The Shadeclaws’ Hall of Spirits was the single largest structure in Tsukikage, greater in volume than even the central administrative building. It took Takarro ten minutes simply to walk from one end of the Hall to another.
In our village, the dead far outnumber the living, the Grandmaster thought. It was a comforting thought. A shinobi who departed his mortal coil was never truly gone. His soul remained tied to his home, feeding the enchantments that protect the village, keeping vigil over his comrades still bound to Nirn, watching from their own dark place in Oblivion, Furiya’s gift to all her descendants.
‘Thank you,’ Takarro murmured as he bowed before Furiya’s statue, erected beside her spirit tablet, the northmost one in the Hall. She had been carved with utmost care. One could see the tiny creases in her tunic as she crouched on the spot, hands placed between her feet, looking like she was about spring down from her altar at any moment. A smile, both serene and imposing, graced her lips, as if to remind onlookers that she could murder them all in a heartbeat with nothing but her claws.
To the left of the First Grandmaster stood the Second, Puriyo. Takarro still found it hard to believe the statue was life-size. The Second Grandmaster was taller than even Bengakhi, making his crouching grandmother seem almost childlike beside him. A bo of gleaming ebony was slung casually across the gigantic ball that made up his shoulder, and a huge grin threatened to split his face in half as he held up his index and middle fingers in front of his face in a shinobi salute. Takarro bowed to him too, paying his respects to his two most accomplished predecessors. Then he picked up his basket of offerings and began the ten-minute walk back to the other end of the Hall, gliding noiselessly past the hundreds of thousands of spirit tablets that comprised all the Shadeclaws who had passed away over the millennia.
He went to Koumin first, taking a stick of incense from his basket and planting it in front of her tablet. Her name was carved into the piece of grey stone with Eastern Akaviri glyphs, with a short paragraph in Tamriellian script detailing her birthdate, years of active duty, and significant exploits. The list was just as long as he remembered. At the bottommost section of the tablet was a small note reading ‘Wife of Takarro, Thirty-Fourth Grandmaster of Tsukikage’.
Takarro ran a finger over the carved letters, rubbing off the dust on the stone. ‘Hello, dear,’ he said softly, lighting the incense with his fingers and a spark of magic. ‘I’ve brought your favourite. Poached white-cut chicken with oily rice and ginger soy sauce.’
The old Po’ Tun chuckled lightly. ‘I know, I know, I always muck up the recipe, but I had help this time! You remember Harrow, the kit I’ve been writing about? Well, their cooking’s gotten even better since last month, after they came back from their practical instruction in Haruka’s brothel. A good courtesan needs to be an expert chef. They did the chicken, and all I had to do was steam the rice. Can’t mess that up, eh? They also offered to make you tea, but I know how you detest the stuff.’
He opened the lid to the basket and brought out the steaming meal on a wooden platter, then touched the offering to the incense stick he had just lighted. From the bed of ash the incense was resting on, a current of power surged up to the dish and ignited into purple flame. As the otherworldly fire spread, Takarro felt the weight of the food leave his fingers and released the platter. The floating chicken and rice disappeared along with the platter without blackening or giving off a single trace of smoke. Then he took a signed and sealed letter from his pocket and repeated the process, watching the magic consume the parchment.
Takarro stayed for almost ten minutes. For a while, he talked a little about the state of Tsukikage and Tamriel in general, sharing the burden of his duty as he did when she lived, but soon lapsed into a comfortable silence. It was enough to simply be here with her.
As he finally rose to leave, a small purple flame sprang to life in front of him, expanding and curling around a letter signed with an all too familiar scrawl. Takarro stifled his cry of delight. With the arcane energies woven into the ash used for the incense, anyone could send things through to the other end, but only the most powerful of Shadeclaws were capable of sending things back. That she had attained this level of strength was… humbling, to say the least.
‘Well, I’ll have to do an even better job of looking after the village now, then,’ Takarro grinned and picked up the letter, feeling younger than he had in decades. ‘Or else you’ll give my behind a good tanning when I get over there.’
His good cheer mellowed a bit when he walked on towards Verra and Kodi. Their spirit tablets, at his insistence, had been fused together. He reached out and dusted the tablets as he did with Koumin. Two crossed kunai were carved under each of their names, signifying a Shadeclaw killed in action.
