Chapter I – The Sacking of Anvil
A pale golden glow began to spread across the large, windowless, bedchamber as two young servant girls started to light the many candles adorning its walls. In a large bed in the centre of the room, a young blonde woman slept peacefully. As the first glow of candlelight crept over her face, her eyes opened softly. Spessamora Umbranox, daughter of Lumen and Marisa Umbranox, Count and Countess of Anvil, rubbed her large blue eyes, clearing them of sleep. Approaching her bed, the first servant girl offered the young noblewoman a mug of steaming tea.
“Good morning, M’lady. Did you sleep well?”
The noblewoman smiled at the girl and nodded.
“Yes, thank you, Narosa,” replied the noblewoman. Her voice spoke of power and superiority, despite the fact that she was scarcely a year older than the servant girl. Or at least, yesterday she had been scarcely a year older than the sevant girl. For today was Sun’s Dawn 16th 3E12. Spessamora’s 17th Birthday.
Propping herself up against her pillows, Spessamora accepted the mug and, after taking a small sip of its boiling contents, placed it down upon her bedside table. Now began the endless cycles of formality and propriety that constituted a noble’s birthday. Not that Spessamora minded formality and propriety, in fact, in her opinion, they offered a familiar routine – a sort of safety net against a backdrop of an increasingly dangerous and corrupt world. Nevertheless, from the moment that she was given the choice between the cerise silk dress and the crimson velvet one, she knew that today’s tedium was going to frustrate her.
The rest of the day passed without event. For the duration of the day, guests for Spessamora’s birthday ball filtered into the castle from all around the Empire and closest thing to excitement was the late arrival of a Dunmer dignitary (delaying luncheon by ten whole minutes!). As the evening drew nigh, the sound of a gong rang through the castle, announcing to the party guests that they had an hour to prepare. Retreating to her room, Spessamora called out for Narosa, needing her help to dress for dinner.
“Narosa…?”, ventured Spessamora. “Narosa?!”. After receiving no reply, Spessamora decided that she hadn’t the time to wait for one tardy servant girl and so called out for her second one. Bursting into the room, Sarosa, Narosa’s younger sister, looked at Spessamora, tears in her eyes.
“Sorry. M’lady…”, she offered tentatively, “Narosa’s gone.”
“Never mind that, Sary”, replied Spessamora, addressing the obviously shaken girl by her pet name, “help me dress and then you can go and tell Captain Bellicus what you need to.”
The young girl nodded and wiped a tear from her cheek. Walking over to the dresser, Sarosa picked up the silk ballgown that had been layed out for Spessamora earlier that day. As the shimmering golden material fell over Spessamora’s feminine form, Sarosa was sure she heard the distant sound of a woman’s scream.
As the clock struck seven and the party guests began to filter into the Great Hall and Throne Room of Castle Anvil, Spessamora Umbranox took a deep breath, straightened out the front of her dress and checked that the dress’ elegant train was properly unfurled. Opening the door at the top of the Grand Staircase, she stepped onto the balcony and surveyed the scene. Dignataries from all over the Empire were arrayed around the room. Counts and Countesses from numberless cities milled around amongst members of the Elder Council. Spessamora could even see Archmage Veneficus and Brother Vesica, Grandmaster of the Emperor’s Blades. Rumour had it that even the Emperor Tiber Septim had accepted his invitation and was making his way from the Imperial City at that very moment.
At that moment, a female Bosmer spotted Spessamora, and her moment of reflection was shattered. As every guest turned to face her, Spessamora began to walk gracefully down the right side staircase, the combination of her golden yellow hair and the golden silk of her dress giving her the appearance of a pale-faced angel. As soon as Spessamora’s golden slipper touched the floor, the polite chatter resumed, and the young noble slipped off to the side where she had spotted her friend, Alessia Goldwine, the young Countess of Kvatch. Despite being two years younger than Spessamora, Alessia had been married to the forty year old Count Fortis Goldwine for three years and she was, at this moment in time, “in a delicate condition”. Taking Alessia by the arm, Spessamora led her into the Entrance hall and out onto the small island that constituted the Castle Anvil grounds.
