The Cursed Tribe - Chapter 15

• Posted by Karver the Lorc July 9, 2018 - Filed in TSC: Long Story - #Straag Rod  #Karver  #Cursed Tribe  - 1,229 views

  

  Chapter 15

  Foreign Land II

   

  The landscape slowly changed around them as their raiding party pushed through the lands of the Dunmer towards the Velothi mountains, becoming more familiar to Yamarz with its conifers and broadleaved trees. They travelled through the mix of mushroom forests and more familiar woods, staying clear of the roads. Every single Orc hauled with them some kind of cargo. Weapons, armors, furs, even food and drink, but also slaves. Sometimes they disappeared from his sight among ferns with yellow leaves which sometimes barely touched his waist and sometimes towered above him, obscuring his sight.

   

  Slaves, Yamarz mulled that word over in his mind. All the Dunmer were chained, held in three groups of fives, each group held by one chain which was constantly tugged on by an Orc leading the procession. Their handler. That’s what the other Orcs called those in charge of slaves.

   

  Yamarz watched one of the groups of slaves that walked right ahead of him, watched with narrowed eyes, and noticed that he couldn’t help but bare his tusks at the sight. Two females, one younger than the other one, a male with broad shoulders and two children.

   

  Sixteen Orcs dead for those slaves. Sixteen dead, twelve so badly injured they had to be left behind, and twenty seven with minor injuries. Almost half of their raiding party, just for those slaves, so that the Dunmer could do the stronghold’s work instead of the Orcs.

   

  He focused on them, pondering their fate. The male would be assigned to the mines most likely, he seemed strong enough for that, while the females would work the smelter. At least the Orcs still worked the forges, but it still seemed wrong to Yamarz.

   

  Mining, smelting and forging, it was part of an Orc’s life. It was their life, it was what made their bodies strong and resilient, sharpened their minds into weapons capable of focusing on the things right in front of them with pinpoint precision. What would happen if they removed that from their lives, let others do their work for them? He even noticed some of the Dunmer assisting during the smithing procedures, some Orcs even taking on their techniques.

   

  At this pace, how long would it take for the Orcs to...stop being Orcs?

   

  Males to the mines, females to smelters and the runts… The runts were the lucky ones, assigned to the Orcs’ huts to clean and cook. It was explained to Yamarz that it was important to teach the young ones the routines, discipline and of course punishment, because once they turned twelve they were assigned to the mines and to the smelters.

   

  He shifted the bag with the looted weapons from one shoulder to another, forcing himself not to shake his head. It just wasn’t right, take away someone’s freedom, but he had to look the other way because this alliance was the best thing that happened to Largashbur in years. The exotic goods from Morrowind were buying Yamarz fame and prestige among the other clans in Skyrim, allowing Largash clan to grow to new heights. He needed this alliance…

   

  “Considering taking one for yourself?” a voice pulled him out of his thoughts and he glanced to the side, recognizing chief Tanush. He followed his gaze back to the Dunmer slaves, towards those two females.

   

  He frowned, clenching his jaws, deciding not to answer. Just the thought disgusted him.

   

  “A bit skinny for my own liking. I like my strong wives more, all their muscles that I can squeeze and hold on to,” Tanush chuckled. “But I noticed several warriors of Adal Matar took a liking in the Dunmer females.”

   

  Yamarz sharply turned his head, giving the chieftain of the Ganash tribe an incredulous look. “What?” he growled in surprise, somewhat taken back by the anger in his own voice.

   

  Tanush bared his sharpened teeth in a wicked grimace. “Doesn’t sit well with you, Largash? Well, I don’t blame them, there’s nothing like good rutting and since the warriors will never have wives they are free to empty their sacks into the grey-skins. Even the females like to ride them puny Dunmer from time to time. You’d be surprised how that boosts the morale in Adal Matar.”

   

  Yamarz bared his tusks in disgust at the prospect. “Every day brings something new that disgusts me about Adal Matar more and more. Where will your desecration of the Code end? The Code says-”

   

  “The Code says that only the strongest can spawn children,” Tanush interrupted him with a snort. “There’s nothing about the warriors rutting with other races as long as they don’t weaken the Stronghold by spawning mongrels - which in this case is taken care of by the coven of wise-women and their stinking potions.”

   

  The chieftain of Largashbur looked away, feeling his upper lip rolling up as he struggled to keep his emotions in check. “There is always some kind of loophole which allows you to circumvent the Code, always followed by an excuse of why such a loophole is justified.” He then glared into Tanush’s eyes with his tusks bared in challenge. “Loopholes. Excuses. Only the strong can follow the Code and once you step down from that rocky path it tells us only one thing about what kind of Orc you are.” He paused, leaning closer to the chieftain. “Weak.”

   

  Tanush stopped dead in his tracks, staring back at Yamarz while the other Orcs of their raiding party passed them, giving them glances. Yamarz balled his hand into a fist, his knuckles cracking as he did so, and he shifted the bag on his shoulder, ready to drop it quickly once Tanush responded to his challenge.

