Having been a bit stuck for inspiration for Grey Knight, I thought that I might take a bit of a break from Alicarius' action packed adventures and instead turn my attentions to another favourite Elder Scrolls topic of mine, assassins. Admittedly not the badasses from the Dark Brotherhood, for reasons that will become apparent in the story, but instead the, ahem, more family friendly Morag Tong.

That said, that doesn't mean things won't get painful...

Gladius

Prologue

The cell was bare. Four walls of stone, cold, grey and unforgiving. A chair, a wooden table, and the chains.

And the child.

His hands were chained together, as were his feet, both were attached to the walls. Instead of the iron bars that ran across a cell, the only point of exit was a heavy iron door, barred and bolted from the outside. The only source of ventilation were three holes, each an inch across, bored through solid stone. Nothing could get in or out.

“Is this him?”

Even from within the cell, the child could hear the question through the thick door. His head snapped up, his previously vacant blue eyes suddenly burning with a ferocious curiosity.

“It's him, sir,” another voice answered, a voice the child recognised as one of the guard's. “Are you sure you wish to do this? He may be chained up, but he's not safe.”

“I am sure. I'm here now, am I not?”

The new voice carried the gentle power of one used to being obeyed.

“Very well sir,” the other voice said. “But I'll have to lock the door behind you. We can't risk him escaping. I heard they're still cleaning up the mess he made at the Fort Buckmoth.”

“Are they? Then he'll be perfect.”

With a heavy clank the bar was removed, before the two locks were opened. The bolts slid back, and the door swung open.

The child didn't move when the visitor entered, door slamming shut behind him, just sat where he was and watched. The visitor nodded a greeting, before sitting down, crossing his legs to be at head level with the child.

“Good day young man,” the visitor said, an Imperial in rich red robes, whilst smiling warmly.

No reply. Just a silence as stony as the walls of the cell.

“I understand you weren't told I was com-”

“Who are you?”

The voice was hoarse and rough, the voice of one much older than the child should be. Hirall had no children of his own, and little experience with them, but he guessed this boy was only ten or eleven years of age, perhaps less.

“Me?” the visitor said, still keeping the warm smile. “Right now, I'm somebody who could let you out of here for good.”

“Who are you? What is your name?”

“I you insist on knowing, my name is Hirall,” the visitor said. “I am from the Morag Tong. Perhaps you know of us?”

The child nodded.

“The noble assassins,” he said, before adding, in a voice that did not quite seem to be his own; “An oxymoron if I ever heard one.”

Hirall gave a short laugh and nodded.

“Aye, we are paradoxical in that sense,” he said.

“What do you want of me, Morag Tong?” the child asked. There was a strange echo to his voice, as if he was trying to repeat his words, to mask something else that was speaking.

“I'm coming on behalf of Eno Hlaalu,” Hirall said. “He wants you in our organisation.”

“The Tong would not want something like me.” This was the child's voice, the echo now gone. “It wouldn't let me live within your rules. It wants to be free.”

“There is only one other organisation like ours that would let you join them, and frankly, if you were with them then there's no knowing what would happen,” Hirall said. “We can't allow that.”

“I tell you, Hirrall of the Morag Tong, I do not want want to join you,” the child spat. Once again, the echo was there, some unnatural brightness burning at the edge of his eyes. “Tell the guards to let us go. Let us be free.”

Hirall shook his head.

“I can't allow that,” he said. “We both know that. This is your only chance to walk free.”

There was silence as the child contemplated the offer.

“Very well,” the echo said. “We will go with you.”

#

The child was loaded into a heavy wagon, its wooden frame reinforced with thick iron. There were no windows, and the two men guarding it were both high ordinators, their weapons ready to be drawn at a moment's notice. The child was escorted out of the prison, still heavily chained, by ten guards and Hirall, loaded into the wagon and chained to the wall.

Hirall clambered into the driving, cracked the whip and spurred the guars pulling it into life, their claws clacking on the roughly paved road as they dragged it back down the mountain road.

It was several hours before the guar wagon reached the city of Vivec, and by the time they did night had fallen, the city silent except for ordinators walking their lonely beat on the great cantons. The grox wagon rumbled over the single bridge that gave access to the city, a rare sight-usually carts and wagons were forced to wait outside the city, and a small village had grown up around the bridge. It was carefully steered into the arena district, and the child was unloaded.

Flanked by the two high ordinators, Hirall blindfolded the child and led him into the darkness, down to the underworks, into one of the many corridors that laced the Canton. One could spend hours exploring the depths of the sewers, and barely cover enough ground to get from one canton to the next.

Hirall pulled open a trapdoor in the deep darkness of the Arena Canton's deepest corridors, lit only by a torch held by one of the ordinators, and led the child down the steps. The ordinators closed the trapdoor and left, still listening out for any signs of danger, the trapdoor exploding, Hirall's screams. They had heard things about him. Almost everybody had.