‘Hello, you two. This old man’s come to visit again.’ Takarro sat down in front of his daughter and son-in-law, lighting a stick of incense in the bowls of ashes in front of both of them. ‘Let’s see here… prawn tempura from Old Mama Mamushi’s place down main street. Yes, Verra, she’s still alive, still making them, and still has as mean of a sword arm as she did two centuries ago. Must be approaching two hundred and fifty now – although I’m sure you’d say that I, of all people, don’t get to talk about being old.’
He lit the bowlful of fried seafood with the incense and sent it over.
‘Ambarro is doing well,’ he said quietly. ‘Fifteen years old already, can you believe it? Carries your staff like it was crafted for his hands, Kodi, though he isn’t nearly as skilled as you yet. Yes, he’s as brash and impulsive as ever, but his manners are getting better day by day. Jorra has done… is doing a good job with him. And don’t you worry about Diia, she’s a fine girl, if a little shy. His newfound politeness – hmm, maybe I wouldn’t call it that yet. Still, it’s as much her doing as Jorra’s, I’d wager.’
Takarro stayed for more than half an hour before he forced himself to stand up. ‘Well, my hour is almost up and I have a few more graves to dust. Master Yasha must be getting impatient. Until next time… oh, wait.’
He slapped himself upside the head, chuckling ruefully. ‘That does it, I must be going senile. Sorry, Kodi, almost forgot your offering. I have to say, I’ve always liked your simple tastes. You don’t need a full-course gourmet meal to be satisfied, eh? “A couple of these is enough for me”, you always used to say.’
The Grandmaster pulled out two plump, red apples from the basket, then fed them to the flame.
4E 3
Wasten Coridale
The Summerset Isles
Takarro took a sniff of the apple, his nostrils expanding slightly as he analysed the scent.
‘How curious. I can clearly smell the odour of decay, and yet the fruit appears as crisp and succulent as one freshly picked from an orchard.’
Runil flashed him a grin. ‘You noticed? Good nose! This usually fools everyone not from the Western Isles. It’s a popular scam of the swindlers in these parts.’
‘A scam, you say?’ Takarro peered at the apple.
‘Here, I’ll show you,’ Runil said, taking the apple from his hands and rubbing the taut skin. ‘The cheat is in the uppermost layers. The charlatans pick up these overripe fruits in bulk – apples are the most common, but they do pears, pomegranates and even tomatoes too. Anyway, they take these rotten fruits for free, yes? And then they apply just the slightest touch of healing magic, the kind of spellwork even the most dull-witted Altmer child could perform, like so.’
The young mer’s fingertips flared with amber light, suffusing the apple’s surface with a dim glow. A couple of wrinkles in the skin faded, a few blemishes faded away, and the apple grew even brighter and plumper than it already was.
‘Looks nice and juicy, right? But underneath all that lustre is nothing but rot.’ Runil dug his thumbs in on either side of the stem and cracked the apple in half, holding up both pieces for Takarro to see. Aside from an inch or so of gold under the outer layer, the inside of the apple was completely black.
‘How appetising.’ Takarro noticed maggots picking through the putrescent flesh. ‘I imagine the worms are pleased you renewed their meal, however.’
‘What?’ Runil took a single look at the spongy core and recoiled, hurling the halves into the sea. ‘Quelnanye!’ he swore. ‘Disgusting.’
Takarro chuckled, reaching up to slap the grimacing Altmer on the shoulder. Runil shoved him back, his scowl quickly turning into a roar of laughter as the two tussled back and forth. Some of the elves passing them stopped to stare, a few of them in open contempt. One elderly gentlemer turned up his nose and sniffed, sneering, ‘How unseemly.’
Runil dropped the good-natured wrestling immediately, reverting back to his countrymer’s signature neutral body language. Takarro followed suit and they continued wandering the beach for a while, restricting themselves to mild-mannered conversation. In contrast, other pairs and even whole groups of Altmer were flitting all over the place with whimsical abandon, dancing and singing their eerily beautiful songs. It wouldn’t be proper for him to join in, however. He might be a student at the Battlemages’ Academy for now, but he was still an outsider.
Other foreigners in the vicinity were similarly excluded. Redguards and Imperials and Bretons stood awkwardly about in little circles of their own peers, all while the tall elves spun around them, celebrating and carousing with almost feverish glee, talking as loudly as they could and laughing hysterically at every little joke.