   

  The older chieftain surprised him by grinning at him, laughing out loud, and Yamarz could feel his own blood boiling. “Such righteousness! Ahh, I wish I was twenty winters younger again.” He then shook his head and raised his hands. “I agree with you, Yamarz. I agree with you.”

   

  Gro-Largash narrowed his eyes in suspicion, not expecting that kind of response. His challenge was more than clear and instead of accepting it the chieftain of Ganash clan was agreeing with him?

   

  Tanush looked at the raiding party ahead of them, measuring the distance with his eyes. “I was wondering where you stand, gro-Largash, how tightly you cling to your roots. Maybe I just needed the reminder of what we Orcs should stand for.” He pointed towards the Orcs getting further away from them, shaking his head. “My warriors or the other clans can’t hear me say my doubts out loud, but you can, Yamarz. And I know you will listen, because you still hold on to the purity of the Code.”

   

  “Doubts?” Yamarz frowned. “If you have something to say, Tanush, then say it.”

   

  The older chieftain looked around, making sure none of the warriors were around and he leaned closer to Yamarz. “Adal Matar. There is something about the stronghold. Something wrong. It creeps into your bones and your mind and it twists your thoughts and your perception of what is right or wrong.” He shook his head as if in disbelief, sighing. “We were all like you once, Yamarz. Faithful followers of the Sworn Oath, but when we all came to Adal Matar our… our certainty of the Code began wavering, slowly shifting and changing. At first we couldn’t even imagine living in an Orc stronghold housing six clans, but we got over it. Then we were presented with the idea of the slaves and we first grimaced in disgust, just as you did, and look at us now.” He narrowed his eyes and clenched his jaws, as if just talking about this was making him angry. “Did you know the warchief came to see me before the raid? Asked me to stay in Adal Matar, let my oldest son lead my warriors instead of me. I laughed it off, because that smelled of weakness, but mark my words, Largash, that warchief and his son-”

   

  “What’s the delay?” the voice of Snagam interrupted Tanush and they both turned their heads towards the Orc in ebony armor, standing in the shade of one of the huge mushrooms, his eyes narrowed.

   

  “Just talking about wives, runt,” Tanush growled in response, his eyes flashing with amusement. “Was describing to the chieftain here the technique my wives use when they’re squeezing my tusk. Nothing you would understand,” he added with a smirk.

   

  Lying to the face of the warchief’s son.. What were the reasons for hiding what they talked about? They were Orcs, they settled what was meant to be settled with blunt honesty, not by hiding behind masks. It was also quite obvious that Tanush wasn’t very fond of the warchief’s son, provoking him like that, but Snagam answered only with a cold stare. Tanush shrugged and poked Yamarz, motioning him to follow.

   

  Tanush’s words still rang in Yamarz’s skull. Piece by piece...their honor is taken away. As if on purpose. And he realised that Adal Matar was slowly affecting even him, because he hated the prospect of the slaves, but he’d learned to look the other way. How long would it take until he accepted it, even took some slaves of his own?

   

  Snagam was still waiting for them and as they passed him he gave Yamarz a frown, as if he was measuring him, and the chieftain of Largashbur returned the stare without flinching as he walked past.

   

  What gives us the right to take away someone’s freedom? Yamarz wondered. Just because the Dunmer were slavers that put other races into chains? That couldn’t be the justification for enslaving them in return, because what did that make the Orcs? How were they different from the Dunmer if they reduced themselves to their level?

   

  In his head, he was about to make an argument that Orcs’ lives weren’t about dominance and control over the others, but the words had a hollow ring to Yamarz. For weren’t the Orcs fighting for dominance themselves, dominance over their clans? Only the strongest could lead, the only dominant voice in the whole stronghold. But that was the right of the strongest, their tradition, and so they accepted it as what it was. But exercising dominance and control over the other races? Forcing them to submit against their own will…

   

  Right of the strongest, Yamarz thought. Is that it? Proving we are stronger than them gives us the right to subjugate them to us?

   

  There was something wrong with Adal Matar indeed, because Yamarz felt that exactly these thoughts, these doubts, were what lead down the abyss of broken honor. But could he really blame Adal Matar for that? He had had his moments of weakness and doubts, moments when he wanted to turn his back on the Code or when he’d found a loophole to banish his own brother-

   

  Enough! he shook his head, grimacing. Enough of these thoughts. I am a child of the Sworn Oath, a child of Malacath. The curse is burned into me as my skin for the whole world to see, to remind everyone… I am an Orsimer… he recited in his mind, sharpening his anger, reveling in it.

   

  He then shook his head. An Orsimer. What does that mean exactly? He narrowed his eyes at the warriors walking in the shadows of the huge mushrooms, giving each and single one of them a look. A name for the people who were cast away, shamed. Unwelcome. But why only us? Why doesn’t it include any other outcast out there in the world, because there are certainly many of them. How do we differ from them? How do we differ even from the city Orcs? What sets us apart?

