I've got a lead. One of the moldy old books in Mzund mentioned the Forge. Ruined through and through, but I was able to copy down a few scraps, including a map of the first-era Dwemer kingdoms. Need to cross-reference it with modern borders when I get back.
11th of Morning Star, 4E 203
Damn this winter, cursed Decimus in his head. And he had a sound reason to curse too; because this winter was one of the coldest he ever had the displeasure of living through in Skyrim. If it was up to him, he would be holed up in Fort Dawnguard—Fort Merotim, it’s my fort after all. But you have to give it to those fuckers, Dawnguard does sound better than Merotim—with the other Goldpact Knights and Isran, drinking, joking and maybe torturing vampires—or whatever Isran likes to do to keep himself happy these days.
He would wait out the winter there. That would have been his plan but instead; he had to climb the fucking Rift plateau. The eastern pass was considered a minor one, but with a winter like this, the climb nearly killed them.
The Rift would be completely shut-off soon. No one was crazy enough to try get wagons with goods through the eastern pass, and very few braved the western one from Helgen out of fear of avalanches. Rift folk usually went on that pass with horns, blowing them until their faces turned blue and the mountain shook some of her excess weight off her fat hips, sealing off the Rift for most of the winter. As far as he knew, it hadn’t been done yet, but it was only a matter of time.
Despite everything, however, they made the climb up the plateau.
According to Grulmar, they were nearing the mark indicated on the map and Decimus just mumbled to himself the entire way, rubbing his knee. It hurt like bloody Oblivion. Of course, Grulmar noticed, jumping around him like he had ants in his pants, pestering him, practically shoving potions and balms into his face.
“Later,” said Decimus every time, usually punctuated by a spit to the ground and a glare. And the last time, he wanted shove the potion up the Orc’s arse. Lareyne didn’t help either, goading him to do it with a nod. I like you, you know that? Got some real fire in you sometimes…
It wasn’t all bad. He was quite enjoying the view. The trees, actually, though Lareyne’s ass was nice to watch as well. They walked among the snow-laden birches, with more of the white stuff covering every inch of the ground. It was almost as if they were making their way through the very clouds. The temperature wasn’t that bad, though he felt the cold nipping on his face, making his nose run. The wet cold from new snow. Lots and lots of new snow.
He looked at Lareyne, or what he knew was Lareyne under all that fur. “So how far? Hope not much longer. I’m looking forward to sitting down and warming myself by a fire.”
“I bet you do,” she smiled, giving him a wink. He responded by licking his lips. Gru could take the first watch again tonight. Yeah, yeah, he’s been taking first watch a lot lately for you, Old Blade, but you know, your fault, lad, for not embracing your manly—merly—Orsimerly—Decimus chuckled to himself—impulses. “But why are you asking me?” She pointed at the Orc. “He has the map,”
“Not far,” the Orc shrugged. “Just over the hill, I think.” He looked around nervously, almost as if he was expecting another pack of wolves to burst from the trees. At least the bears are holed up for the winter.
“What’s the matter with you?” Decimus frowned. “You got fleas or something?”
“Nothing.” The Orc muttered, looking away towards barren shrubs. Bullshit cover up if I’ve ever seen one, lad.
“Come on, I know you too well,” Decimus pressed. “Worried about Äelberon and Erik?”
Grulmar snorted in disdain. “Couldn’t care less about them.”
“You don’t like Äelberon?” asked Lareyne and Grulmar eyed her, his red eyes snapping a little. She blinked at the Orc’s reaction, but continued. “I mean, how can someone not like him? He’s one of the best Mer I have ever met. A true hero.”
“Yeah, Sir Shiny the Saint,” Grulmar chuckled and then snorted. “Hero my arse. That might be the problem, ya know.” He then kicked the snow in frustration and Decimus saw the tension in the young Orc’s face. What has that poor sod ever done to you, lad? “And then there is the tuskin’ itch.”
“Itch?” Decimus repeated, raising his eyebrows. “What itch?”
The Orc sighed. “It’s just a feelin’, ya know. When he’s around it feels like I got this terrible itch on my balls. An itch ya can’t scratch because ya are in public. Ya know?”
Decimus laughed so loudly that he made the great Greenskin jump. “An itch? An itch on your balls? Are you fucking kidding me? That’s your reason for being such a dick to him all the time?”
“You should cut off its genitals, Imperial,” murmured Galar, leaning against his staff with narrowed eyes, still clad only in his robes, still fucking oblivious to the cold. “Slaves shouldn’t be allowed to reproduce with impunity, and it is of an age where it can sire… things.”
Everyone turned their attention to Galar with ridiculous expressions on their faces. You are one crazy Son of a Bitch, Telvanni.
“Thanks very much, Grim,” muttered Grulmar and Decimus was bloody surprised he let that go just like that. Not the Grulmar I know. He then turned to Decimus, a serious look on his face. “Listen, I have to tell you something.”
“I’m listening.” The Imperial replied.
“Well,” started Grulmar, obviously uncertain how to say what he wanted to say. “Like...ya know—“
“I don’t,” growled Decimus, growing impatient.
“Hmm... I just…” suddenly a grin appeared on the Orc’s face, his tusks becoming more prominent “need to shit.”
Decimus stared at him while the Telvanni rolled his eyes and Lareyne looked at the snow uncomfortably. “You fucking serious? Why are you telling me this? What? Want me to wipe your arse?” He raised his arms into the air. “That’s what all this snow is for. Fucking go!”
“I’ll catch up with ya soon.”
“I hope your arse freezes off,” murmured Decimus, shaking his head. What a stupid joke. I guess that's his revenge for me flapping my dick in front of him. Decimus certainly wouldn't want to pull his own out right now. The stream would most likely freeze half way to the ground and then my dick would fall off. And Grulmar was about to stick his arse up in the air. Ha! That's a very funny picture. His shit freezing to his arse…He chuckled to himself, digging his neck deeper into his cloak.
“You're smiling,” Lareyne poked him with her elbow and he faced her. She had curious look on her face, with fires of mischief sparkling in her vivid green eyes.
He coughed to hide his smile, feeling his face grow hot. “Trust me, you don't want to know.”
“Trust me,” she made a face and imitated his own voice. She held his gaze, “I want to know.”
“Well...I pictured Grulmar taking a shit and the shit freezing half way out of his arse.”
Lareyne let out a ringing laugh, her head tilting back, an unexpected sound from her. She then suddenly tripped and Decimus caught her arm before her face hit the snow. “You're terrible,” she said still laughing, flipping her hood back over her hair. The green eyes traveled briefly to get her bearings, but then honed in on Decimus again.
“Me? Maybe I am, but it seems this company is rubbing off on you, lass. You'll be just as terrible as we are if you stay with us much long enough,” he chuckled, enjoying how pretty she was. You are blushing, Old Blade.
“Mind if I interrupt,” came a voice from in front of them and Decimus’ head snapped in that direction, his hand reaching for the sword at his waist before he even knew what he was doing. “I wouldn't do that,” the voice sounded again. It was a man's voice, a familiar voice.
Fuck.
Just several steps ahead of them was a Nord clad in well-worn iron armor and a heavy fur cloak, leaning casually against one of the birches. “Belrand?” asked Decimus. “What the fuck—“
The snow around them burst into motion as several figures emerged from it, like bears from their denning, their bows and crossbows aimed right at them. Decimus scowled when he noticed a few familiar faces among them. Marcurio, Jenassa, Vorstag. One Orc female and...fucking Stenvar! “Fuckers!” he cursed, spitting on the ground.
“Where's the Orc, Decimus?” sneered Stenvar in response, his eyes scanning their surroundings.
“Taking a shit,” replied Decimus in the same tone, his mind racing through several scenarios for a way out of this mess. He gave up after a few. Dreth’s band had surrounded them without giving them chance to escape. Each of the mercs were standing four steps away from their group, which meant that Decimus wouldn't have time to get close enough. Plus, it was close enough for them not to miss.
Lareyne was standing close to him. He felt her back against his and Galar was standing one step to his left, leaning against his staff, an amused look on his face. You are amused, eh?
“How convenient,” grimaced Stenvar. “You know that he sold you out, right? Little piece of shit.” His tone lowered and Stenvar gestured to Decimus. “Now where's the shard?”
Grulmar sold us out? What the fuck? He was only able to just stare with his mouth gaping open, unable to say a damn word. Nah, that can't be right. Grulmar would never… Grulmar was a survivor; he would leave anyone behind to save his green skin. Anyone? Surely not you...But how else they would know where to wait? Dreth had no idea where the Forge was, and he couldn't figure it out on his own. FUCK! Grulmar!
He composed himself, but he could feel that his face was reddening, so he distracted himself from the reality of his situation and looked at Belrand. He wasn’t as cocky as Stenvar was, he actually almost looked worried. You better be worried, you fucker, I’m getting pissed. “So this is how it is now, eh old friend? Working for a piece of shit like Dreth? And after what we did in Solitude too? Well, it makes sense that shit would clump together.”
Decimus saw how his words hurt the old mercenary, his face twisting in shame. But then Belrand frowned and shrugged. “Dec, you know how this works. We're mercs. We work for whoever pays.”
“Even if it means killing old friends? I thought there was at least some honor among friends.” Decimus replied, spitting at Belrand's feet.
“You're still alive,” Belrand growled, pointing a finger at him. “Because you are my friend and we all harbor some respect towards you. Dreth wants you dead, Bleak Walker wants you dead, but I'm giving you a chance to surrender and see this through. All you have to do is drop your weapons and give me the Shard.”
Decimus spat again and his eyes locked with Lareyne. She nodded and he let out a great sigh in return. He raised his hands to shoulder level in a gesture of surrender. “I fucking hate this shit,” he spat yet again and his eyes jumped from one mercenary to another. They know what they are doing. Those with those bows are positioned well—stray arrow won't hit anyone on the other side if they miss. He looked at Belrand. “Alright.”
“Alright?” the mercenary raised his eyebrows and narrowed his eyes suspiciously. You know me too well, Belrand.
“Aye,” grinned Decimus. He looked at Lareyne and hoped she would be able to raise her ward quickly enough. Let's dance, motherfuckers.
His hands moved to his chest, grabbing the pommels of his throwing knives, and then they spread out, like the wings of a mountain eagle, tossing the knives in the direction of Belrand and Marcurio. They were the dangerous ones, with their spells ready.
He focused on Belrand, who had ducked away from the knife and then Decimus heard arrows release. He jumped forward, rolling over his shoulder and he then heard the arrows shatter against something solid. She raised the ward in time. What a gamble, Decimus, but she’s fast. As he was getting to his feet, he pulled his baskethilt sword from its sheath, frowning at Belrand who tossed a spell at him. Decimus rolled under the green light.
“You've seriously fucked up this time, shooting me with that shit.” Decimus frowned and took another step forward. “Gonna make you pa—“
A green glow coming from the snow stopped him in his tracks and he looked under his feet. Green runes shone with their magic light through the snow. “Gotcha,” grinned Belrand.
“Ah, fuck me,” moaned Decimus and then the Rune exploded. The force of the explosion tossed him to the side and he noticed that it had caught Lareyne in its blast radius as well. She wasn’t that fast. He landed hard on the ground, rolled several times and then he was just lying there, unable to move. Fucking Paralyze! Fucking magicks!
He was lying face forward in the snow, he felt how it melted around his face and in his mouth, slowly creating enough space for him to breath. And in the background, there were sounds. Shouts and screams.
“The magic isn't working!”
“Cast stronger spells!”
“Bring him down!”
“It isn't working!”
He heard a bone break followed by terrible sound, almost like rabbit caught in a trap.
“Watch his staff!”
“Fuck! He's stronger than he seems!”
Just give it to them, Galar! Decimus thought.
“He's casting!”
“Wards!”
“You grey fucker! My leg!”
“Arrows aren't working either! He has some kind of protection spell!”
The ringing of steel, another shout of pain. A growl of anger.
“Jenassa! Now!”
A war cry in Dunmeris. The clash of steel. A heavy thud.
“Hold him down!”
Shit! He’s down!
“Fuck! I can't! He's as strong as mammoth!”
“Just hit him hard!”
Galar was growling in frustration, Decimus heard that. Then he heard a sound and everything went silent, except the heavy breathing from the mercs. That sound before the silence was almost like… Almost like someone hitting the other guy with the pommel of a sword, right between his eyes. Galar? Fuck!
“Fuck me,” he heard Belrand murmur wearily. “Who the fuck is this guy?”
“No idea. But he has plenty of rings and trinkets on him.”
“I noticed that when he nearly crushed my skull with his hand.”
“Yeah, let's relieve him of all that weight and then bring them all to our camp.”
Fuck.
It’s just a game, thought Jagaark as the axe in his hands split a block of wood. He put another one on the chopping block and the axe again fell with precision, adding more firewood to their reserves.
The winter was cruel this year and very few braved the outdoors. He even heard that there was an understood cease fire for the Civil War due to the encroaching hard winter and he found that amusing. For all their boasting, once a winter like this comes, the only fighting Nords are capable of will be in the comfort of a tavern, under the sway of mead and the warmth of a fire.
Just as I said: It’s just a game. A game of faces. Everyone pretending they are something or somebody else. Who in this nasty world would actually want to be what he was born as? To survive, you have to become someone else. Something else.
Being a Bleak Walker wasn’t an easy path because it was all about pretending. An act. Jagaark didn’t consider himself cruel or evil. He was just upholding a creed he believed in. Of all the feelings you can inspire in others, fear will get you the most respect. That’s what it meant to be a Bleak Walker. It was about reputation.
Reputation can work wonders, especially with people who built their reputation on completing contracts with swiftness and precision. No sidetracking, no slowing down, no matter what is in their path, the job was done. Bringing a swift and bloody as possible ending to every problem.
But a longtime contract, Jagaark? You’re going soft or something? No. The truth was that he needed the money. He needed it badly. It was difficult to keeping his family well fed and clothed when they were in Hammerfell and he was in Skyrim. But he wouldn’t let his girls grow up on the streets, begging for scraps. They will live a good life. Not like me.
Jagaark paused from his chopping when he noticed movement at the edge of the birches. He squinted against the glare of the fresh snow, his hands tensing over the axe, ready to throw it, to throw that and then the daggers. Then dodge left towards the tents. There was always a plan. He relaxed a little when he recognized Belrand. He was wondering where he’d gone with some of the others. The other mercenaries were following Belrand and Jagaark’s narrowed his eyes further when he saw more forms being led behind the mercenaries, bound by rope. A familiar bulky presence was among them; the outlines of a rigged up legionnaire’s uniform, the steel catching the sunlight—Jagaark growled, tightening his grip on the axe as he went to intercept him.