Takarro had been taken aback at first; shocked, even, at this unhinged display of debauchery. It might have been the Festival of New Life, but such wanton behaviour was uncharacteristic of the Altmer. Then he saw the scaffolding covering the ruined buildings far inland, away from all the merrymaking and feasting. A gust of wind blew away a section of tarred canvas that had been covering the matchstick remains of a nobleman’s manor. There were no torches illuminating that part of the island – none of the participants in the Festival had any reason to set foot there – and had Takarro not possessed the night vision of a Po’ Tun, he would not have noticed the ruins at all. It’s almost as if they’re trying to hide it.
He soon came to the conclusion that that was exactly what the Altmer were doing, and grim understanding soured his enjoyment of the evening. This was all that the residents of Wasten Coridale had left. Unlike their kin in the larger cities of Summerset, the elves here did not possess the abundant material wealth of their neighbours – it was too close to the capital to attract any kind of significant traffic, yet too far West and too separated from the rest of the Empire for development as an international entrepot. Reconstruction would certainly have been slow, far slower than Alinor. And yet their Altmeri pride demanded that they exhibit their strength, to show that they were still in charge, still in control, even after their Great Anguish. Especially after.
That’s why the Thalmor are gaining popularity so rapidly, the shinobi reflected. Their fierce emphasis on Altmeri culture and superiority appeal to the vast majority of Summerset’s population – a population that’s desperately trying to salvage what remains of their national spirit. He frowned as he passed a group of representatives from the island governor’s court, making note of a congregation of spokesmer in black and green robes.
The Thalmor were milling around important officials and nobles. There were toasts and encouraging nods at the enthused dignitaries. Takarro’s trained eyes caught a glimpse of pamphlets being dispensed and sacks of coin being exchanged as bribes, passing from one pocket to another with a handshake and a smile. High Elven political machinations are in full flow following the Oblivion Crisis, I see. It is not uncommon in history for fringe groups and former social outcasts to grasp at authority after a great disaster or a war, but even then, I’m beginning to find the speed of these upstarts’ rise to power… a little disturbing. Considering its weakened state, the Empire would do well to-
‘I’m sorry you couldn’t go with the others to the Feast back in Alinor.’ Runil’s hearty voice broke in on his thoughts. ‘It’s a huge occasion.’
‘Oh, I can tell. I think if I concentrate I can hear them from across the bay,’ Takarro said, nodding. ‘And the way Cyra-ko was dressed! I could see you ogling her, you know.’
‘I don’t ogle.’
‘Of course you don’t,’ Takarro smirked. ‘I should have known. All that staring and gaping and open-mouthed mumbling isn’t so different from how you normally behave.’
‘I simply hadn’t seen her in something like that before. The Alinor New Life Feast has a very strict dress code, you know. Traditional form-fitting Altmeri robes only! And no fur,’ Runil added nastily.
‘Indeed.’
‘…sorry.’
‘Think nothing of it.’ Takarro pushed the remark out of his mind. ‘After all, you were willing to skip the Feast and take me here instead-’
A loud scream rang out from the crowd of officials, followed by the sound of steel being drawn and spells being cast.
Takarro reacted immediately, dropping to a crouch and pivoting into the nearest patch of shadow, a spot of darkness where the torchlight from the beach was cut off. His claws slid out with ten quiet slicks. Runil was almost as fast. A gout of bright golden fire lit up his palm and he drew his glass blade from his scabbard as he turned to face the source of the disturbance.
A female High Elf clad in pure white robes and a gleaming, flawless ceramic mask stood over the limp body of another Altmer, this one clad in the dark taupe uniform of the Thalmor – though the cloth was quickly becoming red as blood poured from… nine, ten, eleven; eleven wounds, Takarro counted. Blast it, I left my kusarigama in Alinor. All I have is a tanto in my boot; let’s hope that’s enough.
The elf in the mask was gripping an ornate dagger with such force that she was actually bleeding from the decorations on the hilt. A delicate piece, more of a bauble than a weapon, Takarro observed. Still, the point looks sharp enough to do some damage.
‘Defamer! Slanderer! Liar!’ the elven assassin – Takarro snorted at the thought of even calling her that – thundered, her voice echoing across the beach as those around her fled. ‘Rynandor is innocent of the charges you lay upon him, and he has done nothing to warrant exile! The great seer-mage’s only crime is naiveté and negligence, for his realisation came too late and his words too hollow to forestall the enemies of progress!