   

  And the answer was there, right at the tip of his tongue, at the edge of his mind, but somehow he didn’t dare to bring it up. It felt...tainted. No longer pure.

   

  He bared his tusks and forced himself to say it out loud. “Honor,” he half-whispered, half-growled. We carry our curse with honor, that’s what sets us apart. But what are we without that honor? he wondered as he glanced at the Dunmer slaves again.

   

  “-staring at, grey-skin bitch?!”

   

  Yamarz narrowed his eyes as someone ahead shouted and he increased his pace so that he could see what was going on. There was another group of slaves a bit to the right, all females and there was an Orc standing above one of them, who laid motionless on the ground, blood dripping from the Orc’s axe.

   

  “What in the Malacath’s name are you doing?!” Yamarz heard Tanush bark, but the Orc was barely paying attention to that and Yamarz noticed that it was that irritating Orc from the siege. His yellow eyes were glistening in the shadows as he stepped closer to the second Dunmer in the line.

   

  “I asked you a fucking question!” the Orc growled at the female who was on her knees, but staring right into the Orsimer’s eyes, as if she was daring him to strike her down. As if she preferred to die than bow down to the beast in front of her. “You want some too? Don’t give me that fucking look! Fucking bitch!”

   

  And before anyone could stop him his axe went down again, splitting her skull in half, but Yamarz focused on the Orc’s face, twisted in something between grimace and grin, his eyes wide and glistening. He clearly enjoyed what he just did.

   

  By then Tanush had finally reached the Orc and snatched the axe from his hand, pushing him away from the slaves. “Have you lost your damn mind?!” he raised his voice at him and the warrior bared his teeth.

   

  “Fucking grey-skins! We should be killing them, not putting them in chains! They will never learn proper respect-”

   

  Tanush interrupted him with an angry headbutt, which sent the warrior stumbling back few steps, but the chieftain didn’t give him time to regain balance and quickly followed with his right fist, which landed right on the Orc’s cheekbone and Yamarz heard something break. The warrior fell on the ground and the chieftain crouched next to him, letting go of the axe and grabbed the warrior by the collar, drawing him closer. “Not your tusking decision!” he growled, hitting the Orc with his fist again. And again and again, until the Orc’s face was all covered in blood. Then he straightened, prepared to let the matter go,considering it settled.

   

  Snagam walked forward and stared at the chieftain, clearly not satisfied with the outcome. “This is your responsibility, chieftain.”

   

  Tanush only growled, staring down at the warrior who was still breathing, red bubbles around his mouth and nose.

   

  Is this not enough? Yamarz asked himself, looking at the warriors gathered around among the yellow ferns.

   

  He looked at their faces, seeing some of them flinch at his glance, as if shamed by the question in his eyes, but some of them were frowning, thirst for blood in their eyes. The warrior stepped out of his line, yes, and he cut down two females that were unable to defend themselves. Where did the Code stand in this case? The Orc stained his honor, cut down someone who couldn’t defend themselves. Killing just for the sake of killing was frowned upon, the Code being clear about that. But should the warrior pay the ultimate price for that? Was there even someone he could pay the Blood-Price to?

   

  But that was where Yamarz’s stance in a way missed the point. The slaves, they were property, someone’s property and the warrior had just...destroyed that property. There indeed was someone to pay the Blood-Price to and it was Adal Matar who demanded it.

   

  Yet, Yamarz couldn’t help himself but argue with it. He refused to understand the concept of slavery, of owning someone else’s life than his own. In his eyes, the Orc might deserve a beating to get some sense into his thick skull, but death?

   

  He almost took a step forward, prepared to say these thoughts out loud.

   

  Almost.

   

  This wasn’t his business, was it? This was a matter for Adal Matar, not for Largashbur. He didn’t kill those slaves and the slaves weren’t his, so why should he care?

   

  In that moment Snagam threw him a look, a warning in his eyes, a warning to stay out of this matter.

   

  “The Code demands it, chieftain,” the warchief’s son growled towards Tanush, who narrowed his eyes and solemnly nodded. He picked the warrior’s bloodied axe up from the ground and kneeled next to the unconscious warrior. His eyes found Yamarz’s for a fleeting moment, resignation glistening behind his yellow eyes.

   

  And he raised the axe above his head.

   

  The chieftain of the Ganash tribe made a strange, gurgling sound, his eyes going wide in surprise, and Yamarz froze as he noticed an arrowhead protruding from Tanush’s throat. The axe dropped from the chieftain’s hand as he fell on his knees, his hands reaching for his throat, his fingers finding the arrow.

   

  A malachite arrow.

   

  The warriors began shouting and growling, reaching for their weapons as all of a sudden more arrows came whistling from among the ferns around them.

   

  “Ambush!” one of the warriors to his left shouted which was closely followed by: “Malacath!” as well as screams of pain and anger.

   

  And that was the thing with Orcs. When they saw Tanush fall, they stood there, stunned. But as soon as the arrows came raining down on them, the danger becoming very real, their minds just simply shut down the way they have been trained their whole lives. When surprised, they were taught not to think, but to give in to their instincts.

