The long struggle against the goblins had left me physically and emotionally spent. So great was my weariness that I would not even think of the purpose that had originally brought me to Mournhold. The Dark Brotherhood were agents of death, mercenaries who killed without honor or remorse, concerned only that they receive their blood money. And, just at the moment, that description hit too close to home for my comfort. Like the goblins, the assassins likely made their lair in the ruins of Old Mournhold, and I could not bear the thought of returning to those spirit-thronged tunnels. Although I was a thief, by definition a creature of darkness, the dark of a moonless night was far different from the unrelieved blackness beneath the city. At least when I crouched upon a rooftop, the air was wholesome- filled with the scents of cooking fires and stable yards- the odors of life in all its glory and simplicity. Under the city, every breath was labored, the air tainted with a miasma of deaths old and new, and thick with the plotting of deaths still to come. What I needed desperately was the light of day and the rumble of humanity going about the business of living. I wanted to wander through the Great Bazaar, acting as if I had nothing in mind beyond seeking a bargain on some exotic piece of art or craft from a far place, a place that had never heard of goblins or assassins.
Before making my way to the marketplace, I washed away the worst stains of my labors at the fountain in the Brindisi Dorom. As I did so, I was not certain that the High Ordinators would not object to my ablutions. In truth, I rather hoped they would make an issue of it- I held no very great love for Almalexia’s version of the Temple at that moment. Other than a few penetrating glances, my impromptu bath drew no reaction though, and I was soon refreshed and on my way. Although the idea of a real bath with hot water and soap tempted me to take a room at the Winged Guar, I was not ready to confine myself indoors just yet. Satisfied that my appearance would no longer cause some concerned citizen to call the guards or the healers, I proceeded to the Great Bazaar, where I frankly acted like a country lout loose in the big city for the first time. There was talk of a play to be performed, and I waited for a few minutes in hopes of seeing such a novelty, but there seemed to be some delay, so I moved on. As I climbed the steps, staring at the shops and plants and people, I became so distracted that I failed to notice a young Dunmer woman until I placed my foot directly in the midst her lunch, which she had set out upon one of the steps. She accepted my profuse apologies with more weariness than grace, and began to gather up the remains of her ruined meal. When I offered to at least pay her the price of a decent dinner at the inn, she merely sighed and said,
“That would be nice, but I really have no time to talk. There’s much work to do… No time for silly fancies like dancing or dinner. Oh, but what I wouldn’t give to meet someone new.”
The way she said it made clear that she was really just thinking out loud rather than trying to interest the bumbling Breton who had just clumsily trodden on her lunch. Still, it seemed that I should at least offer her a sympathetic ear if that was what she needed. She was still fairly young, older than I- perhaps in her 30s- although it is always hard to judge such things among the Elven races. Her eyes were interesting- sad, thoughtful, with a spark of intelligence lurking in their depths. Recalling my own recent travails with employment, I agreed that work could be wearing. She nodded and said,
“Yes, that's right. Believe it or not, I had no intention of working here when I came to Mournhold. It's quite a sob story; are you sure you want to hear it?”
When I signaled my assent, she continued,
“Well, it's mostly my fault, really. My name is Marena Gilnith, and I grew up in a small village in the south of Morrowind. They cared for me a great deal, and only wanted the best for me. But when they arranged my marriage to a wealthy nobleman, I couldn't take it. He was disgusting, and I wanted nothing to do with him. So I ran away, and ended up here in Mournhold. I was convinced that I'd be able to find the man of my dreams. Only, it hasn't worked out that way.”
She gave a self-deprecating shrug and continued,
“I was foolish about it, to be sure. I never considered that I'd need money to survive on my own. I was determined, though, not to go crawling back to the village and beg forgiveness from my parents and that loathsome man. I'd make it on my own, and only then would I contact my parents and let them know where I was. So I started working... and now it's all I do. I never have time to meet anyone. Let me know if you meet any nice, single men.”
It was the sort of request you hear fairly often- usually spoken in jest. But somehow I knew that she spoke from sincere hope, and a part of me responded with equal sincerity. It was as if our lives had followed similar paths, paths that could lead to loneliness and bitterness- if no kind stranger intervened. And so I said,
“Give me a little time, and I will try. Whatever chances, I will meet you here at this same hour in two days’ time.”
Perhaps it would have been wiser to refuse her request or to pretend that it was simply a joke, but it was hard to ignore the unspoken appeal in her eyes. Maybe I felt the need to do something that celebrated life instead of death. Or maybe I responded to the fact that she had confided in me, a stranger. In any event, though I had no idea of how to accomplish the task, I agreed. In truth, I wasn’t certain that I knew what a “good man” was; I definitely knew nothing about finding one. But as I considered more deeply, I realized that much of what I knew about choosing horses could apply to men. You wanted a good temperament, determination that did not shade into stubbornness, intelligence, loyalty… maybe I could manage this after all. Of course, that assumed that I could find any men who sought marriage- I did not really think Marena was interested in the other sort. That made things a bit more difficult- somehow, I doubted that even fabled Mournhold had a shop or market for marriageable men.
Determined to make an honest effort searching for a suitable man for Marena Gilnith, I wandered through the Bazaar, looking at the people with a calculating eye. Some men were with their wives; others had the sheepish, slightly harried look that is the sure mark of a married man. Still others were too young, too old, too unattractive, or simply too busy. One fellow who hailed me seemed like he might be a possibility, though his manner gave me pause. As I climbed the Bazaar steps, a flashily-dressed Dunmer reached out to clasp hands with me and exclaimed,
“Well met friend! You’re not a familiar face…new to Mournhold are you? I don’t suppose you arrived with any female friends? I get on quite well with the ladies, you know. The name’s Fons Beren.”
Although I wasn’t sure of the wisdom in doing so, I gave him my name and allowed that I had, in fact, traveled to Mournhold alone.
Beren gave a toothy grin and said,
“That’s too bad! I hate to travel alone, myself. Ah, women. Can't get enough of them. But then, who can? Ha ha! Erm... you wouldn't happen to know any eligible ladies, would you Trey? I'm looking for a saucy wench that can satisfy me. A tall order, to be sure, but you never know. So, familiar with any?”
I thought about Marena. And then I looked at Fons Beren. The first word that came to mind was “slick.” Everything about him was oily. He even appeared to have guar-grease in his hair. This was definitely NOT the sort of man she wanted- or needed. She would not thank me for an introduction to a fellow that was all flash and no stay. Therefore, I pulled a long face and said,
“No, I really haven’t had a chance to meet any women in town.”
He gave me a look that was more insult than commiseration and said,
“Well, in your case I can see how it might be a problem. Good hunting, though, old sport.”
As the Bazaar didn’t seem to be the place to find a reliable fellow, I decided that the Temple courtyard might prove more fruitful.
The Temple district suffered from the same lack of eligible men as the Bazaar, but I finally saw a rather youngish Dunmer who appeared mesmerized by his surroundings, but was willing to talk. When I approached him he said,
“Hi there. Wow! Can you believe this place! It’s just…amazing! Everything’s so beautiful! The buildings, the shops, the women…I’m stunned. Oh, my name’s Goval Ralen. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
He grasped my hand in one of his, and I felt calluses that spoke of hard work. He continued to speak enthusiastically,
“I mean, I've seen pretty women before, but I just can't get over it. I came from a small town to ‘seek my fortune,’ as my father would say, but it's hard to get anything done here. It's all just so overwhelming. And, I guess, a little intimidating, too. I mean, what would any of these women want with me? It's hard to hope that I might meet the woman of my dreams...”
Now here was a possibility. Goval certainly seemed to fit the definition of “nice man” that I carried around in my head. He was a worker, seemed sincere and honest, and even admitted that he was seeking a permanent arrangement. Still, I wanted to look around a bit more before making a final decision. So far, I had found only two prospects, and only one of those had any real potential. Also, I wanted to check out some of the shops back in the Great Bazaar. After that, I could find Marena and let her know how I had fared.
The magic and weapon shops did not strike me as being likely to have anything of interest- at least that I could afford- so I made my way to the general trader’s. The advantage of a general trader is that he sees a bit of everything, and rarely turns anything down. Sometimes, extremely rare items can turn up in dusty little shops. The trader in this case was a solid, rather sour Dunmer, with eyes that looked on the world with cynicism tinged by ancient grief. His greeting confirmed my suspicion that he did not view anything with very great pleasure or favor.
“I suppose you’ve come to trade, and that’s fine with me. Azura knows there’s little else in the world worth doing. None of the rest of it matters…adventuring, fame, women. It’s all pointless. So say I, Sunel Hlas.”
Something about his use of the name of the goddess of dawn and dusk caught my interest- enough that I said,
“Surely the love and companionship of a good woman is of some value?”
He barked a sharp laugh and responded,
“Hrmph. Women. Not worth the effort, if you ask me. Not anymore, at least. There's no happiness to be found. No lasting happiness, anyway. It's all a sham. Oh, I didn't always think so. I had a wife once, and was madly in love with her. But then my foolishness took her away, and now here I am. Bitter, alone, and tired of life. I'll have little else to do with women, that's for sure.”
What moved me in that moment I cannot say- perhaps it was the perversity of my nature, my inability to let a challenge pass unanswered, or perhaps Azura herself responded to the invocation of her name. However it came to pass, I found myself praising the virtues of Marena Gilnith and urging the gruff merchant to take a chance. At last, as much to shut me up as anything else, he threw up his hands in surrender and growled,
“Who? Marena Gilnith? I don't know her. Don't particularly care to either. But fine. If it will get you to leave me alone, then I'll meet her. It'll be a waste of time, though.”