‘But we, the Beautiful, see the truth!’ The Altmer’s voice grew shrill as guardsmer and Legionnaires began to approach, swords and magicks in their hands. ‘We see the festering blight among you for what they truly are! Awaken, good mer of Summerset! Open your eyes!’ She jabbed a finger at the rest of the Thalmor, who had regrouped, producing weapons and sorcery of their own. Dodging a lightning bolt with a quick sidestep, she continued to speak. ‘These cockroaches would see us return to the dark days long past, and yet you believe it will lift you from obscurity? The only way to go is forward! We spit on our horror of a legacy! We spit on our heritage! Elven supremacy is the only truth, and that truth is progress!’
At a flourish of her sleeves, other white-robed cultists hidden among the throng of panicked revellers donned masks, drew similar daggers, and started stabbing. Some began casting spells themselves. All across the beach, fireballs flew and tents burned. Swords clashed, and Runil ran over to assist a couple of Thalmor battlemages who had gotten themselves surrounded.
As chaos spread, the Altmer who had started it all turned tail and ran into the woods. She disappeared as soon as she left the light of the torches, and even Takarro’s night vision was not enough to pick her out from under the cover of the trees.
‘Runil-do!’ the shinobi called, and pointed in the direction she’d fled in. His classmate had just dispatched one of his opponents, snapping the Beautiful’s flimsy knife off at the hilt and beheading him with a rapid horizontal stroke. Runil erected a ward as he stepped backwards, blocking off a stream of frost, and spared a glance towards his friend. ‘Go!’ he yelled, jerking his head. ‘I’ll take care of things here!’
Wasting no time with a reply, Takarro sped straight into the shady woodlands. As the sand below his feet turned into sloppy mud and the trees began to thicken, he gathered strength in his thigh muscles and leapt forty feet upwards, alighting silently on a branch. He squinted, then frowned. Trees are still too thick from here. I could try going above the canopy and tracking a single direction, but if the target has fled the other way, I’d lose her no matter how fast I am…
On a nearby tree, an owl hooted from its roost. Takarro smiled. He reached out with two palms, swinging out four lassos of black smoke. He captured the owl who had caught his attention first, forcing his smoke through the bird’s beak and ears and into the skull, spreading himself over its brain and overriding the animal’s nerve signals. He reached out further with the other three streams of smoke and, in short order, captured two more owls and a nightjar.
He could now see, hear and feel through each of the birds’ sensory organs along with his own. It was a very strange experience, dividing his essence like so, and he had found that the more animals he possessed, the more focus was required. A trick, he had learned, is to put the animal’s consciousness to sleep first, then gradually relinquish control over more and more of the brain until only only a trickle of concentration on each creature is enough to maintain my hold. He only needed the eyes, ears and flight muscles of the owls and the nightjar, so he retreated from the other processes of their brains.
Motioning with his hands, Takarro sent his new puppets flying in each of the cardinal directions, scanning for traces of movement below the trees. A small deer, some monkeys, more deer, other birds… ah.
One of the owls he had sent off picked up the sound of ruffling fabric. Sending it into a dive, Takarro looked through its eyes, and – there! Thirty, no, thirty-five degrees east from my position. I have you now.
Severing his connection with the birds, he leapt for another tree, bounded off a branch, then landed almost horizontally on a trunk and powered off with his soles, propelling himself a full hundred feet forward before gravity could kick in.
His prey soon came into sight. The woods were wet, with some parts of the earthy ground sinking away into marshland, and the mud was clinging to her fine salon slippers like a lewd suitor. She cursed and kicked, soiling her white robes with brown flecks and panting as she began to struggle just to lift her feet.
The Shadeclaw leapt across three more branches, then stopped directly above her. The cultist took off her mask for a moment to breathe, and Takarro chose that moment to strike.
The cultist’s scream was muffled as he landed on the small of her back and forced her face down, deep into the soft mud. The porcelain mask flew out of her hand and shattered against a nearby mangrove as she gurgled, little bubbles popping out of the mud on either side of her submerged mouth and nose. I could simply drown her like this, Takarro mused, tightening his grip on the back of her skull. But the Beautiful was flailing about with the dagger still in her right hand and lightning splattering away in her left, and he did not relish being stabbed or fried. So he wrenched the cultist’s head back hard enough to splinter her cervical vertebrae, unsheathed his tanto and plunged it into her exposed throat.
‘That’s for ruining the party,’ he snarled, and opened her windpipe.
He jumped back up towards the trees to avoid getting mud on his body and blasted off the few specks that had made it anyway with magic, along with the gore staining his blade. Nothing ruined an approach from stealth like the stench of blood and rotting soil. Then he made his way back to the beach.