   

  They were taught to lash out.

   

  Yamarz dropped the bag with the loot and reached for his shield as arrows pounded on his armor, as shouts of wounded and dying Orcs echoed around him. A spear came flying from the ferns to his right and he hid behind his shield, stumbling under the impact.

   

  And he growled, reaching for the door in his mind, literally kicking the door open, letting the fury out.

   

  He let out a battlecry as he charged into the ferns, pulling his axe from behind his belt as he did so. Somewhere at the corner of his mind he was aware that the other Orcs were following him, charging into the growth with the same wrath he did, but it wouldn’t matter even if he was alone. The world shrank into the single-minded need to deliver his vengeance on those who decided to stand in his way.

   

  Another spear flew out from the growth, scratching his shoulderpad, continuing its trajectory to somewhere behind him. One of the Ganash tribe warriors got ahead of him and burst into the ferns, only for his charge to be stopped immediately by a malachite lance piercing his poor armor, running him through.

   

  The lance then retreated back into the growth, ready to strike again and Yamarz headed directly towards it even as more arrows kept flying out of the hiding spot. Dunmer. This was all they could do. Hide and attack from shadows.

   

  He roared as he neared the hiding spot, raising his shield to protect his face and suddenly the lance lashed out from the growth like a snake, striking under his shield, aiming straight for his abdomen. And he hadn’t slowed down a bit.

   

  He rotated his torso a bit to the left, the lance scratching on the armor and sliding over it under his left arm when Yamarz charged through the ferns, his body slamming into whoever was hiding behind the leaves. He could feel the impact reverberate through his bones as his shoulder hit something hard closely followed by yelp of shock and cracking sounds of glass. The Dunmer was lifted off his feet and flew two steps back, landing on his back and all Yamarz noticed before he literally stomped the fool into the earth was the malachite armor he was wearing, the glass nearly perfectly taking on the colour of the ferns around them.

   

  But the Dunmer wasn’t alone. The blasted grey-skins were holding a line behind the ferns and they now focused his attention on him and before he could even count them more Orcs hit the line, charging through the vegetation with battlecries on their lips.

   

  The Dunmer to his right dropped his lance and pulled out a long malachite sword, slashing at his right leg and Yamarz quickly stepped into the swing, his axe ringing on the sword as he hacked at it, hoping to shatter the brittle glass, but to his own surprise it held just as any orichalcum weapon would.

   

  He was about to shield bash the Dunmer when the bastard hit him with the pommel of his sword. For a moment his whole world went black and when it lit up again, it lit up with the sword falling down on his head.

   

  Yamarz shifted his balance to the right already raising his shield, but the sword fell down on his shoulder before he could block it and he could hear something crack in his body as the malachite clashed with the orichalcum armor. He screamed in pain and swung his axe in a low arc. It hit the Dunmer’s side, tossing him aside, but the damn bloody armor still held!

   

  Yamarz dropped his shield, his left arm hanging limp, and walked towards the Dunmer in malachite armor, who was groaning, his ribs most likely broken, trying to crawl back onto his feet. He swung his sword at Yamarz’s legs but he kicked the arm before it could finish the swing, then brought the axe down on the Dunmer’s chest. And the malachite armor still held!

   

  He roared into the Dunmer’s face and brought his axe down a second time, this time hacking at the grey-skin’s unprotected face, splitting his skull right inside the bug-like helmet of his.

   

  These grey-skins weren’t the regular Redoran Yamarz fought before. Their armor, their prowess… No, these were worthy enemies. These were true warriors. And even though Yamarz was hurt he wanted more, more of these warriors to kill, to test his mettle.

   

  In that spare moment he could see that all the other Orcs were struggling against these opponents, especially when the Redoran in their bonemold armors were picking them off with arrows shot from the ferns around them. It was messy and ugly, most of the opponents couldn’t be even seen and yet death still rained down whenever there was an opening.

   

  Another of the malachite warriors attacked Yamarz and and the chieftain weakly blocked the stab of the lance, which didn’t matter because it was a feint and as soon as he moved the Dunmer pulled the lance back and stabbed again, this time at Yamarz’s face. He snapped his head to the left, but the Dunmer pulled it back again and then stabbed low, aiming for Yamarz’s thigh, which was protected by orichalcum scales that allowed easier movement but offered less protection, which the Dunmer took advantage off. The lance easily parted the scales and pierced the flesh.

   

  Yamarz shouted in agony and he brought the axe down on the lance, shattering the tusking glass into pieces, then hacked at the Dunmer, who quickly retreated. Yamarz fell on his knees, his leg unable to support his weight any more, and bared his tusks at the Dunmer, inviting him to try and finish the job.

   

  He could hear the battle around him, both Orcs and Dunmer screaming in pain and fury, bleeding in the mud under their feet. He could hear the song of metal clashing with the glass, orichalcum meeting malachite, and yet all he could look at was the Dunmer warrior in front of him, slowly closing in for the kill.