The man immediately sensed him and bristled. Even tied up, he didn’t mask his aggression and Jagaark could see the gears turning in the Imperial’s reddening face. How are you going to kill me tied up? He raised his bound hands and gestured to Belrand. “How low have you come, Belrand, eh?”
“Not now…” Belrand started, but the Imperial would have none of it. Aye, he knows who I am.
Reputation. Fear. It’s all part of the game.
“This the company you keep these days? Huh?” Decimus Merotim snarled, his blue eyes like cold fire. “A butcher? A fucking Butcher?”
Jagaark’s knuckles turned white as he tightly clenched the handle of the axe and his jaw loudly snapped as he gritted his teeth.
“At least give me a fucking sword, Belrand! At least give me a chance to defend myself!” The Old Blade kept shouting as Jagaark was getting closer. I’m going to chop your fuming head off. But deep down, he sort of wished Belrand would give the bastard a sword.
As he approached, Jagaark noticed an Altmer female tied next to him and that the big She-Orc was carrying an even larger Dunmer on her shoulder. Tough bitch. A bit rough, but worth her salt in a fight. Her and Jenassa, and where was Jenassa? Jagaark, despite his rage, suppressed a snort. There she was, with Stenvar, supporting a pale Marcurio, his leg bent in a way legs shouldn’t be bent. He's a waste of our time. I would have left him.
Belrand went as white as his hair when he saw Jagaark coming, but nevertheless, he pulled his sword and the Bleak Walker snorted at the action. You think you’ll stop me? I can see the fear in your eyes. Fucking honor among mercs. Fucking honor among friends. “Step aside, old man.” Jagaark snapped, watching the Nord begin to crumple. “Or you’ll share his fate.”
“Jagaark!” yelled Dreth from behind him and he heard footsteps in the snow quickly approaching. Maybe I’ll kill him before Dreth stops me. Maybe I’ll kill him and everyone else if they try to stop me. Maybe… Decimus began to tense his legs. He’s anticipating you, he will dodge. Plan your countermove, he thought as he brought up his axe. He barely heard the cries around him. He only saw the Imperial who was watching him, ready. Then the Dunmer’s voice cut like a knife across the camp. “I order you to stop!”
Jagaark spun around. He saw Dreth stop when the anger flashed through the Bleak Walker’s face. “You order me? You hired me to kill him!”
It was pretty interesting how Elves could compose themselves so fast. The fear of Jagaark’s raw power was suppressed, replaced by a calculating frown as the Dunmer looked at the seething Imperial behind Jagaark’s shoulder and then those red eyes found his. The tone was direct and calm as he spoke, an eyebrow going up. “I hired you to protect me from him and to see this job through,” he replied with confidence and Jagaark frowned in disgust. Dreth then took a step closer and whispered into the Redguard’s ear: “Trust me, you'll have your chance to kill him. He's just, right now, more valuable to me alive.”
More valuable? He hated this scheming. He was meant to just hack people to pieces, spray their blood all over the walls, the trees, the snow—anything. Not obey orders from some conniving Dunmer who knew shit about killing. You can kill everybody right now and Jagaark hesitated. It's all just a game and you need that shit’s money. He let out some air and cracked his neck. Jagaark didn' really want to kill Decimus. He had to, because that Goldpact Knight was the only smudge on the clean slate that was his reputation as a Bleak Walker. No mercy. But if Dreth was saying his time would come...he could wait.
He snorted and walked away.
“Someone finally put a leash on you eh, butcher?!” Bellowed the Goldpact Knight at him as he walked back to the wood pile, but Jagaark wasn't paying attention to it. The point was that his time would come.
“The Shard?” Dreth turned his attention to Belrand who shook his head.
“Greenskin.” The Nord muttered under his breath. Jagaark reached for another piece of wood to set on the chopping block, but his eyes were on the Dunmer. Let’s see how you take that news, Dreth.
“Greenskin!” Dreth growled in frustration as Jagaark brought down the axe, a small sneer playing in his features. The Dunmer was trembling now and Jagaark watched, curious to see if the Dunmer could put that bit of news away. That little twerp of an Orc had played Dreth, yet again. Played him again, Jagaark mused as he chopped wood. But did he? They captured his friends. But were they really friends? It took a little longer this time, but Jagaark saw the Dunmer calm down, the anger replaced by those Elven gears turning in his head. Stare long enough, you could see the smoke come out of those knife-ears. Dreth then walked towards the tents, motioning to the others where they could put the prisoners. Seemed that the Dunmer had a new scheme to plan and Jagaark was glad he would be left out of it.
I'll just wait for the right moment…
Bloody Greenskin! Dreth cursed in his mind. Belrand said they could lay a trap for them, that he had an idea of what path they would take. And they took that very path, only Greenskin wasn't with them and more importantly, the Shard wasn't in their possession. I fucking hope Kahleron will have better luck.
He absently regarded the Dunmer the she-Orc was carrying, sensing the strong presence of hair oil first before blinking several times, and doing a double take. Those robes, the yellow in them, the pattern. You know those robes. That's a Telvanni Magister! What is he doing here?! He noticed that Belrand and others were now heavier by few rings and amulets. Shit… Dreth cleared his throat, they were not going to like this, but it was quite clear they did not know who they were up against.
“Bring the Dunmer to my tent.” They stopped and stared at him. Oh, they definitely feel your ‘and’ in the air, Dreth. “And… return all jewelry you took from him!” He commanded with a voice that clearly showed he wasn't in the mood for any arguments.
“But—“ started Mercurio.
“Now!” Yelled Dreth, cutting off the Imperial mage. “That's a Telvanni Magister! If he wakes up and finds out that you lot stole his magical trinkets, he'll turn you all to ash!” Dreth growled.
Belrand looked at the Telvanni. “So why don't we just kill him?” The Orc smiled. Oh, by the Reclamations, why should I be surprised? Why Azura? Why Boethia, Why Mephala? Just why? Why am I surrounded by stupid people? What did I do to deserve such stupidity in my presence?
Dreth got to the point when he felt like he would explode and then stopped. Explaining myself to primitive mercenaries… Well, this is what happens when you go on the cheap side of things. He took a deep breath. Patience, Dreth, patience. “Because a Telvanni can be more useful as an ally than as an enemy.” The idiots hesitated and he glowered. “Just do what I say! It is what I’m bloody paying you for!”
“And the other two?” Belrand asked with a careful voice. Dreth could tell the Nord was worried about the Goldpact Knight. Belrand didn't want to kill him and most likely promised he won't be harmed. Dreth sighed. Nord bullshit honor and garbage like that. Well, sorry, Belrand, but I’m with Jagaark on this one, he’s probably going to die, but… not now. Those two can be used to our advantage too. Dreth nodded. “Build a spare tent for them, shackle them up, and keep an eye on them.” He eyed Decimus carefully, watching the Imperial glare back at him. He spit and Dreth smiled as his gaze then moved to the Altmer. She wasn’t even looking at him, trembling in fear, and his smile broadened as he followed the She-Orc into a tent. Bet this is way different from whatever dusty library you came from, my little sweet.
It took some time for the Telvanni to wake up. Dreth was glad for that because it bought him some time to ensure that the mercenaries had given up all the trinkets they took. Broken leg and Marcurio still managed to hide a fucking ring in his underbreeches. Fucking disgusting having to search there when he passed out from the pain, but he got it and then punched the mage for good measure. You made me search through your... Dreth shuddered. He knew very well how “fixated” Telvanni were to their enchanted items, and this one certainly wasn't different. Well, he is a little bit different. He's bigger than those two Orcs and that certainly says something. He's used to manual work. Hmm, they didn't leave Whiterun with him. Which means they had to have picked him up at Windhelm. One of the refugees then? Think, Dreth, think. A Telvanni in Windhelm. That rings a bell. Rothen? No, that doesn’t ring right. Rothan? Yes! Rothan!
The Telvanni opened his eyes, blinking several times to clear them. The older Mer rubbed the center of his brow with his thumb and index finger for a few moments and then his eyes found Dreth. One was red and one was strange, grey. It was unnerving to Dreth. He was old, Dreth could tell. Bow, you fool. Dreth lowered his head and spoke. “Magister Rothan. I'm sincerely sorry for what the mercenaries did. They were expecting different prey and if I had any idea you were among them, I would have ordered them to invite you here, instead of attack you. You have my sincerest apologies for that. I hope all your jewelry is here. They tried to steal it but—“
“You talk too much,” growled the Telvanni Magister suddenly, resuming his brow rubbing and the sounds immediately ceased from Dreth’s mouth. He closed his mouth and waited patiently. It was always better to let a Telvanni control where the conversation should head. Telvanni were the most egoistical of all the Morrowind Houses. Just let him think he's your superior and you'll see wonders. “Where am I?”
“At the ruins above the Aetherium Forge,” replied Dreth. “I guess. Hard to tell really, but there is a...pedestal, I think, which has something that very much looks like a lock. A lock only Aetherium Shards fit in.”
The Magister sat up, noticed his amulets and rings laid out carefully on the nightstand next to the bed he had been lying in. The Mer counted them with his eyes, and when he was satisfied with the number, the Magister regarded Dreth and he felt like the Telvanni could see right through his skull with his eyes. Especially the strange grey one. Dreth suppressed his squirming. Please stop looking at me with that eye. I know it can’t really see anything, but it is still rather creepy, so stop. “You think you are clever, don’t you?” the big Dunmer murmured.
“Magister?” Dreth asked.
A slow chuckle from the Telvanni. “You want to strike a deal with me? Alright then, we have a deal.”
“But, you don't know the terms y—“
“Your terms, or whatever bargaining leverage you may think you have, means nothing to me. I will help you get into the Forge and I will be allowed to carry something out. Now be gone from my tent. And see that my pack, my staff, and my other belongings are immediately retrieved and brought back to me.” With a gesture, a flick of the wrist, he dismissed Dreth like he was no better than an Argonian slave, and set about putting his rings back on his fingers. Dreth was furious inside but didn't let it appear on outside. His tent! Bastard! But he bowed his head again and rose to his feet.
“Magister.” He walked out of the tent. Now I'll have to share a tent with the smelly mercs. Unless I throw them out to freeze their arses off. Which reminds me, I have to send them out to search for Greenskin.
But negotiating—if you could really call it that—was certainly easier than I expected. Telvanni are pragmatic and what are these inferior creatures to him? Nothing. He doesn't care about them. Just a means to an end and I can relate to that. Who are these mercenaries to me? Nothing but dust.
I really hope Kahleron will have better results than me.
13th of Morning Star, 4E 203
Kahleron was still bitter about the outcome of the Dwemer ruin. He had the mongrel in his clutches and let him slip. He saw Archer's poisoned arrow strike him, but he wasn't naive enough to believe that would stop him. Kahleron actually wished that it wouldn't stop him, because he wasn't done with him yet. He wanted to be the one who would scalp him, remove the long hair while the beast watched, relishing the terror in those strange eyes of his. Not Altmer eyes. And then he’d stab him in the heart, over and over again, cut off his genitals, or genitals first then heart, and then sever his head. The hair he would distribute among his close circle of friends and ultimately the best locks would go to the Grand Emissary himself with many apologies for over one hundred years of failure. The head he would keep, denying the mongrel the last rites of light forever. And I'll display it over my hearth, somewhere. Though it will need lot of conservation enchantments. The mongrel smells bad enough when alive…
He turned to Archer who was dragging their prisoner behind him. It was barely walking at this point, but he didn’t care. Kahleron came prepared, the silver cuffs around its wrists burning the skin and flesh, poisoning it. Weakening. Its hands were in front, so it could keep to their pace, but Kahleron wasn’t one to take chances, so he buried that piddly little silver dagger Dreth gave him into the demon’s back, just under its right scapula. Most of the time, it was delirious with pain, snarling curses their way about how the mongrel was going to kill them. Laughing at it only made the demon angrier, but all it was capable of was more snarling and foaming of the mouth. So just to let it know he was still frustrated and when its rambling drove him to the edge, he would twist the blade, knowing that it hurt. Kahleron was surprised it didn’t shriek or cry out begging him to stop. Foul creature. I would torture it to death if I didn't need it. I don't understand how he can...like it. He is a priest—or was, that doesn't matter—of Auriel's Order. The demon should have died long ago, yet he decided to lie with it…
Once they emerged from the ruin, they jumped on their horses and rode them nearly to death. They needed a head start to set up the trap. Kahleron knew that the mongrel would be following them as fast as he could. The goal was to reach the Forge long before him, rest up and make him go after them, tired and worried sick about his pet. Because why fight fair? Kahleron had seen the dragon carcass as they left Windhelm. That must have been very tiring to bring down for the mongrel. He looked at the vampire again as they continued walking through the snow. Don't worry, little pet. Everything I do to you is nothing in comparison to the pain he is going to feel. You have my promise on that.
They reached the mountain trail leading up to the Rift plateau several days later and left their dead-tired horses down there. Let the bears or what not have them. Or let them munch on snowberries. Kahleron didn’t care. He expected they would only slow them down and he wouldn’t have any use for them in the Forge. That hair was light enough to carry, the head. All the proof he needed to collect the fifteen thousand.
The climb up was dangerous enough without horses. The vampire slipped at one point, almost taking them all down the ravine. Was it on purpose? I doubt that. It wants to see its master again. It can't live without him. He smiled with a grim satisfaction. He did beat it afterwards and that was fun until its refusal to cry out made him bored. It’s better if the vampires cry out. It disturbed him a little that he talked to it so much on the way, but most of it was about all the things he was going to do its master, so that made Kahleron feel better. If it believes he's alive then I believe he’s alive and if he’s alive. He will come. The smile on Kahleron’s face morphed into a wide grin and he began to hum a little ditty. Some sea tune from way back. Always thought of it whenever he was happy and today, he was happy.
Because the mongrel is finally going to die.
“How far?” he suddenly blurted out towards Archer jovially, rubbing the soft, fuzzy ear of Kitty. Aye, name stuck. Poor little Kitty. I do like rubbing your ear, though. Alfiq ears are really rather soft.