Runil was chatting with a couple of new Thalmor friends. Guardsmer were cleaning up the bodies strewn about the sand.
‘That was spectacular work, Master Runil!’ one of them was saying, his eyes as wide as saucers. ‘What you did with that fire – amazing!’
‘Pure art,’ his companion agreed, looking at the Dux Decuria with an expression of admiration.
‘Holy Sunfire is best used against undead, but I find that a sudden flash of bright light can be helpful in most any fight,’ Runil grinned. ‘You two aren’t so bad yourselves.’ Then he noticed Takarro coming out of the woods and waved. ‘Ho, Takarro! How’d it go?’
Takarro forced a cheerful smile onto his face. Damn. It. Runil-do. ‘This one has returned, master!’ he wheezed, adopting a Riverhold accent. ‘Do not worry, your belongings are secure.’
To Runil’s credit, he caught on quick. ‘Ah, that so? Well, good. Now hurry up and give me my pouch back. The ship back to Alinor is setting sail soon and I want another drink before we leave.’
‘Of course, master,’ Takarro said, and pulled out his purse. Ohh, you’d better not buy actual drinks with these, Runil-do. ‘Here!’
One of the Thalmor studied him with detached, condescending curiosity. ‘You trust that… cat with your coin, Master Runil? I’d be careful if I were you.’
‘Now, now, Rivas,’ the other Thalmor drawled. ‘I’m sure Master Runil and his family are very confident in their choice of slave.’
‘Woah, hey now,’ Runil said nervously. ‘You know slavery’s outlawed across the Empire. He’s a… um…’
Takarro would have ground his teeth if he hadn’t trained for a decade to conceal his body language. He understood Runil’s predicament. Saying outright that he owned a slave would get him in trouble, but saying that Takarro was anything more would cause him to lose standing among his peers – which, by bringing Takarro here in the first place, he must have already lost plenty of.
‘No, no, sirs, not a slave,’ Takarro whined. ‘This one is… an indentured servant, yes. Bound to Master Runil for a-’
Rivas and his friend stared at him like he had just defecated in public. ‘Weren’t you taught not to cut in when your betters are speaking, cur?’ he demanded, turning to Runil. ‘Sir, you must discipline your pet when you return to Alinor.’
‘And I certainly will,’ Runil promised as a loud horn rang out, and he beckoned with one hand. ‘Come on, then, you insolent little beast. Ship’s leaving.’
The two Thalmor bade their farewells, then walked off in the opposite direction, their noses in the air.
‘What was that about?’ Runil said through the corner of his mouth. Takarro held up a hand, then cast a basic cone of silence around them and made Runil turn around so the other elves couldn’t see their lips move.
‘The existence of our order is a closely guarded secret in the Empire, known to only a select few guild-masters, scholars and those of a sufficient rank within the Legion, like your fellow officers attending the Academy. These Thalmor may or may not qualify. Even if they knew about Tsukikage already – which I doubt – I see no reason to announce my presence on Alinor.’
‘Hmm,’ Runil frowned. ‘All right.’
‘In any case,’ Takarro said, smiling and moving on. ‘It seems they’ve taken a liking to you, Runil-do, and that’s always good.’
Runil returned his smile. ‘But of course. The Thalmor are the saviours of the Isles, you know. Can’t hurt to get to know as many of them as possible.’
Now it was Takarro’s turn to frown and say ‘Hmm’.
‘Problem?’
‘You brought up saving Summerset… didn’t I hear something about Rynandor the Bold earlier from the Beautiful?’
A sneer crossed Runil’s face. ‘Ah, poor Rynandor. He was brave and capable in his time, you know. We would’ve done well to replace him before he started losing his touch. Now the only ones even remotely on his side are these… raving lunatics. It’s pitiful, really.’
‘Hmm,’ Takarro said again. ‘Well, enough of that. So you tried out your new holy magicks in combat today, eh? Seems it turned out well. That priest wasn’t lying when he said he could show you a few tricks.’
Runil chuckled and rubbed the stubble on his chin. ‘What can I say? I wanted to save those spells up for necromancers and the undead, but these fanatics are a close second. There’s a poetic justice in searing their eyes out with pure, beautiful light.’
‘Well, then, I’m glad I wasn’t here for that,’ Takarro joked. ‘I don’t handle light very well.’