Smiling broadly at each other, the two young women embraced and launched into a tirade of small talk and polite banter, glad to be away from the strict formality of the other nobles. Walking slowly around the perimeter, arm-in-arm, the two girls discussed everything from the weather to the current state of the Empire’s influence in the province of Morrowind, all the while carefully avoiding the subject of Alessia’s pregnancy. When they reached the Westernmost pinnacle of the island, they both stopped and sat down on a large rock, taking care not to ruin their elegant silk ballgowns. Embracing each other tightly, they managed to stave off the majority of the cold until they heard the sound of the gong, announcing five minutes to dinner. As they turned to head back inside, Alessia paused and stared out to the horizon.
“Did you see…” started Alessia
“Did I see what?”
“Never mind,” beamed Alessia as she took hold of Spessamora’s arm and led her back into the warmth of the castle.
As the elegantly uniformed stewards served the last magnificently presented course to the dinner guests, a small group of minstrels played a collection of Spessamora’s favourite pieces of music whilst a conjurer performed dazzling tricks on a small stage. Sitting between her mother and opposite a young noble from Skingrad who had been introduced as Sir Janus Traditio. Throughout the dinner, Spessamora had caught Sir Janus glancing at her no less than seven times. Every time she had tried to catch his deep grey eyes, he had looked down at his food, pretending not to notice.
Once the last course had been finished and several of the guests had made speeches (including the Emperor, who had indeed attended) people began to filter out of the dining hall, the ladies to retire to the Countess’ private apartments, the gentleman to take cigars and brandy in the castle library. Soon, only Spessamora and Sir Janus were left alone in the room. They were deep in a political debate about the nature of the Empire. Sir Janus was strongly of the view that the Empire should be employing more militant force to bring the less conforming provinces under complete Imperial rule, whereas Spessamora held fast to the belief that only by relaxing Imperial control and allowing the different races around Tamriel to practice their own customs could the Empire retain power.
“But that’s simply not the case, M’lady. If we allowed the Altmer to increase the political power of their mages, we would have to allow other races to increase their power, and before we knew it, we’d have a full-blown civil war on our hands.”
“Well that may be. But can we risk suppressing the other provinces and allowing their resentment to stew? Surely if we do…”
Spessamora’s voice trailed off as the immense sounds of several explosions were heard. Suddenly, a large section of the dining hall ceiling caved in and Sir Janus had to dive to push Spessamora off of her seat. They ended up on the floor, Sir Janus on top of Spessamora, inches from where a large chunk of masonry had just crushed a Spessamora’s chair.
Blushing, Sir Janus stood up quickly, drew his sword and grabbed Spessamora by the hand.
“Come, M’lady! I shall escort you to a safe place!”
Spessamora hitched up her skirts and the pair dashed out of the dining hall and into the Throne Room. In the entrance hall a number of guests stood bemused, not knowing what was happening. With an almighty crash, another section of the roof caved in, crushing several of the guests. Sir Janus just had time to pull Spessamora up the Grand Staircase and into the private residence of the castle before half of the Great Hall’s ceiling gave way.
Standing at the entrance to the Royal Apartments, Spessamora could hear the distant sounds of fighting coming from all over the castle. Suddenly, the Royal Apartment’s door opened and Count Lumen Umbranox burst through the door, wielding an elegant elven blade. Recognising his daughter, he embraced her.
“Come, Daughter! We must head to the dungeons!”
Spessamora looked at Sir Janus for reassurance. The young nobleman nodded and Spessamora grabbed her mother by the hand. Countess Marisa Umbranox led her daughter down the hallway towards the smithy and went through the small door. Inside the smithy the three nobles found the Count and Countess’ body guards as well as Spessamora’s servant girl, Sarosa.
“M’lord, M’ladies,” began the Count’s bodyguard, “the route to the dungeon has been blocked, and the majority of your household have been captured by our attackers.”
“What do we know of our attackers?” asked the Count.
The Count’s bodyguard swallowed, “Well… nothing.”
“Nothing?!” asked the Count, “How can you know nothing?!”
“Well we haven’t exactly…”
Suddenly a large hole rent it’s way through the smithy wall, accompanied by an almighty crash. Standing in the hole were seven black armoured figures, flames still dancing around their finger tips.