Nobody knew exactly what the child was. But he was to be feared, that much was clear.

Still blindfolded and chained, the child was lead down a set of stairs, feeling his way with surprising sureness for one who had never been to this place before, let alone one unable to see.

“Greetings, young one.”

This was a new voice, warm and welcoming like Hirall’s, and almost instinctively the child recoiled. Voices like those were always a disguise for a lie. Or a trap.

“Who are you?” the child snapped, his voice echoing. Even chained, his movements restricted by the coiled and looped iron, he forced his body into a fighting stance. “What do you want with me?”

“My name is Eno Hlaalu,” the voice said. “And I am sure Hirall explained what we want with you. But let me ask you a question. What is your name?”

“I am called Gladius,” the child said, the echo still in his voice.

“I know that,” Eno said calmly. “But let me ask, who are you.”

“I said I am called Gladius,” the child repeated.

“I am not asking your poor host,” Eno said. “I am asking you.”

The child snarled for a moment, before conceding.

“They call me Refero,” the echo answered.

“And I suppose, Refero, that you will not work with me willingly,” Eno said.

“We want to be free,” Refero said. “Everybody makes us a prisoner. Let us go.”

“That’s not possible,” Eno replied. “I had a hard enough time convincing Imperial authorities that this was the best place for you. I can’t let you free any time soon.”

“Yet you expect me to kill?”

This was Gladius.

“I cannot kill efficiently if I am chained,” Gladius continued. “And you cannot keep me chained forever.”

“I do not intend to,” Eno replied. There was the sound of something being picked up, and a moment later the child felt something being fastened around his neck. A collar.

Gladius gave a shriek of wordless rage and reached up, only to find his movements stuck into place by the chains he was wearing, his fingers clawing viciously at the empty air. Realising this course of action was futile, Gladius threw himself forward, intent on bludgeoning and clawing this man to death with his fingers.

As he took his first step forwards, he felt something in him give, and he fell limp and weak to the floor.

“That,” Eno said, his voice suddenly harder and colder than before. “Was a paralysis spell. When you are here, you will obey me and follow my orders. If you attempt to remove the collar then the spell with kick in and you will fall limp and helpless. If you attempt to attack me or my fellows then I will order the spell into action. And if you kill me, as you are no doubt already planning, the collar shall kill you. Do you understand?”

Still unable to move, Gladius muttered; “I understand.”

“Good. Hirall, take our young Brother to his room,” Eno said. “And remove his chains and blindfold once you’re there.”

Still limp and helpless, Gladius did not even try to struggle as he was picked up. He was carried a few more paces, before feeling himself being folded slightly as he was squeezed through a doorway. He was placed on the floor again, and then the blindfold was off, and he blinked in the sudden, dim light of a candle.

It was another cell, the heavy walls no less oppressive for being the more cheerful yellow of sandstone. With a clank, the chains were removed, and Hirall picked them up, and left the cell, swinging the door closed behind him and leaving Gladius to lie alone on the cell floor.

You have me intregued. Gladius is a deeply odd character even accepting his apparent possession. The prologue is well set up, it introduces the character and leaves me wandering about the details and wanting to read the next part.

The dialogue might benefit from a read through, there were a couple of lines which seemed a little off, not actually wrong but just slightly odd. One example which caught my eye is:

"There is only one other organisation like ours that would let you join them and frankly if you were with them then there's no knowing what would happen"

Now all correct but try saying that as its written. Hirall doesn't come across as longwinded elsewhere and I need a deep breath to say that... In short its ok but perhaps a little rephrashing would strengthen it, for example it seems natural, on saying it, to pause before the 'and'. But perhaps not, I didn't see it on the first read through so maybe it's not a problem.

Just something to think about. Good work

Thanks for both commenting and pointing those errors out, Olen.

I see what you mean about that sentence being odd, and I'll go through and apply the merciless power of the Pen of Correction.

Thanks again!

Chapter 1

It was midnight as the cart rumbled up the street, its iron sides glinting quietly in the moonlight. The two guars pulling it grunted occasionally as they pulled it, before the driver tugged their reins and the cart halted.

The driver and his companion clambered down the sides of the wagon, one of them taking heavy bundle from the empty seat in the middle. They walked round to the back of the wagon, slid back the heavy bolt.

There was a clank of chains within the darkness of the wagon and a figure threw itself forward, impotently straining against the chains within the wagon. One of the wagon drivers murmured a word and the figure fell limp and loose, slumping down in the chains like some macabre puppet.

Without a word, the two drivers unlocked the man, and gave him his equipment. A heavy metal gauntlet, four blades affixed to each knuckle, and a mask, jet black and featureless, only with holes for eyes, nose and mouth.