‘I’ll bet,’ Runil laughed, elbowing him playfully, then stopped and assumed a neutral stance once more as a couple of Altmer ladies stared at the pair coldly. They reached the ship just as the second horn blew, and lined up in front of the gangplank. ‘Well, this was a fun night’s out, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, all the fun and excitement I could wish for,’ Takarro said dryly. ‘There’s just one thing, however.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Can I have my purse back now, Runil-do?’
4E 4
Alinor
The Summerset Isles
‘Unbelievable.’ Runil shifted his weight on the bench and raised his head from the table. He hadn’t touched his food. ‘Unbelievable!’ He turned to look at Takarro, shaking the newspaper in his hands. ‘Four more incidents in the last month? What is the Legion doing? What are we doing? Just sitting around on our arses and playing with spells while this… infestation spreads?’
‘The Beautiful seem to be increasing the scale and frequency of their attacks, targeting areas of high population density and cultural significance,’ Takarro murmured without looking at Runil. The shinobi was staring intently at the entrance to the kitchens. ‘It’s a common terrorist tactic; to be expected when enough manpower has been assembled.’
‘Oh? Know a lot about that, do you?’ Runil growled.
‘We Shadeclaws often employ similar strategies, especially when conducting missions involving radical subversion of local government.’ Takarro scanned a pair of cooks entering the kitchens. ‘Create fear in a community and you sow discord among the people, spreading chaos and siphoning trust away from the central administration. More military power will then have to be diverted to maintain social order, allowing shinobi to move about more freely inside the area of operations and opening up key figures for assassination. “Destabilise and decapitate”, as Grandmaster Raikko likes to say.’
‘That’s despicable,’ Runil said tightly, his knuckles whitening on the table. ‘You would target innocent citizens just to cause a distraction?’
‘There are plenty of ways to bring about civil unrest without directly harming civilians,’ Takarro replied absentmindedly, still keeping his eye on the kitchens. ‘Circulation of negative propaganda. Serial destruction or defamation of national monuments. Eliminating a string of low-priority targets with excessive brutality; we taught the Cathay-raht how to do that. Crippling the economy – though to be fair, that probably kills more people than going on a public stabbing spree…’
Runil made an impatient noise in his throat. ‘Okay, okay, I get it. What’s gotten into you this week? I’ve never seen you so distracted. I thought shinobi were supposed to be constantly focused.’
‘I am focused.’ Takarro swivelled back towards Runil, staring him straight in the eyes. ‘In fact, Runil-do, I daresay I’m more focused than anyone else in this Academy. You haven’t noticed yet?’
‘I’ve noticed that you’re paying the kitchens an inordinate amount of attention. You know, if you’re still hungry, you can just go and ask them for more.’
‘I wasn’t looking at the food,’ Takarro said, casting a cone of silence around them. ‘Listen – there’s been small changes of Academy personnel over the course of this week. On Sundas, after our hymn session in the Chantry, I noticed a new Sister tending the shrines. When one of the boys asked her name, she mumbled something indistinct and slunk off to a corner.’
‘She could’ve just been shy.’
‘She could have, yes. Then, on Morndas, two janitors I hadn’t seen before were sweeping the first-floor staircases. Following that, on Tirdas, one of the boatmen – boatmer – ferrying goods and produce from the port to the campus was replaced by someone who wasn’t a regular shipper.’
Runil laughed. ‘How can you possibly know that?’
‘No calluses on his hands. The only sentient beings that do not develop calluses from friction and rough work are Po’ Tun who’ve consumed the Pale Flask and Sloads. He didn’t look like either. And his gait on the boat was unbalanced. He hasn’t found his sea-legs yet. Now let me finish. On Middas it was three of the gardeners. On Turdas it was one of the guards on the second-floor patrol. And now, for the last two days, I counted at least five different cooks.’
‘I’m sure you’re overreacting,’ Runil said, though he was beginning to look uneasy.
‘I might be,’ Takarro smiled mirthlessly. ‘But is anyone else here a professional spy, Runil-do?’
Runil looked at him, then nodded slowly. ‘Point taken.’
‘What did I just say was one of the methods of spreading unrest? Destroying national monuments?’ Takarro rose from the bench, cursing whichever fat elven official decided that he wasn’t allowed shinobi tools inside. ‘And what greater symbol of Altmeri might is there than your prowess in the magical arts?’
Runil paled slightly, but he remained composed. ‘What do you want to do, then?’
‘We need to report this, and Headmaster Ondrion is away for the weekend,’ Takarro said. ‘Professor Eldafara is next in seniority. Let’s go to her.’