   

  And Yamarz growled. I won’t die like this. Not on my knees, because that’s no way to go to the Ashen Forge. The metal has to be pounded while still hot.

   

  So with a groan he began clawing back on his feet, the agony in his thigh making his eyes fill with tears of pain. He’d nearly gotten up when an arrow flew out of nowhere, into his side where the orichalcum plates were connected by leather straps, burying into the soft flesh under it. He yelled and dropped back on his knees, the axe falling away as he had to use his hands to avoid falling on his face.

   

  The grey-skin warrior walked towards him, malachite sword raised, and Yamarz stared into the Dunmer’s red eyes, showing as much defiance and hate as he could.

   

  He was ready.

   

  Then the Dunmer paused, froze, even, as if on command and Yamarz shifted his gaze to where the Dunmer was looking, trying to look past that mist of agony clouding his mind. The whole world was spinning and shifting between darkness and light as he tried to focus.

   

  And there he was standing, naked but for a loincloth covering his genitals, his skin painted with green swirls. A design with swirls, circles, and triangles, betraying an origin far more ancient than the Orcs, with bright stars of gold piercings adorning his body, shining among the sea of green that was his skin. The grey skin shining in between the green revealed him for what he truly was and Yamarz looked into his face, at the red eye and that scar over his other eye. There were heavy golden earrings in his ears. Some of them were connected to the piercings in his eyebrows and nose with thin golden chains, and Yamarz realised he couldn’t take his eyes away from the Dunmer.

   

  There was a certain serenity around him as he stood there amongst the ferns barefoot and unprotected, standing in the mud and blood, a malachite sword resting easily in his hand, his red eye staring right back at Yamarz.

   

  Something got the Dunmer’s attention and he shifted his gaze away from Yamarz to where a small group of Orcs were breaking through the Dunmer, and that gave Yamarz the moment he needed, because even the grey-skin warrior standing above the chieftain had been distracted by it.

   

  And even though he was hurt and barely conscious, Yamarz lifted his axe from the mud and hacked at the Dunmer’s leg, shattering it and sweeping him off his feet, and before anyone could react, he threw the axe at the strange Dunmer.

   

  He looked directly at Yamarz in the exact moment the Orc threw the axe, and the chieftain saw that there was no surprise in that eye, no fear. And the Dunmer spread his arms, as if he was welcoming the axe, which buried into his chest and threw him back into the growth, where he disappeared from Yamarz’s sight.

   

  And something in the Dunmer warriors around them changed, as if their focus had been broken, their defense wavering and-

   

  “Yamarz!” someone shouted his name and he turned around to see Snagam and his Orcs in ebony armor pushing towards him. “Chieftain!” the warchief’s son shouted again and cut down a Dunmer in his path, grabbing Yamarz under his right shoulder, groaning as he lifted him onto his feet. He nearly lost his consciousness as he tried to put his weight on his hurt leg, and if it weren’t for Snagam, he would’ve fallen back into the mud again.

   

  “We have to retreat!” the warchief’s son growled, and raised his voice again: “Retreat!”

   

  Retreat. The word echoed in Yamarz’s mind, because that word wasn’t an Orcish one. They were meant to fight to their last breaths, either emerging victorious or earning their rightful place in the Ashen Forge. There was nothing in between.

   

  Or was there?

  

  ‘When I awoke, all I felt was my back on a cold stone floor. Every muscle in my body was on fire, and my vision was blurred. Slowly, I tried to climb to my feet. It took several minutes of sheer agony-’

   

  “Several agonizing minutes,” a voice inside his head corrected him all of a sudden. “Flows better in my opinion.”

   

  He let out a sigh, even though he knew it was nothing but an imitation because the need to breathe had become redundant long ago. Purple lightning flashed somewhere in the distance, closely followed by rumbling thunder. That would’ve been enough to make him jump in fright in a different lifetime...

   

  He put away the paper he had been writing on, looking at the barren wasteland all around him, at the cracked earth and the twisted bone-like trees, at the dark purple sky and at the crumbled towers floating in the air. Everything seemed so pointless when one had to face such a desperate sight every second of their non-existence… His own retreat was in the shadow of the crumbling wall, where the structures offered natural protection from the foul wind. He was using a large piece of a dark stone that fell from the top of the wall as his table, and his chair was something he’d put together from those trees growing in the wasteland.

   

  He sighed once more, reaching for the paper, and dipped the quill in the inkwell again. ‘It took several agonizing minutes, but I finally managed to do it.‘ He paused, narrowing his eyes as he got a sudden flash of inspiration, and shuffled through the pages. “Maybe next time you could simply dodge the axe, don't you think?” he remarked while he was looking for the right paragraph.

   

  “I merely thought it was time for us to talk again.”