Archer, taciturn since the ruin, pointed towards a hill in front of them and nodded. Kahleron was practically jumping around the old Bosmer by now. Why not? You feel like a youngling of ten again. “You're so talkative these days, Archer.” He teased, still rubbing Kitty’s ear. He’d put a bald patch on it soon, but he didn’t care. The Bosmer sighed and Kahleron pouted sympathetically, furrowing his brow. He imagined the look was ridiculous. “Aww… Still sour about your arrow?”
“I aimed for his heart.”
Kahleron frowned, his prior mood shattering like thin glass. “He doesn't have a heart.” he murmured quietly so that Archer couldn't hear him. He doesn’t. He felt his eyelid twitch and changed his mood again when Archer’s brow furrowed. I’m getting how I get again. You understand, don’t you, Archer. “We'll have to make sure you're re-educated on how to properly aim your arrows. I'm wondering if I should mention it to others?” he continued playfully and then shook his head, watching the Bosmer relax. I’m better now. It’s almost over, you know. We won, he said with his eyes. “Nah, we'll keep it to ourselves because I think you'll make sure you won't miss the second time. Am I right?”
“Your generosity knows no end,” said Archer dryly.
“That's so true. You know me too well,” he laughed, patting Archer’s shoulder. He then regarded the creature thoughtfully. “And how about you, darling? Do you know how generous I am?”
It looked at him, though barely. The vampiric eyes were swimming in delirium, silver poisoning the creature’s undead system. He could see how its veins coursed with the metal. Grey against the ivory pallor of its skin. Not such a pretty princess, are we now? Aye, it was a princess among their kind. Serana of the Volkihar—oh dear, that’ll be ten rites of penance to Auri-El for even thinking its name, Kahleron smiled smugly—didn’t reply and Kahleron was alright with that. He didn't need her to.
“So what are we going to tell that Dunmer? I mean, we survived but his men did not,” Kahleron thought out loud, pausing his walking. Well, really it was more like trudging, but same difference. They were almost there, a plan was needed. “They fell into river? Troll ate them?”
“Killed by the mongrel's friends when he made us split up?” offered Archer.
“Huh?” Kahleron then smiled. “Telling the truth? That didn't occur to me. That really works?”
Archer just shrugged, but the Altmer noblemer could see the glimmer of mischief in his old servant’s eyes. “Usually, my Lord. Though perhaps we should not mention that we first poisoned them and then subjected them to mind-control spells, sending them to their eminent deaths.”
“Agreed.” He gave Jo’Naar a pat on the head. “Right Ki—Jo’Naar?”
Kitty purred. Kahleron turned to the vampire. “Right, demon of the night, blasphemous spawn of Molag Bal’s bad testicle? Oh, who am I kidding, nothing good comes from that fuck. You would know, eh?”
The vampire gave a slow hiss and that time, he gave it credit, he had trouble meeting those eyes.
“We’re all agreed then.” Kahleron nodded, walking with renewed purpose while Archer gave the vampire’s bonds a tug to continue. The eyes closed and Kahleron could feel his weakness in that he was glad in it. Well, it's a choice as good as any.
When they arrived in the camp, it was already getting dark and Kahleron's spells keeping him warm were slowly wearing off. Add to that just being tired. His feet and toes nearly numb from the cold. Trudging through all that snow on foot certainly wasn't pleasant. On Eton Nir, they had goblins for this sort of shit work and he would be born upon a litter. The proper dynamic. There was a no denial he hated the fact that he was in this frozen shithole.
“Stop right there!” cried someone from the side and Kahleron looked there, stopping his thoughts. He noticed a Nord wielding a bow, with arrow nocked and aimed at him. Which one are you again?
The Altmer looked at Archer. “You let them ambush us?”
He just shrugged. “I heard him some time ago, he is very loud.” Archer looked at the Nord in exasperation. “Are all Nords just loud? Know you nothing about tracking and hunting?” The Nord opened his mouth to speak, but Archer continued, “but you said they were allies, my Lord, so I didn’t bother. I will not let that happen again.” Ah, poor Archer, when you are reduced to shrugs and exasperation, it means you are exhausted. Kahleron made a thoughtful frown. She was perhaps stronger than she looked and the Bosmer did have to drag her up the plateau. Hmm, you know a way to cheer him up. He should cook for this group too. Now, that’s an idea, Kahleron smiled.
“Ah, true,” frowned Kahleron and raised his voice to the Nord: “We're allies of Dreth.”
“Allies my arse,” the Nord spat. Kahleron and Archer exchanged glances and he saw Archer subtly reach for a knife. Nord wouldn’t know what hit him—
“Belrand!” shouted another Nord and Archer immediately relaxed a little, putting the knife away. Belrand, Kahleron remembered him now. Bad taste in armor. “Those really are our allies.” The other Nord grumbled, but backed away. Ah, Stenvar. Really, it's good to have at least one Nord on our side. Stenvar stepped from behind a. “I'll take you to Dreth.”
Kahleron nodded. “Well, thank you. Any news?” he asked as Stenvar got closer and out of Belrand's earshot.
“Dreth is pissed. We captured a Dunmer magistrate, meagerster.”
“I believe ‘magister’ is the word you are looking for?” Kahleron pointed out.
“Aye, some magister prick, that’s the precise word I was looking for. Well, we got him, some Altmer She-Elf, and the Goldpact Knight, but Greenskin is still out there in the woods. With the Shard,” said the Nord and then he spat. “I hope he freezes his arse off. But if I know him like I know him, he’s probably somewhere warm with a full belly. Bloody bastard—“
“So Dreth has prisoners then? Well, with this one here,” Kahleron pointed at the creature and smirked when Stenvar grew pale at the sight of it. Aye, you smelly Nord, I’m not such a pansy now that I can catch a vampire, eh? “It will be four prisoners we can use as leverage.”
“Three,” Stenvar murmured. “Dreth made a deal with the other Dunmer, the Telvanni wizard.”
“So, Telvanni, eh?” the Altmer raised his eyebrows.
“Yeah. Which means we have a small problem,” Stenvar looked around to make sure no one was around and whispered. “Dreth knows the Altmer is the Dragonborn. I don't know how, maybe the Telvanni told him or maybe he just put it together, but he knows. He's not really happy about it, you know. He's trying to keep it quiet.” Stenvar uneasily glanced around again. “Not tell the other mercs.”
So now you know who you’re going up against, eh you stupid, stupid excuse for a Dunmer?
“Because the moment they learn, they’d pack their things and run.” Kahleron murmured. Maybe not the big Redguard, but everybody else? Oh, they’d run like a bunch of Altmeri matrons running to a hookah pipe. “So he needs reassurance we can defeat the Dragonborn? Good thing I'm bringing the reassurance with me,” he chuckled in the vampire's direction.
They approached the camp and Kahleron’s good mood turned for the worse. The squalor. Even Archer’s lips pinched tight in disapproval. Not the accommodations I'm used, there's no doubt in that. They had built their flea-ridden tents on the remnants of some Dwemer ruin—or whatever it is—with a big fire burning in the middle. Dreth's big tent was set up a little higher behind columns on even ground. In comparison to mercenaries' simple tents, it looked like a palace. Kahleron noticed stairs leading up the hillside to another tent where one of the Orcs was sitting, serving as a watch. There was another bigger tent, but crudely constructed, the fur barely shutting out the winds. Kahleron guessed it was the tent for the prisoners. He looked at the vampire and smiled. “Archer, tie it to one of the columns. The cold won't affect it. I'm going to speak with our host.”
The mercenaries sitting around the campfire were looking at him with distrust and mainly confusion. He didn't meet with them personally before, so he imagined it must have been quite a shock to see an Altmer and Bosmer walk into their camp. Maybe they think I'll take their share of the treasure. Hmph, as if I was interested in this stupid Dwemer treasure. They can keep it—if they live to see it. If I have Archer cook for you, none of you will see it.
He entered Dreth's tent without announcing himself and found Dreth sitting at a table with another Dunmer—a much large Dunmer—playing some ridiculous Dunmeri game. They heard him enter, but only Dreth raised his head. “Good evening,” Kahleron greeted in his best voice for public displays of decorum. His smile was so wide it was hurting. Fake smiling hurts a lot. Incredible how often you’ve had to do just that.
“You,” growled Dreth. “You son of a bitch.”
Kahleron raised his eyebrows. “What does my mother have to do with this, may she smoke the hookah for another era.” Blasted Dunmer, no sense of humor at all. Just give up. “What I've done this time?”
Dreth rose from his chair and grabbed Kahleron by the arm, pulling him closer, damaging the scarlet silk peeking through his leather slashes, whispering with anger in his voice. “You somehow forgot to mention that the Altmer you're hunting is the fucking Dragonborn! So did you kill him? Do you have the Shard? And where are my men?”
Oh, this isn't going really well. But...who cares? “No and no. And your men are dead,” he replied with a smile and took a seat, taking a few seconds to fix how the silk shown over the slashes of his sleeves when he noticed bottle of Alto wine. His light green eyes twinkled at the prospect of alto wine. At least Dreth had alto wine. “But please.” He waived his hand while simultaneously pouring wine into a goblet. Be generous to yourself, Kahleron, and pour yourself a big glass to get good and drunk with. “Don't tell me you believe that silly Nordic nonsense.”
Dreth suddenly swatted the bottle out of his hand, spilling some of the wine on the table in the process. “I don't, but I can't deny the fact that there's a person who actually kills dragons and is the Harbinger of Skyrim’s local mercenary guild.”
“Oh those mundane things? That’s nothing. He’s also killed vampires, werewolves, werelions, deadroths and not the little shitty ones, but the great big ones with wings and everything, and oh, he’s killed the very issue of Molag Bal too. Do I go on?” Kahleron chuckled. “A big old brute is he. Formidable.” Kahleron smiled drily and looked at the big Dunmer sitting on the other side of the small table. Hmm. That’s the Telvanni Magister living in the slums of Windhelm. Didn't he travel with that Orc and Goldpact Knight? And that...Altmer whore? “What did I miss?” Kahleron pointed at the Telvanni sipping his wine.
“We captured the Goldpact Knight and some Altmer girl,” Dreth frowned and sighed. “Greenskin got away with the Shard. Magister Rothan decided to work with us.”
“And you trust him?” Kahleron smiled.
The Dunmer whose trust was being questioned finally raised his head and looked straight at Kahleron with his one healthy eye. “I believe I am more trustworthy than you, Thalmor. And I advise you not to vex me,” he rose from his chair. “I'm going to take a walk.”
Aurie-El’s Bow! Finally somebody here with half a brain. Figures it would be a Telvanni. Ooooo, you blew my cover! What are you going to do, tell the First Emissary on me? I’m quaking, watch me quake in my boots.
When he left the tent, Kahleron just raised his tweezed eyebrows at Dreth, still smiling. All the stupidity was making him forget the failure that was Raldbthar. “You just let him go? With Greenskin out there?”
Dreth sat on the chair Galar left available with a huff and growled. “Seriously? He just revealed you to be Thalmor and you are alright with it?”
“What can I say? It had to come out sooner or later,” Kahleron shrugged. “Besides, you're not going to tell your men—who would most likely kill me just for their amusement and then abandon you. Because I would be screaming the name of the Dragonborn and then singing that stupid song with my last breath. I like that song.” He let his nasal reedy tenor take over. “Our hero, our hero claims a warrior’s heart…beware, beware the Dragonborn comes.” Dreth's eyebrows nearly met as his frown was getting more prominent with Kahleron’s every word. Which is quite a feat, because Dunmer always seem to frown.
“I tell you, I tell you the Dragonborn comes—“Kahleron continued singing, swinging his goblet in the song’s rhythm, just to be a shit.
“I'm not interested in your Thalmor bullshit,” Dreth snarled, making Kahleron stop. “Let's torture heretics, Talos this and Talos that. Seriously, who gives a fuck about Talos?” The Dunmer pointed a grey finger at Kahleron, shaking it accusingly. “I knew there was something stinky about you.”
“Stinky?” the Altmer chuckled. “I bath on regular basis, thank you very much. So what are you going to do about the Telvanni? He's probably feeding the little Gobliken information. It’s what I would do if people were stupid enough to let me go off alone in the woods.” Kahleron changed the subject again. Yes, Dreth was all talk about killing him, but he didn't really mean it. They both knew Dreth needed him. That's why it was so amusing to sit in that tent and talk with the scheming Dunmer. Because Kahleron was scheming too and he had many more years practice than this little grey piece of shit had. Dreth knew that, Kahleron knew that. It was a perfect partnership. And when Archer finally cooks for you... Yes, Archer’s going to do all the cooking in camp now.
“We've been looking for Greenskin for days,” Dreth waved his hand and sipped the wine right from the bottle. When he noticed how Kahleron frowned at that behavior, he took a proper swig, very well knowing that Kahleron wouldn’t be drinking from that bottle anymore. Fine, Dunmer, no more Alto wine for me. For now, I’ll just get Kitty to steal a bottle from your private stash. “There's no way he can be anywhere close to our camp. And even if he—though impossible—managed to stay close, I doubt he would speak with the Telvanni.” He then looked directly into Kahleron's eyes. “So what's the Thalmor business? You don't give a crap about the treasure, do you? You want the Altmer.”
Kahleron put on his most charming smile, to hide any unintentional twitches in his face. “Yes. See? I didn't lie. There is a huge bounty on his head and I want to collect it.”
Dreth snorted. “So he's not dead. And you cost me four of my men. Why do you think you'll have better chance now that he knows about you?”
That was the perfect time for Kahleron to flash his perfect teeth in confident grin. “Because I have something he...is very fond of. And he'll come here to get it. Most likely with fire blazing.”
Now it was time for Dreth to flash his own confident smile and Kahleron didn't like that, not at all. “Oh, he won't. Not if you have what he wants. So I'll have to disappoint you, my new Thalmor friend. There won't be a fight. There will be a negotiation.”
Kahleron felt his mask cracking as he hit the table with his fist. “Negotiations? What he could possibly have that you need? The Shard? Just take it from his cold body!”
Dreth raised his eyebrows inquisitively and leaned comfortably back in the chair. “Come now, Kahleron. You looked stressed out? What's the deal?”
Kahleron nearly jumped over the table and strangled the Dunmer for death. Nobody will take my kill from me. He's mine! Dreth smiled when he saw how Kahleron struggled for control. You have to control yourself. You're shaming all of Alinor right now, cracking after few stupid words from that Dark One’s mouth. “You see, evidently the Altmer you're hunting has knowledge from the old Tower. That’s hard to come by in this day and age. And specifically, he has old Dwemer knowledge stuck in that brain of his. He knows how to operate the Forge, being a strong smith in his own right, and I want him to smith something for me. So he'll live, he'll be our ally when he arrives. For now.” A sinister smile spread over Dreth's face as he leaned closer. “And after he does what I want...he'll die. Without a fight, without any casualties. By betrayal, a dagger to the back. Because that's what Boethia taught us when we were Aldmer slowly becoming Chimer.”