Runil nodded again, and the two of them left the mess hall.
‘Emeroth Eldafara?’ Takarro called outside her door when they reached her office on the third floor. He was about to knock when he remembered how the rooms were insulated from sound. Runil reached out with a hand and set his palm against a glowing circle to the side of the door, and Takarro felt a low buzz reverberate through the walls into the room. A few seconds later, Eldafara opened the door.
‘Come in,’ their teacher said gruffly.
The Hurricane listened to their story as she sat in front of her desk with a raised eyebrow, a finger on her temple. When Takarro finished, she was silent for the better part of a minute.
‘I know it sounds like a long shot,’ Runil said hesitantly. ‘It did to me when Takarro first brought it up. But I’ve given it some more thought. The Academy only hires new staff at the start of the year, and we would’ve known if the Headmaster started firing people in bulk. I also find it hard to believe that so many people across so many different posts would be taken ill or unable to come to work all in one week. You have to admit-’
‘This is very troubling,’ Eldafara said, looking even more serious than usual.
Runil blinked. ‘So you believe us?’
What might’ve been a smile twitched on the Cahoth’s lips for a brief moment. She motioned at Takarro. ‘I know better than to ignore advice from someone in your line of work, Ceyener.’
Takarro stood a little straighter. ‘Thank you, emeroth.’
‘What is to be done, then?’ Runil asked, tapping his feet. ‘If this truly is some kind of attempt at sabotage…’
‘Then we must root out the source of this disturbance,’ Eldafara said firmly. ‘Have you told anyone else of your suspicions?’
‘No.’
‘Good. Let it stay that way. Whatever forces are behind this may have infiltrated the students and the instructors as well.’
‘With respect, Professor, that doesn’t seem likely,’ Takarro said. ‘An outside organisation would have a far easier time sending in agents through the hired help, as they are far less constant than regular faculty.’
Eldafara’s face soured. ‘I would still prefer to be careful. Isn’t that what shinobi would do?’
Takarro bowed. ‘You are correct, of course. Keeping our information to a small group would minimise the chance of exposure.’
‘Good,’ Eldafara said again, rising from her seat and beginning to rummage through a chest full of wands and staves. ‘Give me a while to prepare. I’ll meet you in front of the kitchens in half an hour. Takarro, you can point out the new cooks, right?’
‘I believe so, yes.’
‘Good,’ Eldafara repeated for one last time, and ushered them out of her office.
‘I’m still not allowed weapons.’ Takarro let a bit of grumpiness slip into his tone. ‘But do you want to gear up, Runil-do?’
‘I have my sword with me,’ Runil said confidently, patting the blade sheathed on his hip. ‘That should be enough, especially with the Cahoth watching our backs.’
‘Not so loud,’ Takarro hissed, and the two of them took the stairs back down to the kitchens. They stood watch outside the entrance as they waited, so as not to let anyone slip by.
Forty-five minutes passed with nothing happening. Runil shifted. ‘It’s not like her to be late.’
Then the doors to the kitchens opened by just a fraction of an inch. A voice came from within. ‘Master Runil, Master Takarro! Lady Eldafara sent me. She’s taken care of things and is waiting for you inside.’
Runil laughed. ‘As expected of the Hurricane! She’s done already?’
In the decades that came, Takarro would look back on this moment and wonder how differently things would have gone if he had just opened his mouth a second sooner, or if his sense of smell had just been honed a bit more.
‘Well, come on, she’s waiting for us.’
And with that, Runil disappeared into the kitchens. Takarro wasn’t so ready to follow. His nose was too busy analysing the scent that had drifted out along with the voice. Urea-rich sweat. Intense androstenedione secretion? The scent of aggression. The scent of fear!
‘Runil-do, wait!’ he cried, at the exact same moment an explosion rocked his bones. Gritting his teeth and popping his claws, he sprinted after his friend.
Inside, it was bedlam. Runil was fencing with three different opponents at once, his glass sword a blur as he warded off two, three, four knife thrusts. The foes were Altmer dressed like cooks, but they wielded their kitchen knives in similar stances to the Beautiful Takarro had faced a year prior. Behind the trio of assailants were two mages – also dressed like kitchen staff – pressing the Dux Decuria with magic, who returned fire in kind. Twenty spells flashed across the room in the space of a second, blowing pots and crates of ingredients into smithereens.