   

  He shook his head, both in disagreement and with wonder at his own folly, trying to lie to himself. “No, you wanted to make them believe. Again.” 'The battle lasted two full days. I was beaten, clawed, bitten and knocked down more times than I care to remember. In the end, seventy-six cliff racers were slaughtered.' It felt as if it had ended rather abruptly, like an unfinished diamond still full of flaws. His quill touched the paper again and he began adding more. 'I was knee-deep in their corpses and my body on the verge of collapse. But I had survived. I smiled to the heavens and all went black.' “You can’t lie to yourself after all.”

   

  “Can’t I? Is it not what everyone does? Everyone is the hero in their own tale, and we go to great lengths to convince ourselves of that. We repeat lies for so long, we begin to believe they are the truth.”

   

  “And are we the hero of our tale? You indeed want us to become the same as the Tribunal. Who can tell what really happened under the Red Mountain all those years ago, right? Sometimes it makes me wonder if we’re not taking this obsession with becoming a second Vivec too far.”

   

  Silence followed. He sighed again and put aside the paper and writing tools, getting up from his chair. “Have I just hurt our feelings? Our ego, even?”

   

  “I would lower myself to a snort if I could. We have to convince them, make them believe. Can’t you sense them right now? Our Grave Armigers-”

   

  Now he snorted. Grave Armigers. Yet another imitation of Vivec.

   

  They needed that, the self-reflection and more importantly the self-mockery, because they were writing their own narrative, so they also needed to be cynical about their own story, mocking it, even. Every writer had to be his own critic, capable of looking at his own story with a critic’s eye.

   

  And so he wondered what that said about them. One of their eyes was blind after all.

   

  Amusement echoed in the voice as it continued after his interruption. “Sometimes I feel it is a curse to be your own critic.”

   

  “Indeed. But yes, I can sense them. The Armigers kneeling in a circle around our vestige in silence while the Redoran argue whether to pursue the green scourge or not. They do not believe. I can even make out the hushed whispers, yes. ‘Saint my arse’, ‘Vivec’s whore’, ‘a fraud.’ They do indeed doubt and with good reason. Aren’t we just a poor imitation of Vehk? Aren’t we a fraud?”

   

  “Not if we convince them otherwise.”

   

  “And convince ourselves too.”

   

  “Yes.”

   

  “And are we sure we want that?” he asked even as he began walking away from his little retreat in the wasteland around him. “Was the deal worth all this?”

   

  “Do we really have to ask that? What good can we do for our people when trapped here? This way, we can at least make a difference, even though we pay a terrible price for it.”

   

  “We? ‘I’ have to suffer the desperation of this place, while you can play god. You think it is fair?”

   

  “Hardly, but still better than being...wholly trapped here.”

   

  “Wholly? I applaud your wordplay there.”

   

  “Thank you.”

   

  He neared one of those strange ziggurats, looking for people like himself, the trapped ones. There were plenty of those around, they had just learned how to hide. Not necessarily from him, no. From their jailors... or torturers, one might say. He’d listened to the lost ones several times, heard the rumors. Of those who fully gave in to this place, who forgot who they were, of how they’d changed. Their forms turning into bones or mist.

   

  He wasn’t afraid of that, not when he still had so much left to write. It was his purpose, it was what kept him sane, and with their vestige out in the world there was always more to write. But it was torture, at least for him. His dead eye saw nothing but the broken landscape around him while his healthy eye saw what he was once a part of, all the vibrant colours and hopes of the world outside his prison.

   

  “Have we made up our mind then?” the voice asked, but he still wasn’t sure. And yet his eyes kept searching-

   

  “There! You missed it!”

   

  And truly yes, there was a figure near one of the cracks in the earth, the ominous light emanating from it camouflaging the figure as it passed through the ethereal form. And so he began walking in that direction, with more lightning thundering above him.

   

  For a moment he glanced at the vortex of bright blue that was the sky, constantly spewing out more lost souls into this wasteland. It was a cruel fate because many of them didn’t even know what awaited them here. But they would learn, soon. Learn to hide, learn to survive by clinging to what they used to be before this or be consumed by the desperation of this place.

   

  As he drew closer he began recognizing the ethereal form of an Altmer in scholarly robes, kneeling over the crack in the earth, mumbling something to himself. “Out, out, out, it flies. Down it falls. Through and through and back through. What does it eat? What does it eat?! It feeds, oh it feeds. It feeds on us and then gives back.”

   

  “Seems like this one has already lost his mind,” the voice spoke. “No loss there.”

   

  He raised his eyebrows. “Truly?” The Altmer was trying to catch the light pouring through the cracks in the ground, constantly mumbling. “When did we became so sure of who is worthy and unworthy? Even though this existence is nothing but torment, they all surely deserve the same chance. Who are we to take it away?”

   

  Silence was his answer and he sighed. He knew the voice was not going to answer this time, too afraid of speaking their true thoughts on this matter. They had become the singlemost important person of their universe, because in their mind they had come to believe that they were the only one capable of delivering salvation to their people.

   

  What did that make them? The hero or the villain?

   

  Everyone was a hero in their own tale after all.