Where did he get all this knowledge? The Telvanni? Probable. Kahleron rolled his eyes in frustration and growled: “Oh, for fuck's sake. Shove your precious Boethia up your arse. He'll die or—“
“Or what?” Taron Dreth interrupted him. “You'll fight all of us? There's only two and half of you here. Yeah, the cat only counts for half. How many I will lose before I kill you all? How many will you lose before you kill us all? I doubt you would want face him with such low numbers. Our little Daedric-issue killing Son of a Bitch. It's either my way or you can get the fuck out.” Dreth punctuated his last words with another swig of wine.
Kahleron jumped to his feet, nearly preparing the spell to wipe the Dunmer out of the face of Nirn, but then he just sighed. “Fine,” he murmured and went outside. You won this one, Dunmer. It won't happen again.
15th of Morning Star, 4E 203
He heard everyone complain about how this winter was especially cruel and cold, but then again, everyone who was saying that wasn't a Nord. Yes, he felt the cold, the restless icy wind grinding into his cheeks, felt the solidity of the frozen ground beneath his feet, but the truth was that these sensations weren’t anything new to him. Erik was born and raised in Skyrim and the land was his, his people's and they belonged to the land. They were the children of her harsh winds. Her breath, as the Harbinger—Ronnie sometimes put it. Skyrim was harsh and unforgiving, just like Kyne, but without trials, you can't figure out what's in you, what’s important to you.
And Erik had been through some serious trials lately. He emerged from them, still walking, still breathing, still able to wield a weapon into battle. He'd been tested and proved his mettle and that meant a lot to Erik. At first, when he woke up in Windhelm, with a crippled hand, he wanted to give up, wanted to kill himself. But Ronnie made him see. It was just another trial and once he realized it, he lowered his head and pushed forward through the deep snow and chilling wind. Just like the old Mer did. He didn’t complain either, nor did Aela. A wolf pack of Jorrvaskr, strong and on the hunt.
They reached Rift in a few days, climbed up the plateau through a mountain pass, riding their horses to the limit of their strength. And their horses carried them. Allie reunited with her Master rode with a fury that Erik had never seen in the girl before. Jeek was nearly as aggressive. They pushed themselves to the limits. Erik understood Ronnie’s urgency to make it to the Forge, only to be surprised when he ordered them to take breaks. He had to practically force the horses to cool down. They didn’t want to, they wanted to ride for them until their legs gave, especially Allie, but a stern look from her master stopped her snorting and frets of protest, and she rested to. Stern looks became tenderness when he would comfort the poor, uneasy beast during their breaks. It was like she knew Serana was gone. I would have ridden them to their deaths, Erik thought and then shook his head. It actually isn't that surprising. Ronnie is not a cruel master, he would never do something like that to such loyal animals, and by Talos, how that horse loves her master. She would carry him to Oblivion and back!
Ronnie and Aela went to scout ahead and Erik stayed behind to watch over the horses. He decided to treat them each to a well-earned apple. Allie gobbled hers up, nearly taking Erik’s good hand in the process. Jeek nibbled gently, savoring every bite, though he had to drive Allie away several times. The third horse was from the stables in Whiterun and not one Erik knew, though the gelding had more than proven his mettle in the hard ride. All three were sporting their thick, shaggy winter coats, making them look almost like tall cows. They decided to set up a camp to the east from the ruins where Forge was supposed to be. The hill provided enough shelter and gave them enough time to spot anyone closing in on them. Ronnie was certain they were looking for them. Erik just hoped that Decimus and Lareyne were alive. Well, Decimus, definitely, the bitch, well, he didn’t care so much about her. Erik grumbled to himself, don’t be that way. Even if she hurt you, she doesn’t deserve to die. They surely were more useful alive than dead to Dreth.
His own men weren’t useful to Dreth, it seemed. He and Ronnie had emerged from Alftand’s great lift, relieved to see all four Shield-Siblings there. As it turned out, they didn’t need to do any fighting, Dreth’s men had arrived to the lift in such poor shape, ravaged by the effects of poison, that all their brothers and sisters could do was watch them die. Aela had done her best to treat them, feeding them carbon to absorb the effects and making potions, but the Redguards succumbed first, followed by Benor. Erik saw how Ronnie rubbed his sore left shoulder when they were shown the bodies. The bloated, pasty skin, the dried blood streaking their lifeless eyes, nose, and mouth. The stench. It was like they were eaten from the inside out. It was grisly particularly for Farkas because he knew Benor. “I shared mead with that man.” He had growled softly, covering the dead Nord’s face with a fur. “That’s no way for a Nord to die.”
The fat arse then nearly blew his top off when Ronnie sent he, Athis, and Lydia home, taking only Aela to continue. They argued back and forth and Erik watched the wolf pack squabble. Truth be told, he understood both arguments. Ronnie was struggling and all saw through the façade of strength, noticing the stiffening gate, the cracking bones, the lack of magic, the lack of sleep. And at the same time Erik understood where Ronnie was coming from. Farkas had the baby coming, Athis had his schooling, and a seasoned warrior like Lydia was badly needed at Jorrvaskr while Ronnie, Erik, and Aela were away. The smaller the party, the more hidden, the better for all of them. They pressed him hard about where Serana was and the old wolf snapped them into silence. The bone-chilling way he said “The Silver Hand are not the only ones brutal enough to hit our family at Jorrvaskr” hit them hard and fast, changing their faces. So, Ronnie won the argument in the end, but the three wolves that were sent home were bristling over it, Farkas going all blotchy like he does when he’s trying not to cry and Athis’ long face grew even longer. Lydia only hugged all three of them before she mounted her own horse, not even saying a word. Erik was sad to see them go—
A twig snapping under someone’s feet and the crunching of snow brought Erik out of his memories. He watched Allie and was surprised that she was just watching the direction of the sound, munching on snow berries. Who was it that she wasn’t getting how she typically gets? Hmm, somebody she knows. Erik then smiled with a dark satisfaction. You are so smart, Allie, thanks for telling me exactly who’s here. He rose slowly to his feet and drew his sword, remembering the look the vampire gave him. We’ll have our day, Serana…
Grulmar appeared from the behind a big rock and spotted Erik. “Oh, tusk me. Erik! I've finally found ya,” Grulmar greeted him. The Orc looked tired, with black circles under his eyes, and his clothes were dirty almost as if he had been sleeping in the mud. “Where's Shiny?” The Orc looked around. “I need to talk to him.”
“He's—“started Erik, but then he stopped himself. He wanted to say that he went to scout ahead with Aela, but then it hit him. What that other Altmer had said, what happened to Serana. What happened to Decimus and Lareyne, yet Grulmar was standing here in front of him. Ronnie tried to convince him otherwise, but Erik knew Grulmar better than he did. He had stolen with him, committed crimes with him. He knew what Grulmar was capable of.
“He's what? Where? It's important. I need the Shard,” continued Grulmar, taking a step towards Erik. “Dreth has Decimus and Lareyne, I need to—“
“Yes?” Erik growled. The sound made Grulmar stop in his tracks, his red eyes going towards the sword in Erik’s hand. Aye, that’s Sos kiin, you shit. I can wield a weapon. “And how is it that you're not captured too, hmm? I know what game you’re playing.”
Grulmar frowned. “Erik, I don't have time for this. I've been sharin' a cave with very grumpy bear for days, ate only honey, and drank damn snow. I need to talk with Shiny to figure out what to do next.”
Erik took a step closer and Grulmar took one back, now clearly alarmed by Erik's stance. “You're so full of shit!” he yelled in anger and the Orc took another step back, surprised.
“Stop yelling!” Grulmar hissed, his eyes darting around to make sure they were not heard. “They're searching the woods for me.”
“They knew precisely where to go, Gru. They ambushed us at Raldbthar. And not just Dreth’s men, a fucking Thalmor, you fucking piece of shit. Made Dreth’s men from Whiterun look like incompetent fools. With his Witch magicks, he brought a whole army of Falmer on us like it was nothing to him! He killed Dreth’s own men! A monster! You sent a monster for us!” growled the Nord, who took another step towards the now still Grulmar. “They then poisoned Äelberon. He barely survived.” Another step. “They killed Serana, after she fought to protect us. Fought to protect your fucking precious shard!” Step.
“Because of you.” Step. “You've finally proven what you are.” Step. “And it ends now.”
“What the—“ the Orc known as Greenskin started, but Erik was finally close enough. Grulmar's eyes nearly popped out when Erik raised Sos kiin with his healthy hand and took a swing at him. It took him off-guard, Erik saw the surprise. The Orc dropped on his back, falling into the snow. You didn't expect I would finally see through you, didn't you? Now I see clearly what you are.
Grulmar rolled through the snow down the hill and Erik pursued him. “Honorless piece of shit! All the things you made me do! Stealing!” he swung his sword at the Orc lying in the snow. He rolled to side and threw a handful of snow into Erik's face, to buy himself enough time to get back on his feet. But Erik knew his dirty tricks very well. While the Orc rolled over his shoulder backwards, trying to get back on his feet, Erik took a step forward, wiping the snow from his face and kicked, hitting something. “Robbing the dead!” he raged as he pursued. “Burglary!”
He caught up with the Orc lying in the snow again and kicked him in the ribs. “Enough is enough!”
The Orc looked him straight into eye and growled. “I agree.” His feet locked around Erik's right knee and twisted, sending him face forward into snow. He buried the sword into the ground, using it to stop his fall and he managed that, but then the Orc kicked him right in the face. Erik reeled from the blow and hit to snow, releasing the sword from his grip.
He then felt the Orc’s knee on his back, his hands on his head, lifting it up slightly. Erik gasped, trying to push up. “I didn't force ya to do anything, ya hollow-egghead! Ya wanted to see the world and I showed ya how the world looks!” He then slammed Erik's face into the snow and he felt how the frozen water filled his nose and mouth. He wasn't able to breathe. He tried to roll over, but the Orc grabbed his healthy arm and twisted it behind his back. “Ya never complained!” growled Grulmar into his ear. “And then ya joined the stupid Companions, filled yer head with their bullshit, with his bullshit, and ya dumped me like yesterday’s trash. Filth. A stain on yer tuskin' honor!”
Erik managed to free his left arm from under his body and he swung with the elbow behind him, hitting Grulmar's ribs. The grip on his other arm eased and he was able to roll over, sending Grulmar back into the snow. “Shit!” the Orc hissed in pain.
And then Erik was over him, his hands finding Grullmar’s throat—well, mostly the right one, the left one wasn't able to clutch its fingers. “I trusted you!” Erik shouted as he strangled. “And you were only using me!”
The Orc was trying to pry his fingers, but Erik was holding tight. Then Grulmar moved his head and bit into Erik's left forearm. The pain shocked him as the broken tusks buried deep above his wrist and his grip weakened. The Orc took advantage and managed to twist under him, freeing his legs and in another second, he locked them around Erik's neck, holding his right hand straight. As soon as he locked his legs, the Orc tightened his muscles and Erik found out he couldn’t breathe, now choked by his own shoulder. “I wasn't usin' ya! I was teachin' ya!” He continued, both their bodies straining. “Trustin'! Dependin' on ya!”
“Bullshit,” Erik growled, saliva dripping from his mouth as he wasn't even able to keep it closed, gulping down every sip of air he could. He managed to get his legs under himself, and with a heavy groan, he rose to his feet, taking Grulmar with him. And then he rammed the Orc into the ground. He felt the lock weakening, heard the cursing, and did it again, just as his vision was slowly growing blurry and dark. The second time the Orc slammed into the ground, his legs loosened. Erik took a deep breath of the cold mountain air, then reeled when the Orc's fist hit him right in the face. He could hear the horses begin to fret, especially Allie. Oh shit, what now?
“Erik!” shouted someone from beyond the camp and he raised his head to see Ronnie standing there, Allie already rushing to her master’s side. Did she fucking chew through her tie again? He looked back at Grulmar’s face, only to see a flash of steel out of the corner of his eye. Pain erupted from his left side. His back arched and he growled like a wounded animal. His eyes found Grulmar holding a knife, covered in blood. The pain...ribs. He...You...really did it.
“You…” he murmured, but that was all he was able to do. The darkness was closing in on him, he wanted to shout his denial, he wanted to fight it, because he wanted to live. But he couldn't, because the blow sapped all his strength away. He heard fast, heavy footsteps approaching.
Avenge me, Shield-Brother. Make the shit pay.
He felt his body hit the snow as if he was far away. While the darkness finally consumed him, he heard the betrayer's voice.
“I'm sorry. I didn't want it to end like this.”
Decimus pulled on the chains holding his wrists, grunting with effort. A private war between flesh and metal. With sigh of frustration, he dropped the chain. Metal won again. Why do I even bother? How many days is it? Lost count. Losing my mind. He and Lareyne were chained up in a larger tent, which allowed them to stand and even walk—three steps one way, three the other, like caged bears. The chains lead from their wrists to the stone floor—most likely the remnants of a Dwemer ruin—where their captors melted the stone and soldered the chains into it. Probably one of the Orcs because none of the others looked like they could smith for shit.
They had to sleep on the ground, with their fur cloaks serving as blankets and the only thing keeping them warm, because they didn't have the luxury of a fire. Not true, at night, Saint Belrand the Merciful—I fucking hate you, you piece of shit—brought them a small brazier they could warm next to. Nord never made eye contact and it only infuriated Decimus. Yeah, he spit on him more than once and the older Nord took it, the guilt clear on his face. There was a bucket in the corner, when they had to… shit and piss, yeah. Nothing cements a relationship better than taking a nice, long, juicy shit in front of your lovely other half! Ah, don’t fucking lie to yourself. You're not with that she-elf. You were both just taking what you needed. Not that they did it while being held prisoner. Neither of them were that desperate. Not yet, anyway. And he was too cold. And he smelled like shit… Go on, Dec, just sulk like a baby who’s lost his favorite toy… He sighed again.
“Why they didn't kill us?” asked Lareyne, holding her knees. She looked small like that and he could tell that she had lost some weight since Windhelm.