Backpedalling rapidly, Takarro scrambled for cover behind a sturdy marble table. Even that didn’t look like it would hold for long against the combined onslaught of the six combatants. Takarro shook his head to clear the stars from his vision. He might have drunk of the Blue Flask, but his raw Magicka capacity was still far lesser than that of a High Elf. I certainly can’t sling spells about with so much reckless abandon like they’re doing now. Fire guttered dangerously close to his mane, and he sank lower into the ground to avoid being burned.
Then Runil gave a loud roar, and the entire room erupted into a single brilliant flare of white light. Takarro shouted in pain and clapped his hands over his eyes. When he opened them again, he blinked in astonishment. The wall in front of him was now two different colours. The stone in the lower half, shielded by the shadow of the marble table, was the same as before, but the upper half, exposed to the full might of Runil’s holy magicks, was now permanently bleached, like a slab of limestone left to broil under a thousand years of sun.
Screams came from the other end of the kitchens. Takarro poked his head out. Four of the assailants were clutching at their steaming eyes and faces, writhing in agony. The fifth had fallen and stabbed himself. Before the shinobi could do anything, Runil strode over to the ones still moving and, with four deliberate slashes, cut them down where they stood.
Takarro let his admiration fill his voice as he vaulted over the table. The marble almost hurt to touch; it was throbbing with warmth. ‘What am I even doing here?’
‘Asking the right questions there,’ Runil grinned, tapping his forehead. ‘You all right? Sorry about that flash, I know you-’
‘Runil-do, behind you!’ But for the second time that day Takarro came too late with his warning. Their fifth opponent’s self-inflicted stab wound had not been lethal. He rose and called forth a swirling white blizzard, driving Runil face-first into a shelf and freezing him there with a column of ice. Then he turned his magic on Takarro, hurling him all the way back into the marble table with enough force to snap a normal humanoid’s spine. As it was, the Po’ Tun’s enhanced skeleton withstood the blow, but just barely.
Takarro coughed, breathless and stunned, and the Altmer blasted him in the head so hard he flipped backwards over the table, where he crumpled into a heap. ‘Stay down, rug! Submit to your betters! Elven supremacy is the only truth, and that truth is progress!’
Fumbling on the ground for a knife or a saucepan or anything to make the fight less one-sided, Takarro felt his fingers close on something round, stubby, and quite a bit larger than his fist.
As the Altmer rounded the corner, Takarro somersaulted onto the table and raised his arm. ‘You Beautiful really need a shorter motto,’ he snapped, and threw his new weapon.
The High Elf dodged nimbly, stepping to the side as the projectile whizzed past him, bounced off the wall, and rolled to a stop next to his feet. He stooped and picked it up. The object was brown, bumpy and coarse, with crispy skin.
‘A potato?’ The cultist released a high shriek of derision. ‘A potato?’
Then his fingers brushed a series of scratches, and he held his hand up to his face, frowning.
There, carved hastily into the potato with a claw, was a runic circle enclosing the Daedric letter ‘Seht’. A stream of white Magicka flowed steadily outward, becoming flush with the surface just as the Beautiful’s eyes widened.
‘Oh…’
Whatever expletive he might’ve uttered next was cut off as Takarro’s frost rune burst, covering his face and upper torso with sleet. The cultist let out a strangled whine, scrabbling desperately at his new mask as he suffocated. Not quite the ceramic ones he was used to.
The Shadeclaw lashed out, whirling forward with an ushiro-geri and kicking the Altmer down onto his back. Then he crouched and picked up the potato. The starchy tuber was rich with moisture, and all of that water had been frozen solid.
Takarro kicked the cultist again in the solar plexus, making sure he’d stay down, then smashed the now rock-hard potato seventeen times into his skull.
Runil stood behind him, mouth open. Ice still caked his shoulders, but he didn’t seem to notice or care.
‘Did you just kill someone with a fucking potato?’
‘I didn’t want to waste food, but with the arcane lightshow you and our friends here just gave, I daresay all the food in these kitchens has been irreparably ruined anyway.’
The two stared at each other for a few seconds, then doubled over in laughter. Takarro sobered first.
‘Well, if there’s one weakness that I’m sure all Shadeclaws share, it’s our implicit respect for seniors and authority figures,’ he said, scowling. ‘You know what this means, Runil-do.’
‘Yeah,’ Runil growled. ‘Eldafara set us up. She’s one of them.’
Comments
And not to worry, Part the Third should be out within the next week. Spring break, wheee!