepped forward, uncovering his head to free shoulder-length chestnut hair, gathered back by a tight cord. His green eyes bored into Metharial’s, and coupled with a haggard, unshaven face it made for an impression of strain. The accompanying Argonian watched this man carefully, noted Metharial, and Stranger-to-Death nearly as intently. He could not think about that, for the Imperial stepped up so close that he filled up the whole of Metharial’s vision, bringing his intense gaze down to the Breton’s level. “So, you’re one of those the Mage told me about. Can’t say I’m impressed…I had assumed that Dauvian would employ more imposing agents,” he pulled back abruptly, loosening his cloak so that it fell back to fully reveal his armor.

It was quite a grand sight, Metharial had to admit. Fell ebony, its black sheen especially imposing in the low light, protected his torso and legs, and steel plate covered where that did not. His sword was perhaps more intimidating, if for different reasons; it was an Akaviri katana. Single-edged and slightly curved, katanas were simple and effective, but their prowess in warfare did not make them famous. No, Metharial knew all too well that an Akaviri katana such as this man bore were the mark of a Blade. A personal servitor of the Empire; his eyes and ears, enforcers, bodyguards and friends. To be a Blade, a man had to be among the best. Crossing them was not an option. And this one looked as if he was about to take a bite out of Metharial’s throat.

Clearing it nervously, to make sure the man hadn’t yet, Metharial forced himself to meet his eyes. “Yes, well, Dauvian recruits men who he knows are effective, and will get the job done. And, if I may ask, how do the Blades know of him?”

The man laughed wheezily, as if Metharial had made some hilarious jest, and his Argonian companion shifted. Looking over his shoulder at it momentarily, the man rounded on Metharial with a glare. “You’re not asking the questions, oh no. You will follow me and One-Alone, and answer our questions closely, understand?”

Metharial was confused by this fellow’s sudden changes in temperament, but agreed nonetheless – as if he had any choice in the matter. The two marched him out of the shaman’s home, One-Alone holding the hide flap open, and so Metharial stepped outside and got his first view of Bleekis.

Perhaps ‘view’ was wrong; a dense mist hung over everything, reducing structures twenty paces away to blurry silhouettes. All the buildings were dome-shaped, and so cleverly disguised by reeds and cattails and other swamp foliage Metharial had to look closely. There was no commons or clearing; every square inch of land was covered with marsh grasses or ferns. What he could see looked more like an extension of the surrounding swamps’ vegetation. The trees themselves were strange too, even though Metharial knew them as the same breed that grew in Blackwood in Cyrodiil. But these were gnarled and twisted things, often half-choked by vines or creepers, with huge distended roots seeping up the plenteous moisture. Metharial thought he saw Argonian huts in the crooks of the biggest branches, too, a testament to their huge girth.

A heavy hand pushed Metharial forward, and the Breton stumbled forward, his leg buckling. Just before his face got acquainted with fine Black Marsh peat, his collar was grabbed and Metharial found himself bodily heaved upright. One-Alone looked annoyed, saying, “Vautiss, can you not carry thiss heap?”

Metharial noted the Argonian’s hiss was not so pronounced as Stranger-to-Death’s, just before mentally berating himself for not connecting Vautis’ voice to the one he had heard while nearly unconscious. Although when he thought of it that way, it did not seem so bad…

“Ha, the Breton can carry himself. Hurry up now Metharial, no matter if your legs feel like tree trunks or fairy clouds. Move!”

Like a dog snapping at the heels of sheep, Metharial found himself driven by Vautis. Ghostly shapes appeared and receded as they went through Bleekiss, sometimes solidifying into Argonian villagers, their scales of all different colors. But they always hove away after seeing One-Alone and Vautis, giving the Argonian’s strange hooked spear fearful glances. For his part, One-Alone bared his fangs at any who laid eyes on him for more than a moment.

The Breton wondered at the villagers’ strange reactions. Did he hold some kind of office, like guardsmen, or was One-Alone an outcast who traveled with Vautis but was hated by his people? There were many possibilities, none of them very satisfying.

Contemplation was brought to a halt however, when they finally halted before what looked to be just another dome shelter. Vautis cleared away the screen of witherleaf from the tarp entrance and led the way inside. Metharial followed at the prodding of One-Alone’s spear.

The interior was quite a bit cooler than Stranger-to-Death’s tent, even though the firepit was all ablaze. Assembled inside, around the flame, sat a half-dozen Argonians. They looked, as far as Metharial could tell with lizards, wizened. Most had twisted protrusions from their scales, like miniature horns, their scales were faded and their limbs were not so lithe as One-Alone’s. Their garb consisted of sleeveless, close-fitting tunics woven from what Metharial would hazard was some kind of reed. Now Vautis took off his cloak completely, fully revealing an impressive figure only accentuated by the fantastic armor he wore.

One-Alone set his cloak next to Vautis’, folded up on a leaf mat, and Metharial saw why the villagers feared him. His armor was not ebony, and it was not steel – it was something else completely that the Breton had never before seen in his life. Black as ebony, it did not reflect light as ebony did, and was shaped sinuously, giving the feel of a deep fast-flowing mountain stream. At the Argonian’s belt hung three jawbones. Hanging from his neck were three necklaces – each one beaded with what Metharial was sure would be a full mouthful of Argonian teeth.