Decimus looked at her and frowned. He wanted to lie, he really did, but he always believed it's better to know the truth. It might hurt her, it might even push her over the edge, but at least she'd know the truth and not live in a lie. “They eventually will,” he murmured. “But my guess is they need us right now, as leverage. They want the Shards.”
She put her head between her knees. “This clearly wasn’t what I was expecting when I volunteered for this adventure at Markarth.”
He shook his head and chuckled. “Nothing ever goes as you'd imagine, lass. That's life. This fucking world. It's how it works.” He then leaned closer and put his hand on her shoulder. “But hope dies last. Äelberon is coming. He'll cook something up. He’s a smart bastard.”
The furs flapped as someone entered the tent and Decimus' muscles tensed automatically. It was Jagaark, carrying a plate with fresh meat and a tankard of some liquid. Decimus immediately smelled the delicious flavour of roasted venison and licked his lips, his stomach now screaming at the prospect of real food. But he reminded himself who was carrying it. Probably here to torture us. Eat that venison while we have to eat that grey...something. Oat mash my arse. Probably just boiled ash seeing as it was a Dunmer running the show. Cheap as fuck. “You came here to kill me, you fucker?” he growled in Jagaark's direction.
“How's your knee, Merotim?” Jagaark asked with absolutely no emotion in his face.
“How's your fucked up face, fucker?” Decimus spat at Bleak Walker's boot. The Redguard just looked at it and shrugged. He put the food and tankard on the ground and took a step back. “That poisoned?” he pointed with his chin towards the plate, his eyes boring into Jagaark’s.
Nothing, no emotion, nothing.
“No.”
“So what's the catch?”
Jagaark's eyes were staring at him with no interest or life in them. It was almost like if the Redguard was looking through him and he found it unnerving, but he didn’t dare show it. “I found out what they were feeding you. I hunted down a dear and put the rest to the snow. You'll be eating that from now on.”
Decimus then eyed the food. Roasted venison, bloody and pink. Not the dried brown shit you see in camps. You know meat, Dec, that is fresh. Even Lareyne was looking at it, the hunger clear in her eyes.
“Why the fuck do you care?” Decimus stared back at him.
Bleak Walker crouched down, looking at his fingers, repeatedly stretching them and clenching into a fist. “There will come a moment when you'll no longer have those chains around your wrists. When you'll be in your armor again, your swords in your hands. I just want you to be at full strength, not weak and pathetic. Because in that moment we'll settle our dispute for good. We'll find out who's the better killer.”
Decimus blinked few times and then laughed out loud, his laughter ringing in the tent. Bet you can hear that outside, Dreth. He then wiped tears off his face and looked at Jagaark with a smirk on his face. The Redguard was calmly staring back at him with those dead, lifeless eyes, like a doll’s. “You know what's sad?” he asked the Redguard. “That it's so fucked up I actually believe you. It really is something only you could come up with.” He grabbed the venison and ripped off a piece, chewing it with delight before washing it down with what was in the tankard. Ale—fucking ale! He then ripped the meat in half and offered it to Lareyne who gratefully took it.
“Hmph, this is precisely the reason why you ended up here.” Jagaark snorted and pointed at Lareyne. “You care about people. It makes you weak. I didn’t give her any food. She can starve.”
Decimus took another bite, the warm juice dribbling onto his beard. “Whether you care about people or not doesn't make you better or worse swordsman.”
“That's what we are going to find out, aren’t we?” the Bleak Walked flashed a dead man's smile. “I threw out all feelings and honor to become what I am, to become the best. There's no baggage pulling me down.” He pointed at Decimus and the Imperial was half tempted to bite off that finger. You’ve not turned cannibal, Old Blade. “But you have lot of baggage. You trusted your little green friend and look where it got you.”
Decimus scowled. He didn't need a reminder of Grulmar. Part of him wanted to believe he didn't do that, but he knew him. He couldn't deny the facts. He was certainly capable of that. “That's bullshit you know. It's not about whether you are a son of a bitch or a saint,” he growled, still eating. “It's just about your state of mind during the fight. The balance between your mind and body—“
“Exactly,” the Redguard interrupted him. “And your mind is distracted by things like honor, friends, and other similar nonsense. I'm not distracted—“
“Oh but you are, you are!” snorted Decimus. “You’re distracted by an ego that would make an Old Mary blush at its sheer size. You want to be the best, which means you'll definitely make a mistake that will cost you your life. Just like the last time, remember?” Decimus raised his eyebrows in a goading manner. He noticed how Lareyne was just watched them, her green eyes blazing with curiosity. Aye, a nice little pissing contest you’re seeing here, lass. Sorry about that, but we, men sometimes gotta piss. He took another hearty bite of venison, like an animal, a wolf. “You nearly had me and then you became confident. I took a piece of your face as punishment for that mistake.”
“I nearly chopped your leg off,” Jagaark growled.
Decimus chuckled. “Only because the bandits we were both tracking ambushed us. Because you just couldn't fucking wait. I dodged a fucking arrow and you tried to take my leg, for fuck's sake. You’re not even the best blade I’ve come across, you know that?” He spit for good measure. “Aye, you’re not. Best blade I know is fucking old enough to be your gods-damned, fuck, I don’t know, a bunch of greats granddas. And he nearly died besting me because he wasn’t better than me either.” Decimus stopped chewing. Why was he thinking about Ronnie? Fucking Potema’s catacombs, that’s why. When that bitch almost took your soul forever. Decimus resumed chewing and eyed the Redguard hard. “That bastard would beat you in minutes, boy, and you wouldn’t even come close to killing me in a fair fight—“
“No fight is fair,” the Bleak Walker murmured, walking outside the tent.
Decimus opened his mouth to argue and then remembered the light. Ronnie had shoved a light in your face. And that’s how the old fucker won. Desperate to save you, he blinded you. Decimus chuckled. No, no fight is fucking fair, you piece of shit Redguard. Granted, being possessed by Potema didn’t exactly make it fair from his end either.
Decimus stared at the tent’s wall and then turned to meet Lareyne’s gaze. Her eyes were careful, probing. I bet you fight fair, he suddenly smiled. She smiled back and Decimus shrugged, resuming his meal. Yeah, huzzah to that. This whole fucking world isn't fair. I'll keep that in mind when we cross our blades again, you fucker.
16th of Morning Star, 4E 203
Morning came sooner than Dreth expected, mostly because he had slept really well. The wine certainly helped. It wasn’t delicious, but it kept him warm. He shared a bottle with Kahleron—who had been very sour these past few days. Actually, the Altmer was now being exactly how he perceived Thalmor to be, dropping the façade of the jovial Kahleron, dandy of Tamriel, in favor of the austerity that came with having the pole of the Aldmeri Dominion perpetually shoved up his arse. But if you want to play my game, you have to learn to lose sometimes. The Telvanni’s information was too tantalizing to pass up. If he was telling the truth, which he probably was. Telvanni have little reason to lie. For now, Dreth needed the Dragonborn alive; alive to reveal the secrets of the Forge. Sure, you could figure this out yourself, but gah! Who has the years to devote to that shit, especially when somebody else could do it now? I mean, that is precisely what you did with Katria. She did do all the work. Somebody else does the work and you profit. This is your game, Dreth, and you are great at playing it.
He scarfed down his breakfast and donned some warm clothes, surprised by how excited he was. Practically trembling with it. It was like holding the first copy of Aetherium Wars in his hands all over again. He knew it; it was going to happen today. Dreth stepped out of his tent, oblivious to the cold and took a deep breath of mountain air, a big grin on his face. If he was a total fool, he would burst into song, but he was no fool. He was Taron Dreth, the greatest Dwemer scholar in all of Tamriel—take that, Calcelmo—and today, you are going to discover the Aetherium Forg—
He almost tripped over a lump of snow that had accumulated against a column. Except that it wasn’t hard like rock or soft like snow, but it felt like tripping over a… a body? Why was there a body attached to a column? Did a prisoner die? Ah fuck, it wasn’t that cold! He opened his mouth to call for Belrand, but then paused when enough snow fell from his near fall to reveal the vampire under it. She was still chained to the column! That was three days ago! Oh shit! Was she here this whole time? And you didn’t notice? Gods, is it even alive? Dreth wrinkled his nose, letting his brow plummet at the prospect. He was going to have to—he squirmed—touch it. He tentatively leaned towards it, his index finger extended. It still had the silver cuffs on her wrists and the silver dagger in her back. He poked her shoulder and let out a gust of air and perhaps a squeak when he was rewarded with a weak, rumbling hiss from the creature. She was alive. Barely. She must be in terrible pain. Dreth looked around camp and chewed his lip in thought. If the Dragonborn shows up and sees her like this, sees what was done to her...all negotiations might end up in Oblivion. We can’t have that.
“Belrand,” he called out, raising his voice. When the balding Nord didn't answer, he searched the camp carefully from his position. Most of the mercenaries were gathered around the big fire, eating their breakfast, but Belrand wasn't anywhere to be seen. Dreth then noticed Jagaark emerge from the tent where they kept the prisoners and Dreth motioned the Redguard over. What was he doing there? Probably taunting the Old Blade. Stupid warriors. They treat everything like it is a giant pissing contest.
“What?” The Redguard grumbled.
Dreth blinked. What? What do you mean what? I’m going to give you an order, you big oaf! “Pull the dagger out of the vampire. Can’t make her worse than she already is. Besides, if she dies, we may lose important leverage.”
The Bleak Walker stared at him for a few seconds, his eyes looking through Dreth like he was air and then he shrugged. He strode towards the vampire, his feet crunching heavily in the snow. Her head was bent low, the chin touching the chest. She was filthy from travel, blood, and mud. The armor was torn in places, more than likely from brushing against branches while Kahleron traveled. Her hair was greasy and badly tangled, hanging over her face like a veil. Jagaark grabbed her by the hair and pulled her head up roughly, exposing her face to Dreth.
Kahleron had beaten the vampire. Severly. Shit, Dreth cursed quietly. Did he take out all of his frustration at not catching the Dragonborn on her? The vampire’s face was covered in bruises and cuts, her nose caked with dried whatever it was she bled. In addition, Dreth could see her veins prominently against the backdrop of her pale skin. She bared her fangs at Jagaark, but the threat lacked any strength or will. She's weak, poisoned. Near death, or whatever happens to undead like her. The Redguard grabbed the hilt of the dagger and ripped it out of her back, holding her hair tightly. She growled in response and Dreth snorted. She's a tough one, there's no doubt about that. Or maybe her whole kind is. Thankfully I’ve never had to deal with vampires.
Galar walking towards him interrupted his thoughts. The Magister walked in the brisk, purposeful gait preferred by members of his house. Dreth bowed his head a little in a sign of respect while Jagaark let go of the vampire’s hair with a rough push. She hit her head against the column and Dreth heard another low hiss escape from her. He couldn’t be bothered with her now and Dreth addressed the Telvanni Magister. “Good morning, Magister. I hope you slept we—“
“He's coming,” announced Galar Rothan and Dreth raised his eyebrows. Never walks around hot soup, does he? No, just dives right in.
“Who's coming?” he asked and the Telvanni just pointed with his staff to the north. Dreth’s eyes found Belrand huffing towards them, running at full speed. His grey locks were jumping from side to side and his bald spot reflected the sun’s light, nearly blinding Dreth.
“The Altmer is coming! And fuck, he’s huge. By Talos they are fucking big sometimes...” The Nord panted when he arrived in the camp, putting his hands on his knees to catch his breath. “And he has the Greenskin with him. As a prisoner.”
Dreth frowned. “A prisoner, you say? Well, well, well…” He clapped his hands together and then rubbed them in anticipation. “Seems like the Orc finally messed up. Everyone suit up!” He shouted at his mercenaries. “Be ready for anything. There might be a fight, or we might venture inside that Dwemer ruin I was talking about.”
“And who will we fight?”
“What Dwemer ruin?”
“The one we're standing on, you idiot.”
“I don't see any entrance.”
“Malacath's toe, you're even more stupid than you look, human.”
“Everyone shut up!” shouted Dreth, shaking his head in exasperation. Mercenaries…
Kahleron sleepily crawled out of his tent, rubbing his eyes. It was clear to the Dunmer that he was more than a little hung over. That could work to your advantage, Dreth. “What did I miss?” he gave a yawn and then noticed the vampire. His eyes narrowed, anger beginning to build in them. “Who pulled the dagger out of the vampire? I demand to know. She must be control—“
“Shut up,” growled Dreth and Kahleron raised his eyebrows in genuine surprise. Yeah, you got that right, Altmer. I'm full of your shit. Dreth turned to Bleak Walker and pointed at Kahleron. “Jagaark. If he does anything suspicious, cut his head off.”
Kahleron raised his finger to point at Dreth, his long golden finder, and opened his mouth to say something. The Bleak Walker then did what Dreth paid the Bleak Walker good money to do. His black sword, ebony from Dreth’s estimate, escaped its sheath, cutting the air faster than Dreth could follow. The blade stopped right on Kahleron’s finger, who immediately froze, with his finger still pointed. A single drop of blood dropped into the snow.
“Just a warning,” murmured Jagaark. Kahleron took a look at his finger and attempted to smile, but his pale face was frozen.
Serves you right. Actually, I'm quite surprised the Bleak Walker just warned you and didn't cut your head off outright, Dreth thought, very, very much amused. Now let's just hope Jagaark doesn’t fuck up the negotiations. It will be tense enough as it is with that arrogant Altmer.
The camp was suddenly full of activity, gone was the calm and quiet of the morning. The mercenaries were putting on their armor if there weren't wearing it already, checking their weapons and they took positions which would give them an advantage over the coming Altmer. Dreth was clever enough to tell them that the Altmer was dangerous, but not that he was the Dragonborn. Supposedly, if they knew that, they’d run. He learned long time ago to know when people would break and when not. And knowing who they are standing against would break them.
Their quick silence made Dreth turn. The Altmer appeared and Belrand didn’t lie, he was huge. Kahleron was tall, but this was. Dreth blinked, but then suppressed any further emotion. Just learn what you are dealing with. He walked from around a rock, steering the Orc in front of him by a bear paw of a hand grasping the collar of the Orc’s fur cloak. As they drew closer, Dreth noticed few things. The first thing threatened to make him grin in satisfaction. The Greenskin had taken one Oblivion of a beating, his face a collage of black, purple, blue, and yellow. The second was the Altmer himself. Perhaps it was the cloak of black bearskin that added to him, complemented by the armor of leather and darkened metal, but Dreth dismissed it. He was a big Mer. A big Mer with a big bow and a big ebony bastard at his side. You couldn’t even lift that thing, Dreth. He walk suggested that he wasn’t dealing with a spoiled brat like Kahleron, but a seasoned warrior. Aye, warrior, because nothing on that Altmer suggested he was a mage and Dreth actually wasn't sure if that fact was disturbing or not.