Without quite knowing how, I found myself outside the shop, head awhirl with what I had just done. I could still get out of it- I could tell Marena that I hadn’t met anyone appropriate or I could offer her an introduction to Goval Ralen, instead. But… in my mind, I saw two pairs of eyes- Marena’s, shadowed with work and care, but still willing to hope. Sunel Hlas’- filled with the pain of loss, and the fear of still more pain to come. Goval seemed like a nice enough fellow, but he was even greener than I had been when I traveled to Cyrodiil. I had my doubts as to how long he would be able to last in the city. My heart told me that Marena needed an older man, a steady fellow who was already established. As clearly as I had ever known anything, I knew that the two of them should meet. Impatiently, I loitered about the Bazaar, waiting for the appointed time to arrive. At last, the hour struck and, with a confident stride, I made my way to my rendezvous with Marena. When I saw her on the steps, her expression betrayed uncertainty over our agreement. She put on a brave face, but said,
“Well, Trey, here I am. I apologize for foolishly causing you to waste your time in such a silly pursuit. Although I thank you, I am sure you met with no success.”
When she paused for breath, I bowed low and said,
“On the contrary, I believe that I have met a gentleman who will meet your expectations- an established merchant by the name of Sunel Hlas.”
Her look of resignation was replaced by one of intrigue as she considered my words.
“Sunel Hlas, you say? Hmm... I think I've heard the name before, but can't remember where. Whew. Okay, I'm really trusting your judgment, Trey. Tell him to meet me at the Winged Guar two days from now. I hope he's nice...”
I promised to pass on the news of the appointment and to ensure that Sunel would keep it, then took my leave to report back.
My certainty suffered a blow when the trader frowned at me and grumbled,
“Now what? Is this about that Marena Gilnith woman again? Can't you just leave well enough alone, Trey? Why must you continue to pester me about this? I don't know why I'm even discussing this. There's no way this is going to work out. It'll just end in heartbreak.”
Still driven by that uncanny force, I argued,
“But how do you know? Even if nothing comes of the meeting, you will have enjoyed a decent meal with pleasant company. Where is the harm?”
At last, Sunel relented and muttered, “Very well, I'll meet her.”
Talk of the Winged Guar reminded me that I had planned to take a room there, followed by a long soak in a hot tub of soapy water. Suiting deed to thought, I made my way to the inn and secured the best room available. Pausing only long enough to wave to Ra’Tesh at the bar, I was soon locked in my room and enjoying a glorious bath. Afterward, I collapsed upon the bed and did not move for a day and a half.
I may not have slept the sleep of the just, but I certainly did sleep as one mortally tired and awoke refreshed and ready to face a new day. After bathing my face and hands, I stepped out into the bar area, where Ra’Tesh immediately called me over. The Khajiiti bartender quietly passed over a bulging pouch of gold and a sealed note, saying only that a “priesty soldier” had left them for me. A glance at the wax seal, which bore the symbol of the Tribunal Temple, clarified what he meant. Not wishing to draw too much attention, I retreated to my room and unsealed the note. Written in a spidery script, it bore the signature of Fedris Hler, and I could almost hear the Temple steward’s dusty voice speaking the words as I read them:
“You've gotten rid of the goblin warchiefs and that is excellent. I'm certain the army itself will scatter over the next few weeks. Our Lady will be pleased. A shame you weren't able to find the Altmer training them, but what can one expect from such as you.... Still, the Lady would wish for you to be rewarded. Take this paltry sum of 5000 gold and our thanks. If you wish to be of further service, the Archcanon would be pleased to speak with you.”
The gold and Hler’s words brought the horror of the goblin hunt crashing back upon me and I was sorely tempted to simply put the blood money aside. But common sense prevailed and I realized that I could perhaps use some of the money to make amends with Bols Indalen for costing him an apprentice. In that way something good could come from gold earned in a dubious fashion.
When I arrived at the armorer’s shop, it was to find the master smith in full cry, berating his former apprentice.
“Damn that Ilnori Faustus! Damn him! He left me a few days ago without so much as a wave goodbye. Just walked out the door. Well, good riddance, I suppose, but I still need an apprentice. If you find any able-bodied young person looking for work, let them know I need a new apprentice.”
When I admitted that Ilnori’s absence was perhaps my fault, and that I was willing to pay damages, Master Indalen waved it all aside.
“No, good sera, it is not your doing. That strutting cockerel was bound to do something foolish sooner rather than later- he just used you as an excuse. Still, if you know of anyone who appreciates craft and is looking for a job, send him my way.”
Although the smith had refused payment, I felt better for having taken responsibility for my actions and left with a lighter step. If I could not give the gold away, I would at least spend a bit of it on a drink and a decent meal back at the Winged Guar. As for Fedris Hler’s suggestion that I might be of assistance to the Archcanon- well, I would just have to think about that. So far, I had not been pleased with the Temple’s methods.
When I returned to the Winged Guar, I was greeted by a morose Redguard who said,
“Hi there, Breton. Care to drink away your troubles with me?”
Since that was precisely my intention, I agreed and paid for the first round. Still, my melancholy was not so great that I wished to broadcast the cause to all and sundry, so I asked him the source of his sadness.
He responded with a grimace and said,
“Well, my life isn't exactly gold-kanet-sunshine-happy at the moment. More like bungler's-bane-bummer. I got laid off from my job at the pillow factory last week. The market for pillows has really bottomed out in the last few years. Turns out that the average family home doesn't need 25 pillows per person like we originally thought. Who knew the market would turn so sour so suddenly?”
Slowly rotating his mug of flin on the bar, he continued,
“I really loved that job. For me, it was all about the work. But it didn't take long for the money guys in the exquisite robes upstairs to burn through all our pillow venture capital. Offices in the best Telvanni towers, 1500-septim chairs upholstered in the finest scamp skin, and unlimited stores of matze. We would spend 16 hours a day or more in there, doing what we loved -- crafting pillows. It was a dream come true for me. Ever since I was young, I dreamed of creating the perfect pillow. Well, those days are over now. I need to find work.”
Sometimes, I almost believed in the gods. Or rather, in the generosity of the gods. I had certainly seen enough of their vindictiveness in my short life. With a smile, I told Therdon (for that was his name),
“My friend, I happen to know that Master Bols Indalen in the Craftsmen’s Hall is searching for an apprentice at this very moment. Tell him that Trey sent you.”
Therdon’s face cleared and he said,
“Hmm.... Well, it's not making pillows, but it is work. I just might try that out. Thanks, Trey. Next time you see me, perhaps I'll be working in the smith's shop. Have a drink on me!”
With that, he bought me a bottle of vintage brandy, straightened his tunic and headed for the stairs. As for me, I gave Ra’Tesh a generous tip and retreated to my room to seek answers at the bottom of the bottle. Any seer will tell you that pure water is a far better medium for scrying, but the truth was that I didn’t really want to know the future.
As so many have discovered before me, while there may be truth in wine, the greatest truth of excessive drink is that it makes one exceedingly ill. Worse for me, the alcohol-induced sleep was not dreamless, as I had hoped. The nightmares were vivid and horrible, and my impairment prevented me from wakening and thus finding relief. I will say no more of my adventure with brandy except that it did finally end and that I cannot stand the taste of that particular spirit even now.
Ra’Tesh, who either knew a great deal about hangovers or else had sadistic streak and a willingness to experiment, recommended immersion in cold water followed by immersion in steaming hot. Surprisingly it worked, and I emerged feeling somewhat human and as if I might be willing to think about food in a month or so. As I drank copious amounts of fresh water, Ra’Tesh mentioned that some people had asked after me while I was “indisposed.” A feeling of dread compounded with the last traces of my binge as I envisioned what would have happened if the Dark Brotherhood had found me while I was weakened and impaired. Seeing the look on my face, Ra’Tesh waved a paw and said,
“No, no! Not bad peoples! Nice lady and a gentleman merchant. They asked that you come see them when you feel better.”
That reminded me- I wondered how Therdon had made out with Bols Indalen. At last ready to face the day, I left the inn and went to the Craftsman’s Hall. The sound of hammers pounding on metal set up an echo in my head, but that was the price for my foolishness, so I persevered. The master smith caught sight of me and rushed forward, a smile lighting his normally dour features.
“Thank you so much for sending Therdon my way. He’s a tremendous help around the place, even if I can’t ever get him to shut up about the blasted pillows! He’s working right now, if you wanted to see him. I’m sure he would like to thank you himself.”
Following the master smith’s advice, I found Therdon happily pounding a sheet of steel into a shield. He ceased his labors (much to the relief of my throbbing skull) and reached out to vigorously shake my hand. Then he enthused,
“Hey there, Trey! I got the job! Thanks so much for recommending this to me. It's hard work, but I imagine that every breastplate or shield I turn out is just a thin, hard pillow made of metal, and I get through the day just fine. Here, I don't have much money, but I can offer you some tools that might come in handy. Also talk to my boss, Bols. He's pretty happy at having a new apprentice, and will give you some good deals.”
With that, he gifted me with a number of armorer’s hammers, knowing that I preferred to repair my own gear. I thanked him for the gift and made my way to the Great Bazaar and Sunel Hlas. Even though Ra’Tesh had said the merchant was seeking me, he hadn’t said what demeanor he presented. Thus, I entered the shop with some trepidation.
The change in Sunel was remarkable. Before, he had been stooped and weary, seeming to carry the weight of all the Mundus upon his shoulders. Too, his expression had been sour, as if he scented something unpleasant. Now, he stood straight, and his eyes bore a mixture of surprise and delight.
“Trey, I don't know what to say. Marena is just what I needed in my life, but without your help, I'd have been too blind to see it. Thank you so much. I... I know it's wrong to offer you something, as if in payment, but I want you to take this. It's sort of valuable, I guess, except that no one has ever wanted it, and, well, just take it and think of me. Or something. I don't know. I'm not very good at this sentimental stuff.”
As he spoke, he lifted a cloth-wrapped bundle to the counter and presented it to me. Even through the muffling covering, I could sense a strong and rather odd magical aura. Clearly, the item was a magical sword with some rare enchantment. Not wishing to appear too mercenary, I mumbled my thanks and put the weapon away without examining it.
As I turned to go, he added,
“It's high time that I get on with the rest of my life, and Marena is the perfect woman to do that with. Actually, she’s upstairs and I’m sure she would like to see you if you have a moment.”
He turned away and began polishing the counter, humming a jaunty tune to himself. Although Sunel certainly believed that things had gone well, I did want to hear from Marena, for it was on her behalf that I had first undertaken this task.