   

  “One for two, remember,” he spoke out loud, knowing very well that the voice knew. They couldn’t forget. He walked towards the ethereal Altmer and grabbed him by the collar, pulling and throwing him on the ground. The Altmer screamed and began kicking around, clawing at his face, but it had to be done.

   

  “It has to be done,” the voice murmured and he nodded as he kneeled on the Altmer, his hands on the High Elf’s throat. And he began drawing all that the Altmer was into him.

   

  The ground under them rumbled as more cracks opened and more of the creatia spilled out, like liquid flames and he just kept pulling and pulling, pulling until the Altmer was no more. Lightning flashed in the sky and a bright streak of light shot towards the sky from the crack, heading straight into the vortex.

   

  He watched it and sighed. Make them believe.

  

  He opened his eye and for a moment his vision overlapped. A canopy of giant mushrooms and lianas hanging from them, with the sun shining in between the caps, while the dead eye still watched the blue-purple vortex that was the sky in the other place.

   

  He heard gasps from around him, while the Grave Armigers around him kept humming the grave tones, unphazed. He raised his head and looked at the axe buried in his chest, for a moment taken back by the complete lack of pain. It was something he never could get used to, no matter how many times he came back.

   

  He began clawing back on his feet, somewhat ashamed by the fact of how ungraceful he was. Vivec would never even have gotten in such a position, and even if he did so he would’ve come back with much more… panache than he did.

   

  The Redoran were gathered around, wide-eyed, and he glanced at all them, measuring them one by one and they all lowered their gazes, falling down on their knees.

   

  “I am hunter,” he then said solemnly into the silence, extending his arms, letting everyone see his naked body with the axe stuck in his ribcage, blood oozing from the wound. Moving his arms was strangely difficult because the axe must have separated important muscles in his chest, but it both mattered and mattered not. It wasn’t just muscles that allowed him to move. “I am redeemer,” he continued. “I am Jiub.”

   

  “By the sword,” the Redoran and the Armigers murmured in unity and only then did they raise their eyes.

   

  Jiub took a moment to look at the battlefield, seeing many Dunmer lying dead where they were slain, unattended among the corpses of the green scourge. He walked towards one of the corpses, the Armigers making way for him and he narrowed his eyes when he glanced into the flat pig-like face of the dead Orc at his feet, at the ebony armor of sharp edges, at the ebony axe lying not far from the dead hand. “Below me is the savage, which we needed to separate ourselves from the Altmer,” he murmured and raised his head. “And ahead of me is the challenge of the savage, which we need to eradicate.” He glanced around the glade, looking for a familiar face of the Redoran lieutenant. “Where is Aranthos?” he asked.

   

  One of the Redoran’s rose to his feet and saluted. “Dead, my Lord. Killed by the beasts when they pushed through the line.” Jiub raised his eyebrows in amusement when the voice revealed the Redoran was a woman.

   

  Dead. Shame, he was such a sweet boy. But he said nothing. “How many of them survived?”

   

  “Not more than twenty, Saint. Shall we pursue?” the Redoran dared to ask and the way she did made Jiub guess she was now the commander of the remaining Redoran forces.

   

  Shall we pursue? He pondered the same thing. If they followed the Orcs, they would never lead them to their hidden stronghold. They would instead prefer to make a last stand and make the Dunmer pay a bloody price for their ambush. But if they didn’t follow the Orcs, they would never find their stronghold. The stronghold was the key to everything. It didn’t matter if the menace was winged or green-skinned, the lair, the roost, was the key to eradicating the menace.

   

  But how were they supposed to find it when they couldn’t follow the Orcs? He narrowed his eyes as he glanced in the direction of the first contact of this battle. And he smiled. There were other ways.

   

  “No,” he said. “We will attend to our dead, for they join our ancestors today. We will mourn and we will rejoice tonight. Their passing has brought us bittersweet feelings we have to savour if we are to… eradicate this green scourge. Make camp, commander. And send messengers to the closest forts for reinforcements. Ask in my name if it comes to that.”

   

  She nodded and only then everyone raised to their feet as the commander began barking orders. Jiub motioned for his Armigers to follow as he began picking his way through the yellow leaves. Along the way he ripped the axe out of his chest and took a spare moment to study the orichalcum craftsmanship.

   

  He hadn’t seen such a weapon in a very long time, pure orichalcum even longer. None of the Orc Strongholds in Morrowind had been using orichalcum back when he leveled their pitiful Longhouses and chased them into the mountains.

   

  He recalled the Orc who threw the axe, the one he had been watching fight his Armigers. Lacking finesse, as all Orcs did, but fighting with the fierceness so common among the Orcs. For the most part, it had been the orichalcum armor that gave that warrior an edge over his Armigers, but Jiub had noticed the recognition in the warrior’s face. He had met his match in Jiub’s Armigers. He had slain three of them but even then he had been brought down to his knees.

   

  Orcs. Brutish beasts that thought they had no equal in the field of battle. His Armigers had just proved them wrong today.