The eldest of the Argonians stood, interrupting Metharial in his shock. “Approach the council of Bleekiss, Vautiss Celenio of the Cyrodiil Emperor, One-Alone of our liege the King of Argonia, and Metharial of the Cyrodiil Emperor.”

The Cyrodiil Emperor, he noticed. And the emphasis on “our liege” when saying the King of Argonia revealed where this council’s loyalties lay. But Metharial wondered what Vautis was doing. Didn’t he want to hear what he had to say?

The Blade had his own ideas it seemed though, as Vautis stood confidently before the elders, while One-Alone took up position a feet closer and opposite of him. “My noble elders of Bleekis, as you know the King of Argonia has made pact with my Emperor, promising loyalty in exchange for protection and prosperity…”

“Protection from what? Morrowind? The sslavers sstill raid the north!” interrupted one elder whose scales were nearly pure white. A low ‘sss’ of assent arose, and Vautis’ face was painted with annoyance.

“That is another issue, Wa-Najum. What is fact is that the King of Argonia owes fealty to my Emperor. And fealty means protecting the Emperor’s couriers!” Vautis flung a hand to point sternly at Metharial then. “This man is a courier of the Emperor; both I and One-Alone can attest to the sigil he bears. And the men who serve Lord Etlund attacked him! It is part of your duty then, as vassals to the King of Argonia, to carry out the King’s duties where he cannot. You must strike now at Etlund; you have no more excuses. He has already marred your land beyond recovery, will you let him destroy your honor?”

The one named Wa-Najum looked ready to rip Vautis with tooth and claw, but the elder who had invited them waved the angry Argonian down. Turning huge crimson eyes onto the Blade, the lizard man said, “Thiss may very well be sso, Vautiss Celenio, but if thiss man were a courier of the Emperor, why did he travel covertly? My watcherss reported no one like him entering Vilnar, meaning he came dissguissed, or in ssecret ssomehow. And you missundersstand the oaths we take to the King – we sserve him as a tribe sservess its chief. Loyally, but alwayss with the resservation that we may choosse another sshould the chief lead in the wrong way.”

One-Alone blinked; that last had been directed at him, it seemed to Metharial. The Breton realized that things were not going well for Vautis, and that what Vautis wanted was much the same thing that he had been tasked with. Stepping forward suddenly, Metharial bowed awkwardly. Opening his mouth to speak, Metharial was very conscious of Vautis’ eyes upon him, as well the alien Argonian globes. “Honored elders of the council, I have but this to say: I had to travel discreetly, for fear of my life. The Lord Etlund is all but an avowed traitor, and the proof I carry should clear up that last bit.”

Ignoring Vautis’ hissed “What!” the Breton continued. “After interrogating a prominent officer in the army at Vilnar, I have learned that Etlund intends to destroy the Imperial Legion in Black Marsh – Argonia, I mean – and extend his control to all of western Black Marsh. Argonia, that is.”

Whispered conversation erupted on all sides, and Metharial found himself grabbed by the Blade. “Why didn’t you tell me this before? Did it somehow skip your mind, that little bit of trivia? Now tell me everything before the lizards remember we’re here.”

Metharial recounted Norvis Feurile’s story. Three separate branches of a great force would leave from Vilnar towards the fort at Drevania; two to cut off escape, one to destroy everything. “Drevania, eh?” murmured Vautis, “that’ll be Gladyrmore. Morest is stationed there…maybe we could…”

What they could maybe do, Metharial would never know, since the Argonian council had ended their discussion. One-Alone, he noticed, had remained aloof even at the revelation. “The council hass come to a conclussion, Metharial of the Cyrodiil Emperor. Our sscoutss have sseen an increassse in movement of the ssskinwalker forcess. We did not undersstand it before, but now we do – Lord Etlund means to take what is rightfully the King of Argonia’ss. We sshall not allow thiss to happen. You have our sspearss.”

Vautis sighed and grinned over at One-Alone, who stared back unemotionally. Clapping Metharial on the shoulder, the Imperial chuckled. “What you’ve done in a moment, I’ve been trying to accomplish for months. Come along; we shall go to Gladyrmore and warn Morest. Then, to crush Etlund!”

Metharial smiled wanly up at the Blade. Crush Etlund? He was not a soldier, to march in wars. He was an assassin, skulking in shadows and striking when he chose. It would have been better, Metharial realized, to keep his mouth shut. At that moment, an epiphany came.

I read the first nine or ten, which are really great. Just a few minor spelling errors. (hd/his, no/not, etc.

I apologize for the huge bump with no update in advance.

Anyway, I'm putting Metharial on hiatus, to spend more time on my own original stuff. I imagine I will get back to it within a few months, but I didn't want to fall off the face of the earth with no warning as I have before. I shall still be reading everyone else's stories and posting, of course, just not updating this one.

That's fine. I'd rather read original stuff anyway.

I will miss this story, though.

Aww. I really liked this, but I hope you do well with your other works.

I also like anvil comfortable shirts