One look at the smiling figure who greeted me was all I needed to know that I had chosen well. Not satisfied with a simple hand-clasp, Marena impulsively hugged me and then stepped back, blushing and glowing at the same time.
“Oh, Trey, how can I ever thank you for helping me find Sunel? He's such a sweet man. At first, his attitude was a little off-putting. I felt badly about his wife... and a little awkward too. But as we talked, I really got to know him, and he's just so kind. He's had some bad experiences, but I know we can work through them. I just can't thank you enough, Trey!”
She embraced me again and then went off to find Sunel. As I left the shop, they were chasing each other around the counter, laughing like two children. Suddenly, I felt much better than I had in many days. Marena and Sunel proved that there was joy in life; Therdon showed that there was also satisfaction in doing a job cheerfully and well. Perhaps someday, I would be able to find that same joy and satisfaction for myself.
Some may wonder why I had not put myself forward as a contender for Marena Gilnith’s affections. My reasons were manifold- some reasonable, some less so. First, at that time, I believed that my life expectancy could be measured in days rather than years. Thus, I refused to trap any woman into a relationship that might end suddenly and violently. More, I knew the capacity of my enemies for savagery and had no desire to provide so convenient a hostage. It was not that I did not dream of romance, sometime in the future- if I had a future. When I dreamed, I thought I saw a girl from my own home of High Rock. I could not see her face, but I knew that her hair was the red of a mountainside on a late afternoon in the month of Hearthfire and her eyes the green of one of the high lakes.
Still, even as I took joy in the knowledge of a match well-made and in my secret dreams for my own future, the cold breath of fear blew upon my neck. I had only to look at my armor, taken from the body of an assassin who had sought my life, and I knew that I could not rest, could not forget. My enemies were many and merciless- they would come upon me when I was injured or asleep and snuff me like a candle. The only way to prevent that was to seek them out where they hid and destroy them. And if I could discover the name of the client, so much the better. The Dark Brotherhood did not operate from such complex motives as passion or revenge- they killed for money and someone had paid them for my death. If I survived, that individual would pay me in a different coin- blood for blood, pain for pain. I had never set out to be a killer, and the role did not sit well on my shoulders. Necessity and the machinations of the Emperor and the Temple and my unknown enemy had forced me to become a hunter, with blood on my hands. They had made me as I was and I swore by the bones in the earth that they would regret their thoughtless act of creation.
I could feel that the time was fast approaching when I must resume my search for the lair of the Dark Brotherhood, but I did want to take a moment to examine the sword Sunel Hlas had presented to me. When I reached my room at the Winged Guar, I removed the wrapping and first examined the external appearance of the sword. It was a huge weapon, one that would require two hands and exceptional strength to wield. The blade was an odd design- one side was saw-toothed and the other was smooth and straight. I next extended my magical senses toward the blade. The aura of the sword was… peculiar. As my hands gripped the hilt, a rage took hold of me, as if all my enemies stood arrayed before me. Just as it seemed certain that the anger would consume me, my emotions underwent a dizzying change. Where I had felt anger, now I felt joy and peace, almost as though my mother had come back to life and called to me. With a convulsive shudder, I forced my hands free of the sword and simply stared at the weapon, sweat standing on my brow and my breath coming in great gasps. As I calmed myself, I thought I understood the strange purpose that had been forged into the blade- it would alternately enrage and calm an enemy who did not resist its enchantment. However, it also seemed to me that its unexpected changes in “personality” might very well drive the wielder insane. With regret, I muffled the artifact in heavy cloth and thrust it under the bed. Perhaps, if I survived my current quest, I would find an appropriate home for the unique sword. But now, it was time to resume the hunt.
However, before I rushed headlong back into the darkness beneath Mournhold, it seemed that it would be wise to develop a strategy. Although the expedient of rushing in and killing them all had the virtue of simplicity, it was perhaps not the best choice. My long struggle against the goblins had taught me more than the fact that I possessed an innate capacity for violence- I had also learned that the key to destroying an army was to remove the leadership. The “soldiers” of the Dark Brotherhood were only my enemies because they had been directed by their master to attack me. Though I had no love for the Dark Brotherhood, I preferred not to have still more blood on my hands. Another point in favor of a stealthy approach was the effect it would have upon the assassins themselves. Like all such organizations, they had come to believe somewhat in their own mythology. Therefore, if someone managed to slip unseen into their midst and kill their leader, that superstition would turn back upon them. They might even feel that it was a message of disfavor from the dark god they worshipped. In any event, the loss of their head man would throw them into disarray and leave me with fewer deaths on my conscience. The immediate problem that I faced was that my training in magic had been limited to alteration instead of illusion. That was a circumstance I would have cause to regret more than once in the years to come. To overcome that lack, I must depend on potions and my ability to move quietly through the shadows. And if all of those things failed, if the Dark Brotherhood sentinels were too alert- then they must needs pay the price, for I still had my skill with a blade. And I was forced to use that skill far sooner than I had planned.
My head filled with ideas for how I would invade the Dark Brotherhood’s lair unseen, I made my way to Great Bazaar, where I hoped to purchase potions or scrolls that would aid me in a stealthy approach. So preoccupied was I, that I was sent sprawling when a robed Dunmer suddenly appeared before me with a flash and a cloud of noxious smoke. The dark elf took no immediate notice of me, but instead proceeded to strut across the cobbles, declaiming in a loud voice and making theatrical gestures. His speech was as follows:
“Greetings, fair citizens of Mournhold! I am the great, renowned, respected, and feared wizard, Ovis Velas! In the coming weeks, you shall see more and more of me, as I bring this city to its knees! But for the moment, allow me to demonstrate my power on one of your hopeless countrymen!”
He then paused and scanned the crowd with eyes that betrayed no hint of sanity… or mercy. His fiery gaze fell upon me and he gestured at me.
“You there! Yes, you, you ugly Breton. Prepare yourself to feel my wrath.”
My initial surprise had passed and I began to doubt the scene that was playing out before me. Surely this was not real- it must be the prelude to one of the plays that were staged here in the city. No doubt this brief scene was a spectacular way to get the attention of the crowd and whet their appetite for more. Thus, rather than respond to the “wizard’s” insult, I simply got back to my feet and spread my hands. My body language was clear- I was inviting him to do his worst. Then I waited expectantly for the usual announcement of when the complete play would be performed. What I received was a magical assault.
The charlatan hurled a series of spells at me that had a number of disagreeable effects. First, he invoked a Grave Curse, which drained my own innate store of magicka. Next came a spell to make me more susceptible to disease. And last, he blasted me with a Damage Health cantrip. Oddly for one who claimed to be a powerful wizard, his spells seemed to have minimal effect upon me. At the time, I believed that was simply a result of my Breton heritage, which provided me with a natural resistance to hostile spells. Still, the spells did hurt, and Ovis showed no sign of stopping after his initial attack. He continued to hurl spell after spell at me, screaming “Die, Breton scum!” the whole time.
As the eldritch energies lashed me, I revised my opinion of what was happening. This was not some preliminary to a drama, but an actual attack. With an oath, I drew my sword and charged the foaming lunatic. His concept of defense against a physical attack was even worse than his offensive spells- my blade took him under the left arm as he raised it to cast a spell. With a groan, he fell dead at my feet. As the guards converged on the scene, a bystander spoke up quickly,
“I saw the whole thing. The dead Dunmer attacked this stranger without provocation. He was only defending himself.”
To me, he added.
“You handled the wizard easily. That was interesting. I expected with all the rumors about how powerful and evil he was, that he would be tougher than he appeared. He did say his name was Velas? You know, there’s a Velas Manor in Godsreach. Perhaps checking it out would clear this up.”
As I recovered from the minor damage Velas had inflicted and cleaned my sword, I wondered what was wrong with this city. Madness seemed to permeate the very stones and buildings. And that same madness then infected the populace. The irony was beyond belief- here I was, trying to acquire supplies that would allow me to avoid more killing, and this madman practically threw himself onto my blade. As to the suggestion that I investigate his house, that seemed like a daft idea. Wizards tended to protect their homes with any number of nasty surprises- and just because the wizard was dead didn’t mean that his traps would be safe. In fact, if he had summoned any dangerous creatures, they would be even more unpredictable now that his control was gone. No, I already was going to have to poke my nose into a place I would have preferred to avoid. There was no need at all for me to stir up still more trouble. Let some other fool risk life and sanity discovering whatever it was the “great” Ovis Velas had left behind.
Firmly putting aside speculations upon the peculiarities of wizards, I entered the sewers. My previous explorations had convinced me that the Dark Brotherhood would be found somewhere beneath the Manor District- my rough map indicated a connection from the tunnels under the Bazaar and those of the residential area. Mindful that I would need to husband my magical resources, I avoided combat whenever possible as I sought the entry to the Dark Brotherhood’s hidden base. Wasting my magical energy, not to mention my blood, on wandering goblins or unquiet spirits would be of little use in the battle that I could feel was looming. When I reached a door in the northeast section of the Bazaar sewers, I knew that I was close. The seemingly random scratches on the doorframe were as plain as a tavern sign to one who knew how to read them. This was the gateway into that corner of Mournhold that the assassins had claimed as their own.
I prepared my spells and my weapons, then reluctantly opened the door and slipped through into a partially collapsed tunnel. A faint whiff of the incense that the Dark Brotherhood used in their arcane rituals confirmed my reading of the marks on the door. This was the place where I would find my answers or my ending- I would leave only when I knew who had set the assassins on my trail- or not at all. It did not take long for me to discover that my faith in my stealth and in chameleon potions had been overly optimistic. Though I held the Dark Brotherhood in contempt, I could not deny their skills- whether they detected my presence from the subtle changes in air currents from the opening and closing of the door or perhaps from my scent I do not know. However it was, they knew that an intruder was in their midst and they sought me with frightening skill and persistence. But if I had been naïve, they were arrogant- too certain of their reputation and the fear that they were used to striking into the hearts of their victims. So, though they hunted for me with great enthusiasm, they did so as individuals or in pairs. More, they shouted back and forth, giving away their locations and allowing me to avoid being trapped. The Dark Brotherhood had spent too much time striking at unsuspecting victims- they had lost the ability to stalk and take prey that had fangs to rend them in turn. So, while they swarmed and shouted, I slew them with arrows and sword. It did not all go my way- I suffered from their poisoned blades more than I care to recall.