“Very clever, you mongrel,” murmured Kahleron behind Dreth and the Dunmer frowned. What's that supposed to mean? He looked at Greenskin, who certainly looked beat up but otherwise he walked with...vitality. There might have been even a grin on his face. Hmm. Damn it. You let yourself get captured, didn't you, Greenskin? Leading the Altmer straight here, hopefully with both Shards. You are one clever Orc, aren't you? And a dangerous one.
The Orcs took a position alongside Dreth, serving as a vanguard for anything to come and Dreth was glad it was those two standing next to him. They certainly were equipped to take the brunt of any attack with their orichalcum armors. Kahleron and his Bosmer friend took a position to Dreth's left, right next to the column the vampire was chained to, Jagaark remained close to the brat and Dreth secretly hoped he’d fuck up so Jagaark could make good on his threat.
Stenvar and Vorstag stood right at the top of stairs the Altmer was heading to, their weapons ready. Jenassa was standing a little to the side, out of sight, ready to launch her surprise attack. Marcurio with his sore leg was holding higher ground, at his tent at the side of the hill. Belrand stood at Dreth’s right, his sword in hand.
“So what's the plan, boss?” the Nord spellsword asked and Dreth smiled.
“Be nice, be ready for anything. We won't be killing the Altmer, we need him. I'll try to strike an alliance with him. So be quiet and ready, alright?” Dreth explained and heard how Belrand murmured something. Galar Rothan suddenly appeared, sneered at them all and then went straight to that strange pedestal, to study it some more—as if several days weren't enough.
“Shor's beard,” mumbled Belrand, his eyes on the Altmer as he approached. “That's...the Harbinger.”
Harbinger of what now? Another stupid Nordic nonsence? He shot Belrand a look and frowned at him, but the Nord barely noticed it. The spellsword knew who they were dealing with. Does he know that our guest is Dragonborn?
The big Altmer walked past Stenvar and Vorstag without an acknowledgment and when he was only a few steps from Dreth, much to the Dunmer’s relief, he stopped and shoved the Greenskin towards him. The Orc dropped to the ground, eating snow with his face and Dreth sneered. “You should work more on your plans, Greenskin.”
The Orc looked up, wiping the snow from his face and grimaced. “I brought him and the Shards didn't I? So stop complainin’, Poshmouth.” He quickly got back on his feet and waved in Kahleron's direction. “Hey, Dandy.” So they know each other.
Dreth followed the big Altmer's gaze towards Kahleron and the vampire. He was surprised the Dragonborn didn't even flinch when he saw the vampire or Kahleron. Just stared at them with those eyes, studying. Now that they were closer to each other, Dreth could make them out. Very interesting eyes, astute eyes, like a bird of prey. The big Altmer, or was he? The skin wasn’t right the right color for his race. Very pale. He then smiled and faced Dreth.
“I am Äelberon of Dusk,” the Altmer said. The voice was low but without any anger or tension. “Those who know me—well met.” The eyes fell on Belrand and then Jenassa, and he nodded in their direction. He knew where Jenassa was! So much for sneak attack. You are more observant than I gave you credit for. She emerged from her spot as there was no point to hiding anymore. The eyes then found Dreth. He was old, Dreth observed, about Galar’s age? What is it with these third era relics? The Altmer released a sigh. “I suppose we should start our wee chat then? This race should come to an end and I, for one, would like to avoid unnecessary bloodshed. But…” His hand closed over the hilt of his ebony bastard. “If you give me reason, I will defend myself and my friends.”
Dreth smiled in return, giving a little nod. “Taron Dreth, pleasure to meet you—“
“Pleasure my arse,” interrupted the Greenskin, who had moved to the fire to warm up. Dreth shot him a look, seriously considering killing him on spot. No loss there.
“Where are my companions?” Äelberon of Dusk asked and Dreth was about to answer when Belrand beat him to it.
“They're in the tent, Harbinger.” he answered hurriedly, pointing behind him towards the larger tent. “Not harmed. Though the Telvanni...is living by better standards.”
Dreth frowned in annoyance. Why is everyone talking? I told them to shut up and let me do all the talking! Nothing goes as planned…
Äelberon’s regarded the tent and then faced Belrand, bowing his head a little, though Dreth noticed that his eyes never left them when he bowed. “Thank you.” He then reached behind his back and everybody drew their weapons. The big Altmer stopped his motion calmly and released a chuckle. “Jittery bunch, eh? Do you want the shards or not? They are in my pack.”
“You may proceed.” Dreth nodded. The Altmer eyed the mercs with their weapons drawn and Dreth saw a tiny smirk appear.
“But they will keep their weapons drawn, of course.”
“Of course.” Dreth smiled.
“I would expect nothing less.” The Altmer replied, shrugging off his pack and searching through it. “It is a bit of a mess, my apologies, but…” Dreth’s eyes immediately fell upon the pieces of shining material the Altmer pulled from his pack. The shards. “I know where they are.” The Altmer let his pack fall and held the shards up for Dreth to see. “Hmm, pure Aetherium.” He murmured and Dreth saw a small frown creep over his features as he studied the shimmering blue crystals with narrowed eyes. “Brit. Vortii brit. Nuz grik soviis fah ful mal truk. Goltnu do lir. Goltnu do lir...”
What was that? A language?
“You want this?” Äelberon interrupted Dreth’s train of thought. “These shards? Well, I want my friends to be safe. You can take them if you release them. The shards are worthless to me. You can keep the treasure, and everyone walks away.”
Giving up the treasure are you? Nah, I'm not buying that. You know that without you there is no treasure. No, no, no you won't beat me in this game. Dreth saw how Kahleron was outright grinning by now and had even laid his hand on the vampire's shoulder, squeezing hard, trying to provoke the Altmer. But Äelberon wasn't taking the bait. This one wasn’t so obvious and Dreth didn’t know what to think on that. Taron Dreth looked at Jagaark and motioned with his eyes towards Kahleron. The Bleak Walker slightly turned towards the Thalmor and the hand quickly disappeared from the vampire's shoulder, earning a snort from Jagaark.
Dreth smiled and shook his head. “You know, this negotiation is just a courtesy from my side. I could just take those Shards—“
The large Mer only smiled, nodding and he looked older now to Dreth, like a grandfather and his tone was matter-of-fact. “Aye, I suppose you could. There is only one of me and many of you.” He gestured to the other mercs. “Your weapons are drawn, mine are not.” Dreth could practically feel the tension in the air. He could tell some of the mercs wanted to rush him, to get the shards. “But…” The Altmer let the word hang, his red-orange eyes finding Dreth’s again.
“—But.” Dreth echoed. “You and I both know you're the only one who knows how to work the Forge.”
“Exactly, Master Dreth.”
“Well, help me, and I’ll let your friends live. But they will remain here under guard until we get the treasure.” Dreth then frowned and looked at the Greenskin blowing on the fire, “as the Orc says. All your friends will walk out of—“he paused, his mind taking a spin as the realization struck him. “Where is the ginger one? The one called the Slayer?” Dreth couldn’t help but chuckle at the last bit. Slayer he was certainly not.
In that moment, Äelberon clenched his jaw, and finally Dreth saw what could have been suppressed emotion. Huh?
“Dead,” chirped the Greenskin, getting up to walk right up to the big Altmer. The cheeky Orc stood right up at him, taunting the much larger Mer who was looking at the Orc as if it was a minor annoyance. I bet he gave you headaches too, Dreth groaned inside. “Got a knife up him, right between third and fourth rib. No, wait. I think it was fourth and fifth, which is why he was spittin'blood out. Had to ease his way out of this world.” He slid with his finger across his throat, grinning at the Altmer. “Like this. From one ear to another, finally getting a smile on his face—“ His taunting abruptly ended when the Altmer head-butted the Orc, sending him backwards, right on his arse. The mercs erupted in laughter and Dreth was surprised. That Orc had bone protrusions. The Altmer knew precisely where to hit and again Dreth didn’t know what to make of that. “Tusk!” the Greenskin yelled as blood poured from his forehead.
“Another word against my Shield-Brother,” The Altmer growled, “and I will end your existence.”
“Oh, you have my leave.” Dreth waved his hand, because he didn't really care. Maybe the Greenskin still had something to offer, but the way he was irritating everyone around him certainly outweighed his usefulness. The Orc shot Dreth a hard look and crawled back to fire, holding his forehead. “I'm actually surprised you didn't kill him already.”
Another chuckle from Äelberon of Dusk and the Mer rolled his eyes before regarding the Orc with a wrinkled nose. “Eh… At first, I was perhaps thinking I could trade the little dung heap there for my companions, but now I see that is not an option you are willing to explore.” The Altmer faced Dreth again, another smirk forming. “I do not blame you. He is quite an annoyance.”
“Honesty?” Dreth raised his eyebrows. “How refreshing. Does that means we have a deal?”
The Mer scratched his beard in thought, eyeing the forge, the mercs, and then finally Dreth. “What are my guarantees you will not try to kill me in the Forge once I give you what you want? Or that you will kill my companions?”
Dreth just shrugged, knowing that he pretty much won. It went easier than he expected. The Altmer was candid, but not particularly bright. “None. You'll just have to trust me—“
A big belly laugh escaped from the older Mer that caught Dreth by surprise. “Of course, of course, Master Dreth, how silly of me. You have been more than fair.”
“You have my word, Äelberon,” Belrand stepped up. “Decimus is my friend and I remember what you did for the city of Solitude. What you both did. You can trust me that I won't stand against you. I'll watch your back.”
“Your words of honor are appreciated, Belrand.” Äelberon nodded graciously while Dreth just stared in shock. He abandoned a contract? Just like that? Dreth knew he shouldn't have trusted Belrand. He was trying too hard to keep Decimus alive. They were friends after all, whatever that meant in mercenary life. Taron thought, at first, that money would convince Belrand that friendship is nothing compared to wealth, but apparently he was wrong. You just had to protect your friend, didn't you? And now you are trying to protect another one. You should have seen that coming, Taron. But you didn't know who that Altmer was. Now you know and you are paying for your ignorance.
“You look a bit sour, Master Dreth.” The Altmer observed. You do have a face, change it, immediately. Perhaps he is brighter than you anticipated.
“Oh, just a bit surprised.” He gave Belrand a look. Enough to make the Nord look away, but not enough to look overly angry. He saw Kahleron bite his lip and he felt some heat creep to his face. He faced the Altmer again. “There was a contract.”
“Oh, aye, one of those.” The Altmer nodded casually. “Ah, well, money cannot buy everything, friend. Money cannot buy everything.” The Altmer then regarded the Orcs standing at Dreth’s sides. “And speaking of friends, greetings, Blood-kin! That is some fine Orichalcum you are sporting.”
What!?
The Altmer pulled back the hood of his cloak, releasing a mass of silver-white hair, disheveled from travel. He then pulled down the collar of his armor and tilted his head to the right, revealing the left side of his muscled neck. Upon it was a burn and Dreth squinted to get a better look at it. A burn mark, deep into the skin, permanent and blackened, in the shape of the letter “K” in Daedric script. Dreth noticed the Orc were staring at it very carefully, their eyes narrow, their tusks bared.
Borgakh the Steel Heart growled: “You bear the mark, Altmer. But which clan? Who is the chief? Marks can be simulated. Who has let you in?”
“A valid question, female.” Began the Altmer, his tone immediately lowering in pitch. He then drew his weapon, making everybody tense up. “Do you see this sword?”
“Yes.” She nodded. “It is a fine weapon.”
He held the weapon in his hand, swinging it several times to show its balance. It moved quickly, slicing through the air. He saw their faces, saw how they grasped their weapons, and stopped mid-swing. “I should put this down before you get any ideas, but indulge an old Mer for a spell while I answer the female’s question.” He sheathed the sword and faced Borgakh. “If you are of the strongholds, you will know that only ebony from the mines of Narzulbur could possibly forge such a weapon. The privilege and knowledge of the craft was obtained by slaying Ulik the troll king at the request of Chief Mauhulakh.” He then tilted his head to the side and that infernal smirk appeared again. Dreth was beginning to hate that smirk. “Though one could argue that it is actually his aunts, Yatul and Bolar, who run the stronghold.” He spoke with such confidence. It was similar to how Galar spoke and it was…It just took so much balls.
The she-Orc then smiled, flashing her tusks. “One of his sons should challenge him very soon, he's becoming weak.”
“Oh, most definitely.” The Altmer agreed.
She looked at Ghorbash and nodded. Both Orcs then stepped forward and took their places at Äelberon’s side. Äelberon’s! Not his! “We stand with our Blood-kin. No contract,” she growled in Dreth's direction. He just stared, opening his mouth like a fish gasping for air. No words would come out.
Kahleron’s laugh made Dreth start. This certainly isn't going how I planned it. Even the Greenskin was grinning. I hope you'll die slow and painful death, you fucking beast. No remorse that you betrayed your own companions? You're not on anyone's side, eh? You'll just try to screw us all I bet. “Anyone else would like to change sides now?” Dreth barked, throwing his hands up in the air in frustration. “Anyone? Hmm?” His eyes scanned for any sign of further betrayal from his hirelings, but it seemed that they were satisfied enough with their salary to stay loyal. For now.
They were all payed, just mercenaries. How could he not rely on them? They were his for the duration of the contract. It was all about money. He wanted to be rich, to be famous, so was it wrong that he expected everyone else to be the same? They are mercenaries, for fuck's sake! They shouldn't turn his back on him because of...honor, or other similar bullshit. If someone paid them more, then yes, he would totally understand that. He would change sides too if someone offered him more. But nothing like that happened here. The big Altmer offered nothing. He only appeared and Dreth lost Belrand. Then he flashed that fucking weapon and talked about a fucking troll and two Orc bitches and he got the Orcs! All done with a charming smile and a pleasant manner that was just not what Dreth was expecting. They just screwed him over, forfeiting their payment for fucking honor. He slew a troll, so the fuck what?
“Good.” He snapped. “So now that we’ve settled this matter, could we get to actually striking the deal or is there something else we need to discuss?” He knew he was not properly hiding his feelings now.
“Well, I’d love a salary increase. Since we’re negotiatin’.” Mentioned the Greenskin. He then shook his head. “Oh, wait. I'm not gettin'any payment, am I?” He sighed. “Why do I even bother then?”