   

  He saw that the Redoran had already gathered the poor Dunmer souls that had been enslaved by the beasts and dispensed blankets, food and drinks among them, slowly walking them away from the bodies in the mud.

   

  The mud under his feet was cold even with the amount of blood staining it, painting it red and he looked at his bare feet for a second, forcing himself not to steer away.

   

  There were moments when he felt more like a fraud than anything. The gaping hole in his chest, the cracked ribs and the barely beating heart visible in the wound. His whole body covered in blood, his feet dirty with mud. Vivec would never let something like blood or mud stain his aura of immortality. No, Vivec never even touched the ground with his feet, always floating… Vivec was real, which made Jiub constantly doubt his direction. Who was he to compare himself to Vivec?

   

  He reminded himself where he was and he straightened, giving his Armigers a look. They seemed unphased by his moment of hesitation and he had no doubt some of them might even mistook it for some kind of holy inspiration. It may have been why he’d picked them so carefully. They were all devoted to his Sainthood, to himself, beyond death. He was their sole purpose in life.

   

  Jiub nodded to himself and headed towards the dead bodies in the middle of the small glade. He looked at the big Orc in fur and iron armor, at his black sharpened teeth and he tilted his head. One of the clans he’d driven from Morrowind had a chieftain exactly like this. Clan… Ganash. Yes, most likely Clan Ganash. And now their chieftain was dead.

   

  That was a good thing, because their stupid traditions would now dictate the Orcs to fight amongst themselves for the right of becoming the next chieftain. He still wasn’t sure if those were fights to death or merely contests of strength, but he certainly hoped they would kill each other in the process.

   

  Knowing your prey is half of the victory, he mused, remembering how he studied Cliffracers so long ago. That wasn’t so different from the green scourge he was facing now.

   

  He smiled when he found what he was looking for and crouched, looking at an Orc with a swollen face. An Orc that was still breathing. That was the one who’d killed the two slaves and had been punished for it, and that indicated that the Orc was clearly a strongminded one, one that even had his own ideas and opinions. That was something Jiub could take advantage of.

   

  “This one,” he pointed at the Orc. “Wake him up.”

   

  He took a step back and let two his Armigers raise the Orc on his knees, holding his arms while a third Armiger opened his water flask and began pouring the water over the Orc’s head.

   

  Moment passed and the Orc’s left eye flickered. The other was closed by the bruises on his face, but one was enough. As soon as he opened the eye he began sputtering and thrashing about, but the Armigers held him firmly. The eye scanned his surroundings, looking at the corpses of his brethren around him, and it stopped at the chieftain’s corpse for a second.

   

  “Yes, the chieftain is dead,” Jiub said, and the eye shifted towards him, looking at all the gold piercings in his body - which he would have to remove again later - but what ultimately drew the Orc’s attention was the wound in his chest. It was beginning to heal, but the tissue was still bare for everyone to catch the glimpses of a beating heart. “I am Saint Jiub,” he said and the Orc just narrowed his eyes in confusion.

   

  No Tamrielic then? Very well. Jiub cleared his throat and fluently switched into the dialect of these beasts. “Your brethren are either dead or retreating, Orc. But you are alive. Now, I see you have had some kind of dispute-”

   

  “I’ll fucking tell you where it is,” the Orc growled, licking his lips as if his mouth was all dry.

   

  Jiub tilted his head. “Excuse me?”

   

  “The stronghold. Adal Matar. I’ll tell you where it is. I’ll even fucking lead you there, grey-skin,” the Orc continued, venom in his voice.

   

  Jiub narrowed his eyes, and then he smiled. “Treat his wounds. Give him food and drink, but make sure he is chained.” He then walked towards the Orc and looked into his eye. “You’re a Ganash, correct? Why betray your own?”

   

  “Because they deserve it! Enslaving Dunmer...They should be killing you, slaughtering you, not making you their toys. I told them and told them, but they wouldn’t listen.”

   

  “I am not sure I follow, Orc,” Jiub shook his head. “You want to lead me to your hidden sanctuary and kill all your brethren just because they didn’t agree with you on killing us instead of enslaving us? How do you benefit from that?”

   

  “I hope you kill each other,” the Orc spat on the ground, saliva dripping from his mouth.

   

  Jiub narrowed his eyes and shook his head again. “Traitors. They are all the same. Betraying their kind for petty grievances, just to save their own skins. But the most infuriating thing about traitors is that you can’t simply single them out just by looking at them. They’re unrecognizable up until the moment they betray you.” He then tilted his head, looking at the Orc’s swollen face. “But you Orcs do have a way to recognize such traitors, don’t you? You mark them. The ritualistic tattoos. Marks of an exile and traitor. Oh yes, I think I have seen those when I studied your kind... I even saw the Ganash marks of an exile. Once your face heals up we’ll make sure the whole world knows what you really are, beast.”

   

  “Mogrul,” the Orc growled.

   

  “Excuse me?”

   

  “I’m not ‘beast’. My name is Mogrul.”

   

  Very well.