As I evaded and ambushed the assassins in their tunnels, they reminded me of nothing so much as vermin- pestilent creatures feeding upon the poisonous vapors that seemed to seep through the city, causing madness and hatred. Even as they battened on that atmosphere of discord, they gnawed at the foundations of the city, weakening it as a parasite weakens its host. And like vermin, they were not the cause of the disease that gripped Mournhold, but merely a symptom. Their evil thrived because those in power had made a place for them, used them, nurtured them. They lived like vermin and I slew them like vermin- without remorse, because it was necessary. And even if I took no joy in the killing, there was a certain satisfaction. It was not a task I would have chosen if I had been left alone, but it was one that I would accomplish in as efficient a fashion as I could. Thus, even though I avoided the assassins that I could, by the time I reached the central chamber of their outer base, I had accounted for half-a-dozen of the black-clad murderers. Their poisons had also taken a toll on me- they were long-lasting as well as potent. Still, the fact that the Dark Brotherhood seemed to have an almost pathological attitude against using bows or thrown weapons worked to my advantage- and I was grateful for that small blessing. I suppose that restriction on weaponry came from their “traditions.” No doubt, they believed that it somehow increased their mystique to be able to approach an opponent unseen and slip a poisoned blade between his ribs. As far as I was concerned, if you had to kill someone, you did it as efficiently as possible, with as little risk to yourself as you could achieve. Dead was dead, and stylistic flourishes had no place in the serious business of making sure it was the other fellow whose life spilled out on the floor.
All too soon, the rough tunnels gave way to a gallery that still held the remnants of the old city. Amongst the ruined columns and broken slabs of stone, I came upon two doorways. Both doors were framed with archaic script that identified the ruined complex of buildings as “Moril Manor.” One doorway gave entrance to the east building, the other, to the north building. While I hesitated, trying to decide which one to choose, I also considered the fact that this was almost certainly the home of the senior members of the Dark Brotherhood. It would suit their vanity to take up residence in a ruined mansion, to pretend that they were members of the aristocracy. Of course, they would probably fail to see the irony of the fact that their “manor” was nothing but a ruin, a dead shell inside a dead city. On the other hand, they would be likely to employ more capable guards than the pitiful sentries I had defeated in the outer tunnels. Whoever awaited me beyond those doors would be more skilled, more dangerous. Of course, they might also have the answers I sought- most important, who had hired them. No flash of insight or feat of rational deduction came to aid me- my choice was random, or so I believe. In any event, I selected the north building as my starting point.
My fears regarding the presence and quality of my opponents were realized almost instantly, as two Dark Brotherhood door wardens attacked from the shadows flanking the door. Worse, they were soon joined by two giant rats that they had obviously trained to fight intruders. As had happened before, I was actually aided by the sheer number of enemies ranged before me. Where they had to maneuver around one another and interfered with each other’s attacks, I could strike freely and be sure of damaging an opponent. Even so, I had to resort to my potions to stay alive and had an interesting several minutes dodging poisoned blades and diseased rats. Even as I cut down the last of the assassins, I was aware that the shouts and the clash of blades must have been clearly audible throughout the building. Battered and bleeding, I prepared myself for the onslaught of the next wave of guards. While I waited, I felt a wave of despair wash over me. Although my restorative potions had saved me yet again, this last fight had been difficult. My armor and my sword were beginning to show the effects of near-constant combat and my limbs felt as though they were made of lead. How I longed to lean up against the wall and close my eyes for just a few brief moments. But I knew that if I relaxed for even a second, I would never rise again.
As the tense minutes of waiting stretched out and no attack was forthcoming, I realized that I was safe- at least so long as I did not move from the area of the entrance. Again, the Dark Brotherhood’s mindless adherence to their rules and their hierarchy had worked to my advantage. No more assassins rushed forward to attack me because their orders did not allow them to do so. All the other guards in this building had their own areas of responsibility- no doubt their leaders had told them,
“Guard this hall or doorway with your life. Do not let anyone pass.”
And so, even as they heard the sounds of a life-and-death struggle mere yards away, they remained in place, rooted to the spot by fear of the consequences if they disobeyed their orders and thought for themselves. That rigid discipline gave me the time I needed to complete my recovery and to prepare my spells and weapons for the next stage of my attack.
First, I cast my two favorite spells, Beggars Nose and Bound Longbow. I whispered the arcane syllables with satisfaction- the detection spell unerringly showed me the location of the remaining sentries by revealing their poisoned blades, rendering those weapons “two-edged swords” indeed. Finally, I used one of my precious Chameleon potions and melted into the shadows. The only indication that the hired killers had of my presence was the whisper of steel arrows that flashed out of the darkness to take them in the throat or the back. Those who had made their evil living stalking other men had no chance to consider the irony of their own deaths arriving unseen from the darkness. If the gods existed, if there was justice in this world or the next, those bloody-handed assassins would have all eternity to wonder at the vengeance that had harvested them. Where the previous deaths I had caused made me feel unclean, as if my soul was stained, I knew that the execution of these killers was an almost holy act, something that would bring peace to the unquiet spirits of their victims. As the last sentry collapsed in a shapeless heap, I felt my shoulders straighten, as if a huge weight had come off of them.
Exploring the now-empty corridors, I again found myself with a choice of two doors. One was a circular affair of corroded brass construction, green with age. The other was marked as giving onto the courtyard of the ruined manor complex. Again, I chose randomly, deciding to investigate the nondescript brass door before searching the wider environs of the manor. To this day, I cannot understand how it was that I did not receive some hint of the significance of my choice. In my innocence, I supposed that great evil should be palpable, should give some signal to the unwary. But perhaps that was just wishful thinking, or perhaps it was simply that the aura of the evil I was about to face was lost in the atmosphere of despair and darkness that permeated the entire place. And perhaps it was because Mournhold itself was in the grip of even greater evil. However it happened, when I quietly opened that door, I was surprised to see a Dunmer dressed like all the other Dark Brotherhood assassins, save that he did not wear the usual head covering that rendered them insect-like and anonymous. I had no time to recover from that surprise, for I was immediately subjected to a still greater shock as he cast a quick spell and a magical bow appeared in his hands. I had become so accustomed to the Dark Brotherhood’s disdain for bows that I never expected to see one of them use one of my spells to conjure a bow from thin air. My dismay lasted until a poisoned arrow punched into my left side and awakened me to the fact that I needed to either fight back or get out of sight.
It was one of the most peculiar fights in which I had ever engaged. The two of us stood some fifteen feet apart firing arrows at one another. More amazing still was the fact that the assassin made no move to protect himself. Even when my steel missiles pierced his torso, he did nothing except grunt as if annoyed and redouble his own efforts to kill me. I, on the other hand, was a veritable blur of motion as I vainly sought cover in the open hallway. Arrows hurt when they strike you, even more so when they are propelled by the magical energy of a conjured bow. I quickly realized that I was in a fight for my life- the other assassins had been bumbling fools compared to this fellow. Something about the eerie silence with which he went about the task of turning me into a human pin-cushion unnerved me. He showed no anger, no fear, just a business-like approach to the task at hand. He was simply a craftsman, going about his craft. In the end, what saved me was my potions. Except this time, it was their bulk rather than their magical powers. Anyone who has followed my story for any length of time has by now realized that when I went “adventuring,” I bore a strong resemblance to a mobile apothecary shop. Thus it was that while my arrows generally found a home in various fleshy parts of my opponent, his missiles were frequently deflected by the many vials and packets that I had distributed about my person. In effect, I was wearing a double layer of armor. At last, my silent adversary ran out of arrows and turned to draw his sword. Just as he did so, I sent a shaft which found a joint in his armor between his upper arm and his torso. The steel arrow punched straight through his body and actually pinned him to the wall. It was also clear that it had severed a major blood vessel- his already grayish face took on an even more ghastly pallor and his movements ceased. As his eyes rolled back in his head, he spoke for the first and last time in my hearing. And his gasping final words sent a thrill of fear through me-
“No- tell my liege… I have failed him….”
Before I could begin to frame a question, he suddenly jerked spasmodically and then was still. Whatever answers he might have had for me were gone forever.
The dead Dunmer had graying hair, worn rather long, and a prominent nose and thin, sour mouth. Clenched between his teeth was a small vial, which gave off a pungent odor. That explained the last, violent shudder before he had died. Knowing that he was doomed, the assassin had taken his own life rather than risk giving up any information. As I searched the body, I learned that his name was Dandras Vules, and that he had been the leader of the Dark Brotherhood organization in Mournhold. Besides the usual armor and a powerful magical sword, that seemed to be it. Or at least so I believed until I noticed some rather interesting stitching on his left sleeve. To my experienced eye it looked like the outline of a secret pocket. Turning the sleeve inside out revealed a tightly rolled piece of parchment. When I unrolled the paper the words “Trey, a Breton” fairly leapt off the paper. I sat down rather abruptly and read the words over and over, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. Though the original parchment is now gone, the contents are forever burned into my memory-
The Bearer of this document, under special dispensation of the Night Mother, who has entered in a contract in perpetuity with H, is given special dispensation to execute Trey, a Breton recently residing on the island of Vvardenfell. In accordance with all laws and traditions, the afore-mentioned personage will be executed in the name of H in the most expedient manner possible. All services of the Dark Brotherhood are at the disposal of the Bearer of this binding and non-disputable document.
How many of us are privileged, if that is the word, to see our own death warrant? Having been treated to that signal honor, I can tell you that it was one I would have just as soon avoided.