“Right,” Dreth frowned. “You're redundant. So maybe I should just kill you.”
A boom of a chuckle from the Altmer. “He certainly would deserve it,” Äelberon quipped, not even bothering to look at Grulmar. Yes, he's beneath you. I certainly admire your calm, Altmer. That Orc just sold out your friends, betrayed you, and killed that Nord that was supposedly his friend and your Shield-Brother, or whatever you had called the Slayer? You should be mad, enraged, and yet you are calm. Fucking idealist! The Altmer sighed, his eyes briefly traveling to the Orc before meeting Dreth’s again. “But, alas, as I said, I would like to avoid any additional bloodshed. And that even applies to the little annoyance over there, warming himself by the fire. The Orc will remain here with the rest of the prisoners—“
“Not a chance,” Dreth interrupted, shaking his head. “I would prefer to keep him close, so I can keep an eye on him. He'll try to screw us over eventually.”
“That seems to be what he does.” The Altmer smirked, eyeing the Orc.
“Hey,” the Greenskin protested.
“Ah, poor Greenskin…” The Altmer clicked his tongue sympathetically. “Verily, you are sulking, youngling.”
“Tuskin’, Altmer.”
“Are you all done talking?” shouted Galar Rothan from the hill. “Please, strike that deal already or kill each other, but would you be so kind and hurry? I don't have all day.”
Grulmar snorted. “The tuskin'Telvanni will outlive us all.”
The Altmer laughed. “Verily.”
“Dreth! Will you tell that giant albino windbag to just shake your hand! By the Reclamations! Typical Crystal Tower protocol! Bloody annoying.”
“Yeah, yeah, at least we were civilized enough to not live in fungi.” The Altmer muttered under his breath. “And they called us uncivilized…”
Dreth blinked. This entire conversation had not gone as expected, but he nodded, agreeing with the Telvanni. Aye, the Telvanni is certainly something else. But isn't it just a megalomania? Who knows. But he has good timing. “So alliance then?” he extended his hand towards Äelberon.
There was a brief hesitation, the Altmer's eyes scanning his surroundings, noting the positions of all present. Dreth could almost see the wheels spinning in the Altmer's head as he was trying to figure out a way out of all this mess. Then the Elf then sighed, as if a decision had been made. “Alliance.” Said the Altmer simply and then, instead of shaking Dreth’s hand, he walked with the shards past Dreth to take a peek inside the prisoner’s tent. “Hello, Old Blade.” He rumbled softly. “You were uncharacteristically quiet. Have nothing to say?”
Dreth heard a loud spit and the Altmer chortled again as the Imperial blustered. “Just be quick about it, Old Fart. My ass has been freezing here for too long. And would you do me a favor? Beat the shit out of that green brat for screwing us over.”
“Knight’s Honor, old friend. Knight’s Honor.” The Altmer nodded and headed towards Galar. The two exchanged glances and Dreth found those two impossible to read. He really hated old Mer.
Dreth turned to the Greenskin with frown on his face. The Orc shrugged and looked around. “Ya know what? Goin'down there doesn't sound like very good idea, now that I think about it—“
“Stenvar!” Taron motioned and the Nord grabbed the Orc by collar and led him up the hill.
Kahleron joined up with Dreth, standing with his hands crossed over his chest, a smile drier than the Ashlands upon his chiseled Altmeri face. “I bet that didn't go as planned? He tends to do that. It is exasperating.” He sneered and Dreth found himself wanting to kill him too. The Thalmor then looked at the vampire. “Aww, poor little pet. Did you see that?” The Altmer tutted sarcastically, shaking his head in mock-sadness. “Poor, poor little dear. Your master didn't even look at you. You think he still cares about you? I certainly doubt that.”
The vampire looked him right in the eye and grinned, baring her fangs. The first flicker of life appeared in them since she was chained to that column. “In the moment right before you die,” she began; her voice hoarse from her ordeal, but eerily calm. “You'll understand what real fear is. I have seen it. You will die a horrible death.” Dreth and Kahleron stared at her for a few moments and the Dunmer felt a shiver going down his spine.
“Sure, you can believe that if you want, pet.” The Altmer sneered in response. She only chuckled menacingly and resumed staring at the distant mountains, her eyes far away.
Unphased by the vampire’s cryptic words, Kahleron leaned closer to him and whispered: “I want the Altmer female going down there with us. As a guarantee. He's trying to hide it, but he cares for that girl a great deal. Did you notice how he didn't even mention her?”
Dreth narrowed his eyes. Yes, I did notice that. Was there a reason why he didn't mention her specifically? Is he hiding something? Hmm. Better to be sure than dead. “Yes, bring her with us.” He looked at Jagaark who began walking towards the prisoner’s tent. He glanced at Kahleron again and shook his finger in a stern warning. “But remember our deal. If you try something before I get what I want, you'll lose your head.”
Kahleron smirked. “Trust me, I have lost it too many times when Äelberon of Dusk was involved.” A wicked smile then clawed its way to his face. “It's not going to happen today.”
Dreth frowned and he pointed with his finger at Kahleron and tilted his head, giving Jagaark the signal to watch him closely. Then he turned to Marcurio on the hill. “You're staying here. Watch over the prisoners. Everyone else: Move out!”
“Alright,” Marcurio smiled, relaxing against his tent. “Better to get payed for doing nothing than dying and getting nothing.”
Dreth then followed the others up the hill, towards the pedestal, where Äelberon had just met with the Telvanni. The Altmer nodded politely to the Telvanni. “Magister Rothan.”
“Knight-Paladin Äelberon,” the Telvanni replied curtly, not even looking at him. The Telvanni certainly didn't make a big deal about his own betrayal of his companions and neither did Äelberon. Maybe the Telvanni didn't even think about it that way, not really paying attention to it. How can one betray a dog? That's probably what they were all to him. Just animals, beneath him. How can you betray someone who's not an equal to you? The Tower Altmer was the curious one. He did care, it seemed, but at the same time he wasn’t showing it. Wasn’t sniveling, wasn’t crying, wasn’t begging, wasn’t angry. He was actually rather pleasant; treating the whole thing like it was bloody holiday with his dry quips and smirks. Well, he does kill dragons and if Kahleron was indeed right, he had seen a lot worse. This is probably nothing to him either.
Even Dreth felt that way most of the time, superior. Superior to these barbaric Nords who thought they were civilized, claiming to live in cities and such, but the truth was they were just filthy primitives living in hovels in comparison to Morrowind's clearly superior civilization. If only so much of it wasn't destroyed…
“You figured it out then?” asked Äelberon, studying at the pedestal. “How to open it. It was a puzzle, but I understood when I carefully studied the shards I had as I traveled. I see a groove here—“ the Altmer laid his hand on the pedestal, under that weird Dwemer compass or whatever it was, but Galar rudely pushed his hand away with his staff. The Altmer only laughed. “Oh, Galar, what do you think I am going to do, break it? Really, Telvanni, you are something else.” He teased and then quickly added in a hushed whisper, like he was deliberately spoiling some grand secret. “They form a key.” He laughed again when he saw the Telvanni’s sour face. “Beat you to it.”
“Yes, yes, yes. The Shards are a key. Literally a key. We just put them there and it will open.” Galar growled and motioned at Dreth with an extended hand. “Give them to me.”
“Is that all? Just put them there? Are you sure you are not missing something?” The Altmer questioned.
“No, I am not.” The Telvanni shot back stubbornly.
“Mhmm.” The Altmer nodded and then faced Dreth, “Well, you heard him, the shards. Cannot keep the Magister waiting.”
Taron Dreth hesitated, for he didn't really want to part with them. They were important, priceless even. He knew it was a childish thing, but that didn't change the fact he was unwilling to part with them. Plus, what if it's some kind of trick? “You first,” he said to Äelberon.
“Of course.” Äelberon replied, handing them to the Telvanni without complaint. “It is your turn, Master Dreth.” Are you teasing me? Reclamations take him, he was impossible to figure out and the behavior was clearly annoying Magister Rothan as well!
The Telvanni inserted both shards into the hollow at the top of pedestal and Dreth heard some click. Galar then turned to him and extended his hand brusquely. Dreth frowned and reluctantly parted with his shards, putting them in Galar’s hand. Galar set the shards down in the hollow. It clicked again, the metal fastened the shards together, making the entire unit spin few times and then it stopped.
“Fascinating.” The Altmer observed, raising an eyebrow.
“Indeed.” The Telvanni concurred.
“Isn't somethin' supposed to happen now?” asked the Greenskin after few seconds of silence, while everyone was waiting for something to happen, like some secret door opening or something. But nothing like that happened. “Maybe we should take it out?” the Orc brought up. Äelberon’s eyes immediately honed in on the Orc before focusing on the pedestal again. It was a small movement, Galar had missed it, but Dreth noticed it.
“I agree with the youngling. I would recommend pull—“ The Altmer started.
Galar scowled, crossing his arms over his chest. “I did not ask you! And I will not listen to any more of that pig’s suggest—“
Oh why not? It’ll either work or kill the lot of us. Dreth shot him a look and picked the...crest up before Galar could stop him. Because it was a crest now, the shards held together by the Dwarven metal. He then felt a trembling under his feet. “What?”
“Off the platform!” Äelberon shouted and everyone jumped away from the pedestal, putting some distance between themselves and the stone until they stood on the ground, snow crunching under their feet. The trembling was getting stronger to the point they were barely able to stand on their feet. Dreth extended his arms to keep better balance, looking around. An earthquake? A trap like in Arkngthamz?
Then the ground rose up, literally shooting up to the sky, like a volcano spews ash, sending a gust of snow into the air as a building pushed itself up through the ground. Everyone fell to the ground from the force, and the snow that shot to the sky fell upon them like an avalanche. Dreth covered his head, with the crest safely under him, hoping his death would be at least quick. And then it stopped.
“I suppose we're not dead,” the Greenskin murmured, poking his head from the snow. “Otherwise the Elves owe me money, because if this is Aetherius, it looks like shit.”
“Just shut up, Orc,” Kahleron snapped at him, brushing the dirty snow off his fancy leather.
Dreth inspected the structure now standing on the place of pedestal. The Forge? Hmm, no. “It's a lift,” he exclaimed. “Like those that dot Skyrim. Shortcuts leading to major Dwemer cities.”
“It would seem so.” Replied the Telvanni, sinking to the ground again. The bastard had levitated to protect himself from the falling snow and trembling earth while the Altmer had removed his cloak and was dusting the snow from the black fur, his eyes though were on the lift. He set the cloak carefully next to his now closed pack and waited.
“That means we have to go down there?” asked Stenvar, getting back on his feet. “I hate narrow corridors.”
“If you knew the Dwemer as I do,” Dreth sneered, “you'd know we can expect everything but narrow corridors.” He entered the building, seeing the level in the middle. He faced the others and smiled. “So are you coming?”
As the lift suddenly moved and started descending, Belrand's stomach jumped up and down and for a second he thought he was going to puke. Damn Dwarves and their inventions! He hated Dwarven ruins, all those automatons and strange machines. He was a Nord, he believed in flesh and blood and fighting pure metal didn't fit him well. At least he had his Destruction magicks to deal with those. He took some contracts to recover artifacts from Dwarven ruins from time to time, but he never was happy about it.
They were all squeezed in that lift. The Altmer, Kahleron, and his Bosmer companion, the cat on his shoulder and that She-elf, tied, standing next to him, were on one side of the lift, keeping their distance from the others. Dreth was standing right in the middle, next to the lever with Vorstag and Stenvar keeping an eye on the Greenskin, while the Bleak Walker watched Kahleron and Jenassa watched Äelberon. Belrand stood next to Äelberon with their Orcish companions and the Telvanni.
He didn't want to admit it, but he had a bad feeling about this contract right from the beginning. Going against Decimus...well, it wasn't the first time. It happens from time to time when someone is making a living as mercenary. But he didn't want to kill him, and he was doing his best to prevent that, though he had made a huge mistake with the Bleak Walker. I shouldn't have recommend that fucker to Dreth.
It certainly was a tense ride. It seemed so easy at first, but right now, Belrand saw three groups that would eventually try to kill each other no matter what. And Äelberon was the first target.
He didn't even know him as Äelberon then. The Elf had used a different name, Rovaniik. Wanderer the old Mer had said it meant. Squire of the Goldpact Order, Decimus then quickly added, with a big arse drunk grin on his ugly face and a loud laugh. That the Mer didn't protest floored Belrand because the bastard was certainly big enough to sit on the Old Blade, but no, he took it from the Imperial, even in the Blue Palace. Squire, Belrand's arse. They had first met in Dragon Bridge, meeting secretly to discuss the details on the crisis that was plaguing Solitude. The hauntings. The cries in the night. The profane massacre of the Temple of the Divines. The terrible murders. The Squire of the Goldpact Order becoming Holy Priest, dawn magicks escaping his hands. And a demon with silver. Only at the very end, after he and Decimus had earned their rewards for putting Potema to final rest, did Decimus reveal the Mer to be the Harbinger that had replaced the great Whitemane. The Dragonborn, the Harbinger of the Companions and the most unassuming person Belrand had ever the pleasure of knowing. Noble, almost to a fault and devoted to anyone he called 'friend'. The Dragonborn. Belrand had to make sure nothing happened to him. Even if it meant abandoning a contract for the first time in his life. But these people were wrong to target him. Don't they understand? Don't they see the bigger picture? There are dragons shredding this land to pieces and I'm supposed to help kill its prophesized savior? Where will we be if you kill him?
Then the lift suddenly stopped and Belrand knew they had arrived at their destination. He felt the heat on his face and everything was lit by dull red glow. They stepped off the lift and Belrand was left gasping at the sight that was before him. The cave was...enormous. He had never seen a natural cave as big as this one. Right in front of them was something like natural bridge, connecting the lift with island and then another bridge to the other side of the cave. Relatively narrow stone bridges way above a lake full of spitting and bubbling magma below. If Belrand's estimation was right, to cover from one end to another would take them at least half an hour.
“I tuskin'hate heights,” murmured the Orc and Belrand frowned in his direction. He met him several times before and he always seemed to him like a little piece of shit that would trade his own mother for a gold coin. And as it looked like he wasn't wrong about him. He just didn't understand why Decimus wasted his time with that brat, just as Erik the Slayer wasted his time with the Orc. The Greenskin was just trash, a piece of shit without any sense of honor.