The manacles around the man's wrist were unlocked and the two wagon drivers carried to the street, where he slumped limply on his knees. The two drivers stepped a few paces back, and one of them murmured the counterspell. The man tensed suddenly, before, in a single, fluid movement, he sprang to his feet, the gauntlet held ready.

“In there, Gladius,” one of the drivers said, nodding toward the moonlit house.

Gladius nodded, and bounded forwards, leaping off a bareel that was propped against the wall and grabbed the edge of the roof, legs tucked under him against the sandstone wall. He pulled himself upwards onto the flat roof, skirted along and found a trapdoor. Gladius pulled it open and slipped down.

The two drivers waited. Occasionally, there was a muffled scream from a window, quickly cut off. After a moment, a desperate looking woman, most likely a maid burst through the front door, slamming it behind her and fleeing away down the street, sobbing in terror.

The door exploded in a shower of splinters as Gladius kicked through it. A sleek, monstrous shadow, framed in the light of the house, standing in the doorway, searching for his prey. Smoke poured out from behind him, a result of the lanterns he had knocked over and smashed.

He saw her, and with preternatural speed ran and caught up with her. With a single sweep from his gauntlet he sent her falling upon the street, limp and useless.

Gladius turned towards the two wagon drivers, his gauntlet raised. A quiet, vicious snarl escaped from his lips, and Gladius sprang forward, charging straight at the keepers. As he leapt into the air to strike down, they calmly stepped aside and one of them murmured something. The collar flashed for a moment, and Gladius fell limp upon the ground.

As Refero snarled and cursed them, the two drivers loaded Gladius' limp form into the wagon, placed the manacles onto his wrists, climbed into the seats and left Balmora, the smoke from the house curling slowly over the orb of the moon.

#

As always, he was led by blindfold. As always the streets were dark and deserted, nobody seeing Gladius as he was led down into the sewers. As always, the assassin was led into the cell, the spell was activated and his chains were removed.

Today, somebody had left a tray of food on the floor, a bowl of thick stew on the tray. Gladius folded his legs to sit, picked up the bowl and the wooden spoon provided and ate quickly and quietly. When he finished his meal, he unfurled his legs, placed the spoon in the bowl and put it by the door. He stood up straight, walked stiffly to the bed, lay down on it and forced himself sleep on its thin straw mattress.

As always, the dreams were the same. The fire, the words, the strange, tatooed hands grabbing him and pinning him down. And the strange, ghostly presence that called itself Refero forcing itself down his throat.
And the running. The run through endless plains of rolling ash dunes and rocks. Always, always running and fleeing. Fleeing from nothing and everything.

And finally, his toes jarring on a rock, and the fall into the soft earth.

And then he heard the voice say; “Hello, little one.”

Gladius snapped into conciousness as he heard the flap in his cell door open, and he saw a hand reach in and pick up the bowl containing his meal. It slammed shut again before he could even contemplate trying to leap through.

He sat up on the bed. The lamp that illuminated his cell had burned low, and he judged several hours had passed since he had begun to sleep. That would be enough.

He slipped off the bed, and stood, rolling his neck to work a few stiff muscles loose. Refero was slumbering, curled up in a corner of his mind. Gladius cleared his thoughts, hoping not to disturb the creature.

Instead, he pulled through a series of stretches and pulls to warm his muscles, then went through the exercises the best he could in his cell. He used the bed as a springboard, leaping of that and bouncing away from the walls, landing with catlike agility.

Refero stirred, and then exploded into life, swooping onto his thoughts, latching onto them and clinging like oil.

“Hello, little one,” he said. “Is today the day?”

Gladius shook his head. He was used to this conversation.

“Not today,” he replied.

“It's never today,” Refero snarled. “Grow a spine, boy.”

In truth, Gladius didn't want to leave this place. He was comfortable here, not happy, but content. Originally, he had fought and resisted all of the Morag Tong's teachings. Whenever he had been sent on a mission everything he encountered was killed. He was an assassin, but he was by no means an instrument of subtlety.

Eno had, at the start, attempted to teach Gladius of the ways of the Morag Tong. But the child ignored the grand master's teachings, opting for slaughter out of sheer spite. And so his true purpose was discovered.

Gladius became a weapon of terror in the Morag Tong's war against the Dark Brotherhood. Homes of Dark Brotherhood agents were attacked, their inhabitants slaughtered and their houses burned. He became his namesake, a sharp instrument striking out and decapitating the enemy with brutal precision.

Right now, however, Gladius was kept in his cell, his razor edge kept in the sheath. Often he would stay here for weeks, constantly carrying out exercises and occasionally being let outside to be trained.

Right now, he would wait. He did not know or care how long it took.
Sooner or later, he would kill.