How long I sat there, staring sightlessly into space, I cannot say. The words on the paper, combined with Vules’ dying declaration, left little doubt as to who had ordered my death. Still, my mind sought a way out. The “contract” referred to the client only by the letter “H.” There were any number of people whose names began with that letter. Except that, as a small voice in my head reminded me, only the very wealthy and very politically well-connected could hire the Dark Brotherhood. And except that Dandras Vules’ had referred to “my liege.” He might have meant the leader of his foul band, but I knew he had not. He was referring to a king, a king who was rumored to permanently remove “inconvenient” people, a king whose name was Helseth Hlaalu. A king who had ordered my death as casually as another man might order dinner.
(c)2006 Treydog
On to the next chapter
Before making my way to the marketplace, I washed away the worst stains of my labors at the fountain in the Brindisi Dorom. As I did so, I was not certain that the High Ordinators would not object to my ablutions. In truth, I rather hoped they would make an issue of it- I held no very great love for Almalexia’s version of the Temple at that moment. Other than a few penetrating glances, my impromptu bath drew no reaction though, and I was soon refreshed and on my way. Although the idea of a real bath with hot water and soap tempted me to take a room at the Winged Guar, I was not ready to confine myself indoors just yet. Satisfied that my appearance would no longer cause some concerned citizen to call the guards or the healers, I proceeded to the Great Bazaar, where I frankly acted like a country lout loose in the big city for the first time. There was talk of a play to be performed, and I waited for a few minutes in hopes of seeing such a novelty, but there seemed to be some delay, so I moved on. As I climbed the steps, staring at the shops and plants and people, I became so distracted that I failed to notice a young Dunmer woman until I placed my foot directly in the midst her lunch, which she had set out upon one of the steps. She accepted my profuse apologies with more weariness than grace, and began to gather up the remains of her ruined meal. When I offered to at least pay her the price of a decent dinner at the inn, she merely sighed and said,
“That would be nice, but I really have no time to talk. There’s much work to do… No time for silly fancies like dancing or dinner. Oh, but what I wouldn’t give to meet someone new.”
The way she said it made clear that she was really just thinking out loud rather than trying to interest the bumbling Breton who had just clumsily trodden on her lunch. Still, it seemed that I should at least offer her a sympathetic ear if that was what she needed. She was still fairly young, older than I- perhaps in her 30s- although it is always hard to judge such things among the Elven races. Her eyes were interesting- sad, thoughtful, with a spark of intelligence lurking in their depths. Recalling my own recent travails with employment, I agreed that work could be wearing. She nodded and said,
“Yes, that's right. Believe it or not, I had no intention of working here when I came to Mournhold. It's quite a sob story; are you sure you want to hear it?”
When I signaled my assent, she continued,
“Well, it's mostly my fault, really. My name is Marena Gilnith, and I grew up in a small village in the south of Morrowind. They cared for me a great deal, and only wanted the best for me. But when they arranged my marriage to a wealthy nobleman, I couldn't take it. He was disgusting, and I wanted nothing to do with him. So I ran away, and ended up here in Mournhold. I was convinced that I'd be able to find the man of my dreams. Only, it hasn't worked out that way.”
She gave a self-deprecating shrug and continued,
“I was foolish about it, to be sure. I never considered that I'd need money to survive on my own. I was determined, though, not to go crawling back to the village and beg forgiveness from my parents and that loathsome man. I'd make it on my own, and only then would I contact my parents and let them know where I was. So I started working... and now it's all I do. I never have time to meet anyone. Let me know if you meet any nice, single men.”
It was the sort of request you hear fairly often- usually spoken in jest. But somehow I knew that she spoke from sincere hope, and a part of me responded with equal sincerity. It was as if our lives had followed similar paths, paths that could lead to loneliness and bitterness- if no kind stranger intervened. And so I said,
“Give me a little time, and I will try. Whatever chances, I will meet you here at this same hour in two days’ time.”
Perhaps it would have been wiser to refuse her request or to pretend that it was simply a joke, but it was hard to ignore the unspoken appeal in her eyes. Maybe I felt the need to do something that celebrated life instead of death. Or maybe I responded to the fact that she had confided in me, a stranger. In any event, though I had no idea of how to accomplish the task, I agreed. In truth, I wasn’t certain that I knew what a “good man” was; I definitely knew nothing about finding one. But as I considered more deeply, I realized that much of what I knew about choosing horses could apply to men. You wanted a good temperament, determination that did not shade into stubbornness, intelligence, loyalty… maybe I could manage this after all. Of course, that assumed that I could find any men who sought marriage- I did not really think Marena was interested in the other sort. That made things a bit more difficult- somehow, I doubted that even fabled Mournhold had a shop or market for marriageable men.
Determined to make an honest effort searching for a suitable man for Marena Gilnith, I wandered through the Bazaar, looking at the people with a calculating eye. Some men were with their wives; others had the sheepish, slightly harried look that is the sure mark of a married man. Still others were too young, too old, too unattractive, or simply too busy. One fellow who hailed me seemed like he might be a possibility, though his manner gave me pause. As I climbed the Bazaar steps, a flashily-dressed Dunmer reached out to clasp hands with me and exclaimed,
“Well met friend! You’re not a familiar face…new to Mournhold are you? I don’t suppose you arrived with any female friends? I get on quite well with the ladies, you know. The name’s Fons Beren.”
Although I wasn’t sure of the wisdom in doing so, I gave him my name and allowed that I had, in fact, traveled to Mournhold alone.
Beren gave a toothy grin and said,
“That’s too bad! I hate to travel alone, myself. Ah, women. Can't get enough of them. But then, who can? Ha ha! Erm... you wouldn't happen to know any eligible ladies, would you Trey? I'm looking for a saucy wench that can satisfy me. A tall order, to be sure, but you never know. So, familiar with any?”
I thought about Marena. And then I looked at Fons Beren. The first word that came to mind was “slick.” Everything about him was oily. He even appeared to have guar-grease in his hair. This was definitely NOT the sort of man she wanted- or needed. She would not thank me for an introduction to a fellow that was all flash and no stay. Therefore, I pulled a long face and said,
“No, I really haven’t had a chance to meet any women in town.”
He gave me a look that was more insult than commiseration and said,
“Well, in your case I can see how it might be a problem. Good hunting, though, old sport.”
As the Bazaar didn’t seem to be the place to find a reliable fellow, I decided that the Temple courtyard might prove more fruitful.
The Temple district suffered from the same lack of eligible men as the Bazaar, but I finally saw a rather youngish Dunmer who appeared mesmerized by his surroundings, but was willing to talk. When I approached him he said,
“Hi there. Wow! Can you believe this place! It’s just…amazing! Everything’s so beautiful! The buildings, the shops, the women…I’m stunned. Oh, my name’s Goval Ralen. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
He grasped my hand in one of his, and I felt calluses that spoke of hard work. He continued to speak enthusiastically,
“I mean, I've seen pretty women before, but I just can't get over it. I came from a small town to ‘seek my fortune,’ as my father would say, but it's hard to get anything done here. It's all just so overwhelming. And, I guess, a little intimidating, too. I mean, what would any of these women want with me? It's hard to hope that I might meet the woman of my dreams...”
Now here was a possibility. Goval certainly seemed to fit the definition of “nice man” that I carried around in my head. He was a worker, seemed sincere and honest, and even admitted that he was seeking a permanent arrangement. Still, I wanted to look around a bit more before making a final decision. So far, I had found only two prospects, and only one of those had any real potential. Also, I wanted to check out some of the shops back in the Great Bazaar. After that, I could find Marena and let her know how I had fared.
The magic and weapon shops did not strike me as being likely to have anything of interest- at least that I could afford- so I made my way to the general trader’s. The advantage of a general trader is that he sees a bit of everything, and rarely turns anything down. Sometimes, extremely rare items can turn up in dusty little shops. The trader in this case was a solid, rather sour Dunmer, with eyes that looked on the world with cynicism tinged by ancient grief. His greeting confirmed my suspicion that he did not view anything with very great pleasure or favor.
“I suppose you’ve come to trade, and that’s fine with me. Azura knows there’s little else in the world worth doing. None of the rest of it matters…adventuring, fame, women. It’s all pointless. So say I, Sunel Hlas.”
Something about his use of the name of the goddess of dawn and dusk caught my interest- enough that I said,
“Surely the love and companionship of a good woman is of some value?”
He barked a sharp laugh and responded,
“Hrmph. Women. Not worth the effort, if you ask me. Not anymore, at least. There's no happiness to be found. No lasting happiness, anyway. It's all a sham. Oh, I didn't always think so. I had a wife once, and was madly in love with her. But then my foolishness took her away, and now here I am. Bitter, alone, and tired of life. I'll have little else to do with women, that's for sure.”
What moved me in that moment I cannot say- perhaps it was the perversity of my nature, my inability to let a challenge pass unanswered, or perhaps Azura herself responded to the invocation of her name. However it came to pass, I found myself praising the virtues of Marena Gilnith and urging the gruff merchant to take a chance. At last, as much to shut me up as anything else, he threw up his hands in surrender and growled,
“Who? Marena Gilnith? I don't know her. Don't particularly care to either. But fine. If it will get you to leave me alone, then I'll meet her. It'll be a waste of time, though.”
Without quite knowing how, I found myself outside the shop, head awhirl with what I had just done. I could still get out of it- I could tell Marena that I hadn’t met anyone appropriate or I could offer her an introduction to Goval Ralen, instead. But… in my mind, I saw two pairs of eyes- Marena’s, shadowed with work and care, but still willing to hope. Sunel Hlas’- filled with the pain of loss, and the fear of still more pain to come. Goval seemed like a nice enough fellow, but he was even greener than I had been when I traveled to Cyrodiil. I had my doubts as to how long he would be able to last in the city. My heart told me that Marena needed an older man, a steady fellow who was already established. As clearly as I had ever known anything, I knew that the two of them should meet. Impatiently, I loitered about the Bazaar, waiting for the appointed time to arrive. At last, the hour struck and, with a confident stride, I made my way to my rendezvous with Marena. When I saw her on the steps, her expression betrayed uncertainty over our agreement. She put on a brave face, but said,
“Well, Trey, here I am. I apologize for foolishly causing you to waste your time in such a silly pursuit. Although I thank you, I am sure you met with no success.”