“Now look here!” started the Count, just before the central figure snapped his fingers and a large hole burnt its way through his torso. The Countess screamed as her husband collapsed to the floor and lay there gasping. Slowly, the seven figures began walking towards the small party. The Count’s bodyguard drew his bow and shot an arrow at the lead figure. The arrow glanced off the figure, who snapped his fingers, and the bodyguard too collapsed to the floor, a large hole burning in his chest.
The lead figure slowly extended a hand as he drew near to Spessamora, reaching for her. By the grace of the Nine, it was that moment that the smithy ceiling decided was its last and the half of it that was no longer supported by wall collapsed, crushing the seven armoured figures.
Taking charge, the Countess’ bodyguard took the weeping Countess by the arm and instructed Sarosa to do the same with Spessamora.
“I can walk by myself, thank you.” Objected the tearful girl, yanking her arm away from the servant.
The Countess’ bodyguard looked sceptical, but, nevertheless, he nodded to Sarosa who retreated.
“Right, our best bet will be to…”
The bodyguard’s plan was cut off by a sudden outburst of weeping from Spessamora. The bodyguard nodded to Sarosa who took hold of Spessamora’s arm. Spessamora tried to pull away, but her pathetic state meant that all she, like her mother, could do was to be led by the bodyguard and the servant girl out of the smithy and back down to the royal apartments. Entering the room, the party took an immediate left and walked down a small corridor. At the end of the corridor was a small door which led the party onto the castle’s terrace. Surveying the scene, the bodyguard saw, to his dismay, that it wasn’t only the castle that had come under attack. A fleet of black ships was floating in the harbour, on their decks black robed mages were working together to hurl almighty fireballs into the town. All over, Anvil was burning.
“Damn!” cursed the bodyguard. He couldn’t see a visible way out of the castle, climbing down the walls of the terrace would only lead to them being spotted by someone aboard one of the attacking ships, and anyway, as soon as they reached the town, they would only be caught by one of the many black-armoured troops pouring through the streets. Unless…
“Wait here!” snapped the bodyguard as he ran back into the castle.
Minutes later, he reemerged carrying with him four suits of black armour. He had been expecting to have to carry one out at a time, but, upon picking one up, he had discovered that they were incredibly light. Handing one to each member of the party, he told them his plan…
As the last few members of the Anvil population were rounded up and herded onto a large black ship, four armour-clad figures emerged from the front door of Castle Anvil. In the courtyard they discovered to their dismay that a large group of their attackers were gathered, listening to a speech. As they approached the group, the last words of the speech were said and a great cry went up. Turning to the four newcomers, one of the armour-clad soldiers hissed in a strange and incomprehensible language. The bodyguard tensed, expecting their obvious lack of understanding to show them up as impostors. Just as the bodyguard prepared to draw his sword, to defend the Countess and the two girls to his death, another black-clad figure spoke, this one in a perfect Cyrodiilic accent.
“Please excuse my friend, he often forgets that many of us cannot comprehend a word of his… unique language.” The figure lifted the visor on his helmet, “My name is Lord Proditio, and this is Xiviga. May I enquire as to what your names are?”
“Certainly, M’lord. I am Regulus Delitesco and these are Lyra Fefelli, Narina Lateo and Milona Mentior.” He said, gesturing at Spessamora, Sarosa and the Countess respectively.
“Nice to meet you Regulus.” Lord Proditio looked thoughtful for a second, “What do you say to joining us on the ship? We have room enough in our berth.”
The bodyguard tried to think of a reason to decline.
“Well, we were hoping to…”
Anger flashed momentarily in Lord Proditio’s eyes.
“I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.” he said, the epitome of calm and collected, “Please, join us.”
Glancing briefly at the Countess, the bodyguard pretended to consider for a moment. Realistically he knew that they had to travel with the Lord, or risk blowing their cover.
“We would be honoured to join you, M’lord.”
The Lord smiled and, pushing his visor down, said,
“And don’t you worry, I’m sure they’ll find the Umbranox girl soon enough.”
As the black fleet sailed silently away from the burning remains of Anvil, Spessamora stood at the back of the poop deck and watched her home disappearing over the horizon. She tasted tears on her lips and knew that it was going to be a long time until she saw her home again. That was, if she ever did.