“Then don't look down,” growled Stenvar. “Or maybe you would like to take a closer look at the lava down there?”
The Greenskin looked down over the edge and then immediately took a step back. “After ya.”
“Smartass,” Vorstag spat. The Nord was about to grab the Greenskin to bring him closer, but Dreth cut him off.
“Let's go,” ordered Dreth, pointing towards the path ahead of them. “Let's not waste time with chitchat.”
Belrand snorted and let the Dunmer pass, watching how the Elf held his head high, like he was better than everyone else. You already see yourself at the Forge, don't you? Holding the treasure in your hands and selling it to a buyer who will pay the most, hmm? But Belrand understood that. Money moved with the world. He wouldn't be a blade for hire if he didn't want money, but that wasn't the first reason he became a mercenary. He could have been a soldier, a guard, or maybe even mage, but it was the land that ultimately sang to his heart. Roaming the land was what appealed to him. He was young and stupid back then, but now it paid the bills, it was what he did to earn a living. Killing mer, men and monsters for money and he never regretted it. It was an honorable work—if someone had honor to begin with. When he looked at Dreth, Belrand just knew that some didn’t understand the concept of honor. He then looked at the proud Mer walking next to him, his back straight, eyes ahead.
And some did.
As they walked over the bridge, he maintained his focus on Äelberon and coughed to clear his throat. “I'm sorry for what has happened, Dragonborn,” he started, letting the words gurgle out of his mouth. “I didn't know it would come to this. I just wanted to make sure Decimus didn’t get harmed, but if I'd known you were involved—“
“Do not think on such matters, friend. Taking a job is nothing to be ashamed of. I was a merc once too.” Äelberon looked at him and smiled.
“You were?”
“My apologies for not being forthwith with you when we first collaborated in Haafingar. Aye, back in Cyrrod. For a long time too. I had to be as you first met me, a wanderer on the fridges of society. An exile. Pursued by the Thalmor of my homeland. I am no Vigilant, no member of the Fighter’s Guild. And Cyrrod did not recognize my holy Order, so to them, I was a merc. A merc with some peculiar talents, but a merc, in their eyes, none the less. I understand, Belrand.” He nodded and gave Belrand a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “What is past is past. I appreciate you standing by me now and that is what matters. Also that you made sure no one was harmed. I just hope it remains that way—that no more blood will be spilled.” He let his hand drop and the two continued their walk.
“You don't really believe that.”
The big Altmer sighed and flashed another small smile, but this one had sadness behind it, the weight of his many years. “No, I do not, I am not that naïve. But hope dies last.”
“Let's hope it will be the only thing to die,” Belrand murmured and looked behind him at Kahleron and the She-elf he was pushing in front of him. “They'll try to use her as leverage, to disarm you, to kill you without a fight.”
Äelberon shrugged as he glanced back at Kahleron and the She-Elf. The other Mer smiled a cruel smile before Äelberon resumed facing forward. “They will try, yes.”
The rest of their journey occurred in silence and Belrand used it to watch their allies. He also noticed that Äelberon was doing the same, his eyes traveling from one person to another, memorizing their weapons and how far they were from their hands. His eyes, however, always went back to Greenskin and Belrand understood that. If it was true that Greenskin sold all his companions out, eventually killing Erik...Belrand would kill him. He would beat the crap out of him and then kill him, to Oblivion with all the others. He would kill them all. Yet the Altmer restrained himself and Belrand didn't quite understand that. He knew Äelberon’s patience was endless, but he also saw him burn with righteous fury. The kind of righteous fury that can kill in seconds, leaving the Solitude court frozen when their court mage became a pile of dust upon the floor. The court was stunned after that display of raw power from the Squire of the Goldpact Order. Even he and Dec, battle-scarred veterans, just gawked at the ancient warrior’s holy might. Granted, the court exploded afterwards, but this, this was definitely time for that kind of fury, yet it didn't come, leaving Belrand puzzled.
They reached the small island, which meant they were half way to their destination. Galar who was leading their procession, stopped there and leaning on his staff eyed the remains of some building that was standing there. In its prime, it must have been a building, but only a wall was left. Äelberon stopped next to the Telvanni “It looks to me like once this cave was home to a sprawling city. It must have been a marvel.”
Galar nodded and looked around the cave, with a ceiling so high that Belrand almost didn't see it, even with the lava illuminating it. “Yes, a very long time ago. Most of the cave collapsed down there,” he pointed at the lava, “taking the city with it. Question is: Did it happen before the Dwemer disappeared or after?”
Äelberon stroked his beard in thought. “Well, I saw the defenses in Raldbthar. Complex ones. I am of a notion that the cities did fight over Aetherium and the Forge. It would make sense, do you not think? A battle, aye a battle, with siege equipment of Dwemer make? Armies of constructs?” He paused looking down at the lava lake below it. “Aye, the destruction from a force like that can cause a city to collapse.” The Altmer frowned and chewed the inside of his lip. The others were beginning to shift, impatient, eager to get their treasure, but Belrand noticed Dreth listening intently and Belrand didn’t blame him. Äelberon’s mind was a mind worth listening to. “But what kind of city was Bthalft? A mining city? No. It was quite clear that Raldbthar, with its connection to Blackreach, was the mining city—“
“Who knows?” the Telvanni shrugged, interrupting the Altmer. “Dwemer were crazy. And you talk too, too much.” He hit the ground with his staff and then followed the others towards another building on the other side of the bridge. Belrand nodded at Äelberon and they both followed the Telvanni.
The heat was almost unbearable, and while Belrand had put hours at the forge when he was younger, this heat was something else completely. He wasn't even sweating, all the water coming out of his pores was just vaporized by the heat and he felt how the iron armor on his body was warming up. It wouldn't take long before he and others would be boiled inside their own armors. He noticed how others quickened their pace—probably coming to the same conclusion as he did.
They finally reached the building on the other side, not even catching their breath as Dreth pushed forwards, up the wide stairs. Belrand was checking his surroundings, looking for pipes that would spit out Spheres or Spiders, but nothing like that was there. A guardhouse maybe? Where the real Dwarves were stationed?
They passed a withered husk of a tree at the top of stairs, rooted there, almost like a memorial to something. But as it looked now, it was a very sad reminder of a once glorious race who brought its doom upon itself. Is that what eventually happens to all of us? We turn to dust, to be forgotten by history? Whole nations gone just because of the nature of us mortals. It doesn't matter if we are humans, elves or beast-folk, we're all basically the same. We eventually forget what we once were, forget our own history. How much truth was in Ysgramor's arrival from Atmora? Or Wulfharth getting our lives back?
They reached the gate and Dreth was looking around for an opening mechanism. Belrand saw how frustrated he was getting when he didn't find one and then he heard Grulmar laugh. “And ya call yerself a Dwemer expert.”
Dreth growled something in response to that and then Belrand noticed Äelberon taking that golden bow of his from his shoulder. Okriim, he remember the name. The Eagle.
“Easy peasy.” The Altmer smirked quietly, eyeing Kahleron. Kahleron noticed that too and lightning appeared in his hand. Belrand prepared a Ward, not really thinking about what was going on, just that he'd follow the Dragonborn.
He could have killed any of them if he wanted to, but he didn’t. Instead Äelberon took aim and quickly released an arrow and it flew high, much higher than Belrand expected. Everybody watched its trajectory and then it struck something high in the wall. A small thing that looked like a shovel with a blue light on it. There was a sound, almost like a bell, resonating through the cave and everybody turned around with alarm. Except Grulmar and Äelberon. Those two had smiles on their faces.
“I am surprised you do not know about tonal locks, Dreth.” The Altmer quipped. Belrand could see Dreth seethe while Äelberon nocked another arrow, aiming for another of those strange shovels. His aim was true and the gate opened. “They are easy to figure out if you read the appropriate material.”
“Damn, ya are all pretty tense, aren't ya?” Grulmar laughed cheerfully until Stenvar shut him up with a warning look.
“Hmph. Perhaps you should have paid more attention to Katria’s research.” Äelberon said to Dreth with a sly smirk and Belrand enjoyed the sour look on Dreth's face after those words. He didn't know who Katria was, but he imagined she was a sore spot for that Dunmer.
Dreth then turned around and literally bolted through the gate, towards his precious treasure.
“Dreth wait!” Aelberon called out, “We should plan this—Ah shit.” He muttered softly as he followed the others, descending the stairs. They then saw it. “Ah shit.” The Altmer repeated and Belrand was beginning to get nervous. Ahead of them, there was something that looked almost like a machine, made of Dwarven metal, several pipes, emanating an immense heat. The Forge was surrounded by lava from behind and in front of it was floor made of metal grilling, with lava right under it and Belrand felt the heat even more as he was closing in.
Dreth was standing nearly at the bars, the heat from them not affecting him as much as the others and he turned around, looking at Äelberon with eyes that were frantic with fever. He's mad, Belrand thought, his own eyes narrowing. He glanced at Äelberon who had set his jaw. You see it too, don’t you? Mer’s lost it, he’ll kill us all. Pursuing something like that certainly isn't healthy. “How do we get to it?” Dreth demanded. “Tell me!”
“Easy, Dreth.” The old Mer attempted to calm Dreth down. “We should really pla—“
“Now!”
The Altmer raised his hands, “Alright, alright.” Äelberon came closer to the heat and looked around. To their sides were two elevated islands, like platforms, with valves in middle of them. “Yes, this matches what I studied in the Tower. Two platforms, exactly. To access the Forge, we will have to—“
“Have to what? WHAT?” Dreth shouted. “Don’t hesitate. Out with it. You know!”
“Yes, I know.” The Altmer reassured, though Belrand could see the faint glimmer of something else in his eyes. His lips moved silently for a second, before he spoke again. “We have to seal off the pressure. With those valves.”
“Alright, finally!” Dreth headed towards the island on the left and Äelberon followed him. Belrand was about to follow, but Äelberon shook his head and pointed to the other island, looking at the Greenskin. Belrand didn't understand, at first, and the Altmer showed him again to go there and he finally understood that it was important to the Dragonborn.
Belrand went to the island on the right, along with Stenvar and Vorstag leading Grulmar in front of them, Galar, and Borgakh. The room was more or less circular, the island had another set of stairs leading to the other side, leading to the Forge and to some other alcove in the wall. Galar and Borgakh stood at the top of those stairs, while Belrand and Vorstag remained at the top of the set of stairs they ascended to get on the elevated platform. Stenvar and Greenskin went to the valve. Or rather, Stenvar forced Greenskin towards the valve.
Jagaark and Jenassa remained near the entrance to the Forge.
Dreth and the Bosmer archer, with the Alfiq on his shoulder, stood on the other island, in a mirror location to where Galar and Borgakh were. Äelberon, Kahleron and the She-Elf were next to the valve. Kahleron had a knife pressed to the She-Elf’s throat. Ready to draw blood. The big Orc, Ghorbash, stood close to Äelberon. The Dragonborn was watching the other Altmer for a moment and then scanned the room. Belrand thought he saw his mouth move again, but he wasn’t sure.
“You're going to turn the valve,” growled Stenvar at the Greenskin, bringing Belrand away from the other platform. The Orc looked at Stenvar like he was a mad man.
“Why me?” he protested.
“Because you're redundant,” Stenvar smiled, pulling out a knife. He pushed the Greenskin towards the valve and then put the knife on the side of the Orc’s neck, standing behind him. “Don't try anything.”
“What's the delay? Do it!” Dreth shouted over the hissing of the boiling air.
Äelberon stepped to the valve and his eyes found Belrand. He nodded, with respect and gratitude and then he looked at Greenskin. “What the tusk are ya doin', Shiny?” the Orc murmured, looking very uneasy. The Orc then set his jaw. The Altmer grabbed the valve, giving it a mighty spin at the same as the Greenskin turned his valve. They heard how the air calmed down, the heat easing, but then there was a scraping of metal coming from the walls and the floor beneath their feet. A small army of spiders emerged from the pipes.
Belrand suddenly heard Jenassa pulling her blades and hissing at something, turning towards the entrance instead of the automatons.
And then everything happened so quickly. The knife that was at Lareyne's throat was no longer at her throat. It was in her hands and Kahleron… Kahleron had given it to her? What? No! No! Belrand could only mouth silently, his voice caught.
Belrand saw how fast that She-Elf jumped forward, no longer tied up, and plunged a knife into Äelberon’s side, between the armor, right between his ribs. She was sneering like a cat.
No cry of pain escaped his lips, just a low growl and he tried to spin around, pulling his ebony bastard out of its sheath. The sword that slew dragons.
Belrand could only stare, ignoring the constructs gathering around him, as Kahleron then jumped forward and plunged his thin saber into the Dragonborn’s chest.
“For the Thalmor!” Kahleron roared.
Äelberon reacted like lightning, grabbing Kahleron’s wrist and even from that distance, Belrand could hear Kahleron’s cry of agony as the Mer’s wrist shattered in the Dragonborn’s grasp. Shout, shout, shout, do something. Release the thu’um, Belrand begged in his mind. You did it without question in the catacombs, why not here? Why?
“Äel—“he started, finally finding his voice.
But then the She-Elf, with a smile that chilled Belrand’s very bones, buried her knife deep into the Mer’s back, straight into his heart. Both Elves moved their lips as if exchanging words, but Belrand couldn’t hear.
Äelberon then dropped to his knees, looking towards the entrance. Belrand saw his lips move, the flash of grief in his eyes, and then he fell face forward onto the floor. He didn’t move. Get up!
Dreth shouted at Kahleron, Greenskin shouted at Äelberon and Belrand was just staring, not wanting to understand what had just happened.
And then the vampire wailed.
Comments
Not the accommodations I´m used [to], there´s no doubt in that.
when he noticed [a] bottle of Alto wine.
[Auri-El’s] Bow! Finally somebody here with half a brain. ... more
Not the accommodations I´m used [to], there´s no doubt in that.
when he noticed [a] bottle of Alto wine.
[Auri-El’s] Bow! Finally somebody here with half a brain. (Do you spell it A... more
And [Cyrod] did not recognize my holy Order,
I also noticed you used a lot of ´ (whatever it's called) where apostrophes should be. Honestly, it is a bit annoying because it adds a space and confuses ... more
And [Cyrod] did not recognize my holy Order,
I also noticed you used a lot of ´ (whatever it's called) where apostrophes should be. Honestly, it is a bit annoying because it adds a space and confuses my brain. I also n... more
And all that honor-talk suddenly gave me an impression that all... more
So many true words here a... more