When she paused for breath, I bowed low and said,
“On the contrary, I believe that I have met a gentleman who will meet your expectations- an established merchant by the name of Sunel Hlas.”
Her look of resignation was replaced by one of intrigue as she considered my words.
“Sunel Hlas, you say? Hmm... I think I've heard the name before, but can't remember where. Whew. Okay, I'm really trusting your judgment, Trey. Tell him to meet me at the Winged Guar two days from now. I hope he's nice...”
I promised to pass on the news of the appointment and to ensure that Sunel would keep it, then took my leave to report back.
My certainty suffered a blow when the trader frowned at me and grumbled,
“Now what? Is this about that Marena Gilnith woman again? Can't you just leave well enough alone, Trey? Why must you continue to pester me about this? I don't know why I'm even discussing this. There's no way this is going to work out. It'll just end in heartbreak.”
Still driven by that uncanny force, I argued,
“But how do you know? Even if nothing comes of the meeting, you will have enjoyed a decent meal with pleasant company. Where is the harm?”
At last, Sunel relented and muttered, “Very well, I'll meet her.”
Talk of the Winged Guar reminded me that I had planned to take a room there, followed by a long soak in a hot tub of soapy water. Suiting deed to thought, I made my way to the inn and secured the best room available. Pausing only long enough to wave to Ra’Tesh at the bar, I was soon locked in my room and enjoying a glorious bath. Afterward, I collapsed upon the bed and did not move for a day and a half.
I may not have slept the sleep of the just, but I certainly did sleep as one mortally tired and awoke refreshed and ready to face a new day. After bathing my face and hands, I stepped out into the bar area, where Ra’Tesh immediately called me over. The Khajiiti bartender quietly passed over a bulging pouch of gold and a sealed note, saying only that a “priesty soldier” had left them for me. A glance at the wax seal, which bore the symbol of the Tribunal Temple, clarified what he meant. Not wishing to draw too much attention, I retreated to my room and unsealed the note. Written in a spidery script, it bore the signature of Fedris Hler, and I could almost hear the Temple steward’s dusty voice speaking the words as I read them:
“You've gotten rid of the goblin warchiefs and that is excellent. I'm certain the army itself will scatter over the next few weeks. Our Lady will be pleased. A shame you weren't able to find the Altmer training them, but what can one expect from such as you.... Still, the Lady would wish for you to be rewarded. Take this paltry sum of 5000 gold and our thanks. If you wish to be of further service, the Archcanon would be pleased to speak with you.”
The gold and Hler’s words brought the horror of the goblin hunt crashing back upon me and I was sorely tempted to simply put the blood money aside. But common sense prevailed and I realized that I could perhaps use some of the money to make amends with Bols Indalen for costing him an apprentice. In that way something good could come from gold earned in a dubious fashion.
When I arrived at the armorer’s shop, it was to find the master smith in full cry, berating his former apprentice.
“Damn that Ilnori Faustus! Damn him! He left me a few days ago without so much as a wave goodbye. Just walked out the door. Well, good riddance, I suppose, but I still need an apprentice. If you find any able-bodied young person looking for work, let them know I need a new apprentice.”
When I admitted that Ilnori’s absence was perhaps my fault, and that I was willing to pay damages, Master Indalen waved it all aside.
“No, good sera, it is not your doing. That strutting cockerel was bound to do something foolish sooner rather than later- he just used you as an excuse. Still, if you know of anyone who appreciates craft and is looking for a job, send him my way.”
Although the smith had refused payment, I felt better for having taken responsibility for my actions and left with a lighter step. If I could not give the gold away, I would at least spend a bit of it on a drink and a decent meal back at the Winged Guar. As for Fedris Hler’s suggestion that I might be of assistance to the Archcanon- well, I would just have to think about that. So far, I had not been pleased with the Temple’s methods.
When I returned to the Winged Guar, I was greeted by a morose Redguard who said,
“Hi there, Breton. Care to drink away your troubles with me?”
Since that was precisely my intention, I agreed and paid for the first round. Still, my melancholy was not so great that I wished to broadcast the cause to all and sundry, so I asked him the source of his sadness.
He responded with a grimace and said,
“Well, my life isn't exactly gold-kanet-sunshine-happy at the moment. More like bungler's-bane-bummer. I got laid off from my job at the pillow factory last week. The market for pillows has really bottomed out in the last few years. Turns out that the average family home doesn't need 25 pillows per person like we originally thought. Who knew the market would turn so sour so suddenly?”
Slowly rotating his mug of flin on the bar, he continued,
“I really loved that job. For me, it was all about the work. But it didn't take long for the money guys in the exquisite robes upstairs to burn through all our pillow venture capital. Offices in the best Telvanni towers, 1500-septim chairs upholstered in the finest scamp skin, and unlimited stores of matze. We would spend 16 hours a day or more in there, doing what we loved -- crafting pillows. It was a dream come true for me. Ever since I was young, I dreamed of creating the perfect pillow. Well, those days are over now. I need to find work.”
Sometimes, I almost believed in the gods. Or rather, in the generosity of the gods. I had certainly seen enough of their vindictiveness in my short life. With a smile, I told Therdon (for that was his name),
“My friend, I happen to know that Master Bols Indalen in the Craftsmen’s Hall is searching for an apprentice at this very moment. Tell him that Trey sent you.”
Therdon’s face cleared and he said,
“Hmm.... Well, it's not making pillows, but it is work. I just might try that out. Thanks, Trey. Next time you see me, perhaps I'll be working in the smith's shop. Have a drink on me!”
With that, he bought me a bottle of vintage brandy, straightened his tunic and headed for the stairs. As for me, I gave Ra’Tesh a generous tip and retreated to my room to seek answers at the bottom of the bottle. Any seer will tell you that pure water is a far better medium for scrying, but the truth was that I didn’t really want to know the future.
As so many have discovered before me, while there may be truth in wine, the greatest truth of excessive drink is that it makes one exceedingly ill. Worse for me, the alcohol-induced sleep was not dreamless, as I had hoped. The nightmares were vivid and horrible, and my impairment prevented me from wakening and thus finding relief. I will say no more of my adventure with brandy except that it did finally end and that I cannot stand the taste of that particular spirit even now.
Ra’Tesh, who either knew a great deal about hangovers or else had sadistic streak and a willingness to experiment, recommended immersion in cold water followed by immersion in steaming hot. Surprisingly it worked, and I emerged feeling somewhat human and as if I might be willing to think about food in a month or so. As I drank copious amounts of fresh water, Ra’Tesh mentioned that some people had asked after me while I was “indisposed.” A feeling of dread compounded with the last traces of my binge as I envisioned what would have happened if the Dark Brotherhood had found me while I was weakened and impaired. Seeing the look on my face, Ra’Tesh waved a paw and said,
“No, no! Not bad peoples! Nice lady and a gentleman merchant. They asked that you come see them when you feel better.”
That reminded me- I wondered how Therdon had made out with Bols Indalen. At last ready to face the day, I left the inn and went to the Craftsman’s Hall. The sound of hammers pounding on metal set up an echo in my head, but that was the price for my foolishness, so I persevered. The master smith caught sight of me and rushed forward, a smile lighting his normally dour features.
“Thank you so much for sending Therdon my way. He’s a tremendous help around the place, even if I can’t ever get him to shut up about the blasted pillows! He’s working right now, if you wanted to see him. I’m sure he would like to thank you himself.”
Following the master smith’s advice, I found Therdon happily pounding a sheet of steel into a shield. He ceased his labors (much to the relief of my throbbing skull) and reached out to vigorously shake my hand. Then he enthused,
“Hey there, Trey! I got the job! Thanks so much for recommending this to me. It's hard work, but I imagine that every breastplate or shield I turn out is just a thin, hard pillow made of metal, and I get through the day just fine. Here, I don't have much money, but I can offer you some tools that might come in handy. Also talk to my boss, Bols. He's pretty happy at having a new apprentice, and will give you some good deals.”
With that, he gifted me with a number of armorer’s hammers, knowing that I preferred to repair my own gear. I thanked him for the gift and made my way to the Great Bazaar and Sunel Hlas. Even though Ra’Tesh had said the merchant was seeking me, he hadn’t said what demeanor he presented. Thus, I entered the shop with some trepidation.
The change in Sunel was remarkable. Before, he had been stooped and weary, seeming to carry the weight of all the Mundus upon his shoulders. Too, his expression had been sour, as if he scented something unpleasant. Now, he stood straight, and his eyes bore a mixture of surprise and delight.
“Trey, I don't know what to say. Marena is just what I needed in my life, but without your help, I'd have been too blind to see it. Thank you so much. I... I know it's wrong to offer you something, as if in payment, but I want you to take this. It's sort of valuable, I guess, except that no one has ever wanted it, and, well, just take it and think of me. Or something. I don't know. I'm not very good at this sentimental stuff.”
As he spoke, he lifted a cloth-wrapped bundle to the counter and presented it to me. Even through the muffling covering, I could sense a strong and rather odd magical aura. Clearly, the item was a magical sword with some rare enchantment. Not wishing to appear too mercenary, I mumbled my thanks and put the weapon away without examining it.
As I turned to go, he added,
“It's high time that I get on with the rest of my life, and Marena is the perfect woman to do that with. Actually, she’s upstairs and I’m sure she would like to see you if you have a moment.”
He turned away and began polishing the counter, humming a jaunty tune to himself. Although Sunel certainly believed that things had gone well, I did want to hear from Marena, for it was on her behalf that I had first undertaken this task.
One look at the smiling figure who greeted me was all I needed to know that I had chosen well. Not satisfied with a simple hand-clasp, Marena impulsively hugged me and then stepped back, blushing and glowing at the same time.
“Oh, Trey, how can I ever thank you for helping me find Sunel? He's such a sweet man. At first, his attitude was a little off-putting. I felt badly about his wife... and a little awkward too. But as we talked, I really got to know him, and he's just so kind. He's had some bad experiences, but I know we can work through them. I just can't thank you enough, Trey!”
She embraced me again and then went off to find Sunel. As I left the shop, they were chasing each other around the counter, laughing like two children. Suddenly, I felt much better than I had in many days. Marena and Sunel proved that there was joy in life; Therdon showed that there was also satisfaction in doing a job cheerfully and well. Perhaps someday, I would be able to find that same joy and satisfaction for myself.
Some may wonder why I had not put myself forward as a contender for Marena Gilnith’s affections. My reasons were manifold- some reasonable, some less so. First, at that time, I believed that my life expectancy could be measured in days rather than years. Thus, I refused to trap any woman into a relationship that might end suddenly and violently. More, I knew the capacity of my enemies for savagery and had no desire to provide so convenient a hostage. It was not that I did not dream of romance, sometime in the future- if I had a future. When I dreamed, I thought I saw a girl from my own home of High Rock. I could not see her face, but I knew that her hair was the red of a mountainside on a late afternoon in the month of Hearthfire and her eyes the green of one of the high lakes.
Still, even as I took joy in the knowledge of a match well-made and in my secret dreams for my own future, the cold breath of fear blew upon my neck. I had only to look at my armor, taken from the body of an assassin who had sought my life, and I knew that I could not rest, could not forget. My enemies were many and merciless- they would come upon me when I was injured or asleep and snuff me like a candle. The only way to prevent that was to seek them out where they hid and destroy them. And if I could discover the name of the client, so much the better. The Dark Brotherhood did not operate from such complex motives as passion or revenge- they killed for money and someone had paid them for my death. If I survived, that individual would pay me in a different coin- blood for blood, pain for pain. I had never set out to be a killer, and the role did not sit well on my shoulders. Necessity and the machinations of the Emperor and the Temple and my unknown enemy had forced me to become a hunter, with blood on my hands. They had made me as I was and I swore by the bones in the earth that they would regret their thoughtless act of creation.
I could feel that the time was fast approaching when I must resume my search for the lair of the Dark Brotherhood, but I did want to take a moment to examine the sword Sunel Hlas had presented to me. When I reached my room at the Winged Guar, I removed the wrapping and first examined the external appearance of the sword. It was a huge weapon, one that would require two hands and exceptional strength to wield. The blade was an odd design- one side was saw-toothed and the other was smooth and straight. I next extended my magical senses toward the blade. The aura of the sword was… peculiar. As my hands gripped the hilt, a rage took hold of me, as if all my enemies stood arrayed before me. Just as it seemed certain that the anger would consume me, my emotions underwent a dizzying change. Where I had felt anger, now I felt joy and peace, almost as though my mother had come back to life and called to me. With a convulsive shudder, I forced my hands free of the sword and simply stared at the weapon, sweat standing on my brow and my breath coming in great gasps. As I calmed myself, I thought I understood the strange purpose that had been forged into the blade- it would alternately enrage and calm an enemy who did not resist its enchantment. However, it also seemed to me that its unexpected changes in “personality” might very well drive the wielder insane. With regret, I muffled the artifact in heavy cloth and thrust it under the bed. Perhaps, if I survived my current quest, I would find an appropriate home for the unique sword. But now, it was time to resume the hunt.
However, before I rushed headlong back into the darkness beneath Mournhold, it seemed that it would be wise to develop a strategy. Although the expedient of rushing in and killing them all had the virtue of simplicity, it was perhaps not the best choice. My long struggle against the goblins had taught me more than the fact that I possessed an innate capacity for violence- I had also learned that the key to destroying an army was to remove the leadership. The “soldiers” of the Dark Brotherhood were only my enemies because they had been directed by their master to attack me. Though I had no love for the Dark Brotherhood, I preferred not to have still more blood on my hands. Another point in favor of a stealthy approach was the effect it would have upon the assassins themselves. Like all such organizations, they had come to believe somewhat in their own mythology. Therefore, if someone managed to slip unseen into their midst and kill their leader, that superstition would turn back upon them. They might even feel that it was a message of disfavor from the dark god they worshipped. In any event, the loss of their head man would throw them into disarray and leave me with fewer deaths on my conscience. The immediate problem that I faced was that my training in magic had been limited to alteration instead of illusion. That was a circumstance I would have cause to regret more than once in the years to come. To overcome that lack, I must depend on potions and my ability to move quietly through the shadows. And if all of those things failed, if the Dark Brotherhood sentinels were too alert- then they must needs pay the price, for I still had my skill with a blade. And I was forced to use that skill far sooner than I had planned.
My head filled with ideas for how I would invade the Dark Brotherhood’s lair unseen, I made my way to Great Bazaar, where I hoped to purchase potions or scrolls that would aid me in a stealthy approach. So preoccupied was I, that I was sent sprawling when a robed Dunmer suddenly appeared before me with a flash and a cloud of noxious smoke. The dark elf took no immediate notice of me, but instead proceeded to strut across the cobbles, declaiming in a loud voice and making theatrical gestures. His speech was as follows:
“Greetings, fair citizens of Mournhold! I am the great, renowned, respected, and feared wizard, Ovis Velas! In the coming weeks, you shall see more and more of me, as I bring this city to its knees! But for the moment, allow me to demonstrate my power on one of your hopeless countrymen!”
He then paused and scanned the crowd with eyes that betrayed no hint of sanity… or mercy. His fiery gaze fell upon me and he gestured at me.
“You there! Yes, you, you ugly Breton. Prepare yourself to feel my wrath.”
My initial surprise had passed and I began to doubt the scene that was playing out before me. Surely this was not real- it must be the prelude to one of the plays that were staged here in the city. No doubt this brief scene was a spectacular way to get the attention of the crowd and whet their appetite for more. Thus, rather than respond to the “wizard’s” insult, I simply got back to my feet and spread my hands. My body language was clear- I was inviting him to do his worst. Then I waited expectantly for the usual announcement of when the complete play would be performed. What I received was a magical assault.
The charlatan hurled a series of spells at me that had a number of disagreeable effects. First, he invoked a Grave Curse, which drained my own innate store of magicka. Next came a spell to make me more susceptible to disease. And last, he blasted me with a Damage Health cantrip. Oddly for one who claimed to be a powerful wizard, his spells seemed to have minimal effect upon me. At the time, I believed that was simply a result of my Breton heritage, which provided me with a natural resistance to hostile spells. Still, the spells did hurt, and Ovis showed no sign of stopping after his initial attack. He continued to hurl spell after spell at me, screaming “Die, Breton scum!” the whole time.
As the eldritch energies lashed me, I revised my opinion of what was happening. This was not some preliminary to a drama, but an actual attack. With an oath, I drew my sword and charged the foaming lunatic. His concept of defense against a physical attack was even worse than his offensive spells- my blade took him under the left arm as he raised it to cast a spell. With a groan, he fell dead at my feet. As the guards converged on the scene, a bystander spoke up quickly,
“I saw the whole thing. The dead Dunmer attacked this stranger without provocation. He was only defending himself.”
To me, he added.
“You handled the wizard easily. That was interesting. I expected with all the rumors about how powerful and evil he was, that he would be tougher than he appeared. He did say his name was Velas? You know, there’s a Velas Manor in Godsreach. Perhaps checking it out would clear this up.”
As I recovered from the minor damage Velas had inflicted and cleaned my sword, I wondered what was wrong with this city. Madness seemed to permeate the very stones and buildings. And that same madness then infected the populace. The irony was beyond belief- here I was, trying to acquire supplies that would allow me to avoid more killing, and this madman practically threw himself onto my blade. As to the suggestion that I investigate his house, that seemed like a daft idea. Wizards tended to protect their homes with any number of nasty surprises- and just because the wizard was dead didn’t mean that his traps would be safe. In fact, if he had summoned any dangerous creatures, they would be even more unpredictable now that his control was gone. No, I already was going to have to poke my nose into a place I would have preferred to avoid. There was no need at all for me to stir up still more trouble. Let some other fool risk life and sanity discovering whatever it was the “great” Ovis Velas had left behind.
Firmly putting aside speculations upon the peculiarities of wizards, I entered the sewers. My previous explorations had convinced me that the Dark Brotherhood would be found somewhere beneath the Manor District- my rough map indicated a connection from the tunnels under the Bazaar and those of the residential area. Mindful that I would need to husband my magical resources, I avoided combat whenever possible as I sought the entry to the Dark Brotherhood’s hidden base. Wasting my magical energy, not to mention my blood, on wandering goblins or unquiet spirits would be of little use in the battle that I could feel was looming. When I reached a door in the northeast section of the Bazaar sewers, I knew that I was close. The seemingly random scratches on the doorframe were as plain as a tavern sign to one who knew how to read them. This was the gateway into that corner of Mournhold that the assassins had claimed as their own.
I prepared my spells and my weapons, then reluctantly opened the door and slipped through into a partially collapsed tunnel. A faint whiff of the incense that the Dark Brotherhood used in their arcane rituals confirmed my reading of the marks on the door. This was the place where I would find my answers or my ending- I would leave only when I knew who had set the assassins on my trail- or not at all. It did not take long for me to discover that my faith in my stealth and in chameleon potions had been overly optimistic. Though I held the Dark Brotherhood in contempt, I could not deny their skills- whether they detected my presence from the subtle changes in air currents from the opening and closing of the door or perhaps from my scent I do not know. However it was, they knew that an intruder was in their midst and they sought me with frightening skill and persistence. But if I had been naïve, they were arrogant- too certain of their reputation and the fear that they were used to striking into the hearts of their victims. So, though they hunted for me with great enthusiasm, they did so as individuals or in pairs. More, they shouted back and forth, giving away their locations and allowing me to avoid being trapped. The Dark Brotherhood had spent too much time striking at unsuspecting victims- they had lost the ability to stalk and take prey that had fangs to rend them in turn. So, while they swarmed and shouted, I slew them with arrows and sword. It did not all go my way- I suffered from their poisoned blades more than I care to recall.
As I evaded and ambushed the assassins in their tunnels, they reminded me of nothing so much as vermin- pestilent creatures feeding upon the poisonous vapors that seemed to seep through the city, causing madness and hatred. Even as they battened on that atmosphere of discord, they gnawed at the foundations of the city, weakening it as a parasite weakens its host. And like vermin, they were not the cause of the disease that gripped Mournhold, but merely a symptom. Their evil thrived because those in power had made a place for them, used them, nurtured them. They lived like vermin and I slew them like vermin- without remorse, because it was necessary. And even if I took no joy in the killing, there was a certain satisfaction. It was not a task I would have chosen if I had been left alone, but it was one that I would accomplish in as efficient a fashion as I could. Thus, even though I avoided the assassins that I could, by the time I reached the central chamber of their outer base, I had accounted for half-a-dozen of the black-clad murderers. Their poisons had also taken a toll on me- they were long-lasting as well as potent. Still, the fact that the Dark Brotherhood seemed to have an almost pathological attitude against using bows or thrown weapons worked to my advantage- and I was grateful for that small blessing. I suppose that restriction on weaponry came from their “traditions.” No doubt, they believed that it somehow increased their mystique to be able to approach an opponent unseen and slip a poisoned blade between his ribs. As far as I was concerned, if you had to kill someone, you did it as efficiently as possible, with as little risk to yourself as you could achieve. Dead was dead, and stylistic flourishes had no place in the serious business of making sure it was the other fellow whose life spilled out on the floor.
All too soon, the rough tunnels gave way to a gallery that still held the remnants of the old city. Amongst the ruined columns and broken slabs of stone, I came upon two doorways. Both doors were framed with archaic script that identified the ruined complex of buildings as “Moril Manor.” One doorway gave entrance to the east building, the other, to the north building. While I hesitated, trying to decide which one to choose, I also considered the fact that this was almost certainly the home of the senior members of the Dark Brotherhood. It would suit their vanity to take up residence in a ruined mansion, to pretend that they were members of the aristocracy. Of course, they would probably fail to see the irony of the fact that their “manor” was nothing but a ruin, a dead shell inside a dead city. On the other hand, they would be likely to employ more capable guards than the pitiful sentries I had defeated in the outer tunnels. Whoever awaited me beyond those doors would be more skilled, more dangerous. Of course, they might also have the answers I sought- most important, who had hired them. No flash of insight or feat of rational deduction came to aid me- my choice was random, or so I believe. In any event, I selected the north building as my starting point.
My fears regarding the presence and quality of my opponents were realized almost instantly, as two Dark Brotherhood door wardens attacked from the shadows flanking the door. Worse, they were soon joined by two giant rats that they had obviously trained to fight intruders. As had happened before, I was actually aided by the sheer number of enemies ranged before me. Where they had to maneuver around one another and interfered with each other’s attacks, I could strike freely and be sure of damaging an opponent. Even so, I had to resort to my potions to stay alive and had an interesting several minutes dodging poisoned blades and diseased rats. Even as I cut down the last of the assassins, I was aware that the shouts and the clash of blades must have been clearly audible throughout the building. Battered and bleeding, I prepared myself for the onslaught of the next wave of guards. While I waited, I felt a wave of despair wash over me. Although my restorative potions had saved me yet again, this last fight had been difficult. My armor and my sword were beginning to show the effects of near-constant combat and my limbs felt as though they were made of lead. How I longed to lean up against the wall and close my eyes for just a few brief moments. But I knew that if I relaxed for even a second, I would never rise again.
As the tense minutes of waiting stretched out and no attack was forthcoming, I realized that I was safe- at least so long as I did not move from the area of the entrance. Again, the Dark Brotherhood’s mindless adherence to their rules and their hierarchy had worked to my advantage. No more assassins rushed forward to attack me because their orders did not allow them to do so. All the other guards in this building had their own areas of responsibility- no doubt their leaders had told them,
“Guard this hall or doorway with your life. Do not let anyone pass.”
And so, even as they heard the sounds of a life-and-death struggle mere yards away, they remained in place, rooted to the spot by fear of the consequences if they disobeyed their orders and thought for themselves. That rigid discipline gave me the time I needed to complete my recovery and to prepare my spells and weapons for the next stage of my attack.
First, I cast my two favorite spells, Beggars Nose and Bound Longbow. I whispered the arcane syllables with satisfaction- the detection spell unerringly showed me the location of the remaining sentries by revealing their poisoned blades, rendering those weapons “two-edged swords” indeed. Finally, I used one of my precious Chameleon potions and melted into the shadows. The only indication that the hired killers had of my presence was the whisper of steel arrows that flashed out of the darkness to take them in the throat or the back. Those who had made their evil living stalking other men had no chance to consider the irony of their own deaths arriving unseen from the darkness. If the gods existed, if there was justice in this world or the next, those bloody-handed assassins would have all eternity to wonder at the vengeance that had harvested them. Where the previous deaths I had caused made me feel unclean, as if my soul was stained, I knew that the execution of these killers was an almost holy act, something that would bring peace to the unquiet spirits of their victims. As the last sentry collapsed in a shapeless heap, I felt my shoulders straighten, as if a huge weight had come off of them.
Exploring the now-empty corridors, I again found myself with a choice of two doors. One was a circular affair of corroded brass construction, green with age. The other was marked as giving onto the courtyard of the ruined manor complex. Again, I chose randomly, deciding to investigate the nondescript brass door before searching the wider environs of the manor. To this day, I cannot understand how it was that I did not receive some hint of the significance of my choice. In my innocence, I supposed that great evil should be palpable, should give some signal to the unwary. But perhaps that was just wishful thinking, or perhaps it was simply that the aura of the evil I was about to face was lost in the atmosphere of despair and darkness that permeated the entire place. And perhaps it was because Mournhold itself was in the grip of even greater evil. However it happened, when I quietly opened that door, I was surprised to see a Dunmer dressed like all the other Dark Brotherhood assassins, save that he did not wear the usual head covering that rendered them insect-like and anonymous. I had no time to recover from that surprise, for I was immediately subjected to a still greater shock as he cast a quick spell and a magical bow appeared in his hands. I had become so accustomed to the Dark Brotherhood’s disdain for bows that I never expected to see one of them use one of my spells to conjure a bow from thin air. My dismay lasted until a poisoned arrow punched into my left side and awakened me to the fact that I needed to either fight back or get out of sight.
It was one of the most peculiar fights in which I had ever engaged. The two of us stood some fifteen feet apart firing arrows at one another. More amazing still was the fact that the assassin made no move to protect himself. Even when my steel missiles pierced his torso, he did nothing except grunt as if annoyed and redouble his own efforts to kill me. I, on the other hand, was a veritable blur of motion as I vainly sought cover in the open hallway. Arrows hurt when they strike you, even more so when they are propelled by the magical energy of a conjured bow. I quickly realized that I was in a fight for my life- the other assassins had been bumbling fools compared to this fellow. Something about the eerie silence with which he went about the task of turning me into a human pin-cushion unnerved me. He showed no anger, no fear, just a business-like approach to the task at hand. He was simply a craftsman, going about his craft. In the end, what saved me was my potions. Except this time, it was their bulk rather than their magical powers. Anyone who has followed my story for any length of time has by now realized that when I went “adventuring,” I bore a strong resemblance to a mobile apothecary shop. Thus it was that while my arrows generally found a home in various fleshy parts of my opponent, his missiles were frequently deflected by the many vials and packets that I had distributed about my person. In effect, I was wearing a double layer of armor. At last, my silent adversary ran out of arrows and turned to draw his sword. Just as he did so, I sent a shaft which found a joint in his armor between his upper arm and his torso. The steel arrow punched straight through his body and actually pinned him to the wall. It was also clear that it had severed a major blood vessel- his already grayish face took on an even more ghastly pallor and his movements ceased. As his eyes rolled back in his head, he spoke for the first and last time in my hearing. And his gasping final words sent a thrill of fear through me-
“No- tell my liege… I have failed him….”
Before I could begin to frame a question, he suddenly jerked spasmodically and then was still. Whatever answers he might have had for me were gone forever.
The dead Dunmer had graying hair, worn rather long, and a prominent nose and thin, sour mouth. Clenched between his teeth was a small vial, which gave off a pungent odor. That explained the last, violent shudder before he had died. Knowing that he was doomed, the assassin had taken his own life rather than risk giving up any information. As I searched the body, I learned that his name was Dandras Vules, and that he had been the leader of the Dark Brotherhood organization in Mournhold. Besides the usual armor and a powerful magical sword, that seemed to be it. Or at least so I believed until I noticed some rather interesting stitching on his left sleeve. To my experienced eye it looked like the outline of a secret pocket. Turning the sleeve inside out revealed a tightly rolled piece of parchment. When I unrolled the paper the words “Trey, a Breton” fairly leapt off the paper. I sat down rather abruptly and read the words over and over, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. Though the original parchment is now gone, the contents are forever burned into my memory-
The Bearer of this document, under special dispensation of the Night Mother, who has entered in a contract in perpetuity with H, is given special dispensation to execute Trey, a Breton recently residing on the island of Vvardenfell. In accordance with all laws and traditions, the afore-mentioned personage will be executed in the name of H in the most expedient manner possible. All services of the Dark Brotherhood are at the disposal of the Bearer of this binding and non-disputable document.
How many of us are privileged, if that is the word, to see our own death warrant? Having been treated to that signal honor, I can tell you that it was one I would have just as soon avoided.
How long I sat there, staring sightlessly into space, I cannot say. The words on the paper, combined with Vules’ dying declaration, left little doubt as to who had ordered my death. Still, my mind sought a way out. The “contract” referred to the client only by the letter “H.” There were any number of people whose names began with that letter. Except that, as a small voice in my head reminded me, only the very wealthy and very politically well-connected could hire the Dark Brotherhood. And except that Dandras Vules’ had referred to “my liege.” He might have meant the leader of his foul band, but I knew he had not. He was referring to a king, a king who was rumored to permanently remove “inconvenient” people, a king whose name was Helseth Hlaalu. A king who had ordered my death as casually as another man might order dinner.
(c)2006 Treydog
On to the next chapter