Martin asked no questions on the road, which suited Tarthas just fine. He was chewing his lip over whether or not he was too late. Galloping was heard from behind, rushed and a frantic panting from the overtired horse. A farmer on a fine black stallion was coming from the road they had been walking for the last two hours. The sun had dawned again and the red skies had faded as they walked towards Skingrad.
“Ho there!” Martin yelled, the rider halted, “What news do you bring of the other cities?”
“I have very little time, brother. Urgent news the last couple days. The Black Horse Courier needs to keep everyone up to date. I could give you the latest copy but I must be off after that, there has been word that there has been a murder in Chorrol. Won’t get to the front page though, Kvatch has been saved!”
The now titled courier handed over a long parchment with as heading: “Kvatch! The Sky Burns!”
Impatiently Tarthas waited for Martin to read the damned newsletter. While waiting he analyzed martin’s expression and change of expression, trying to decipher what the priest was reading just by looking at his face. However he decoded no more than concern and dread, the same expression he had since Tarthas met him in the Kvatch Chapel.
“Well?” Impatience heavy in his tone.
“Nothing we don’t know, less than we know. But that’s the press for you. Let’s get going, as you said, no time to lose.”
A faint orange glow lay on the horizon before them as the Spellsword and the priest neared Weynon Priory. “Something’s not right” Martin noted. Tarthas looked at him questioningly, “The sun sets in the west, we are facing east, not more spawn from Oblivion, they haven’t found me here?”
“The glow’s too soft. And the sky isn’t cracked, black clouds? No… black smoke! The Priory is burning! Martin, stay here!” the Breton ran to the glowing, growing flames. As the Priory came into view, sure enough it was aflame.
Monks were running around with Dai-Katana’s on their backs chugging buckets of water from the well. Others were clashing with more of the ornately armored Dagon cultists. Tarthas unslung his bow and dealt with them quickly. He was in no mood for close up melee, he needed to dispatch them quickly. The monk’s looked in surprise as one by one their opponent flew away by the force of an arrow through their now hooded instead of armored skulls.
As Tarthas got into view they cheered at the green hooded rogue archer.
“Where’s Jauffre!” He demanded. He was furious and out of time. He could not change what the scroll had said, no matter what Nocturnal had told, no matter what Vera’s dream had said “Fin Kel los krent” which meant the “scroll is broken”. He could not change what was made, not him, no he was the Saviour of Kvatch, his legend was set in stone. The Princes, the essence of change and chaos… they could. That’s what he had to do. Keep stasis.
“In the Chapel fighting off the last of the defilers!”
With an air akin to the Pale’s frozen winds he stalked towards the chapel unsheathing his Aldmeri Silver Sword, the Jackal jumped into its wisp state and synchronized with the sword. He kicked the door off its hinges slamming it into another cultist. The brass candlesticks reflected solid black orbs socketed in a face wrought with cold fury. He stomped the oaken door crushing of the cultist lying beneath. Like a dwemer automaton he mechanically charged on to the next one. He was thirsty for the deaths of Dagon’s worshippers. His sword cut straight through the cultist’s armour and chest, the blade still clean as he pulled it out. Once again the armour dissipated and nothing more than blood red, blood stained robes remained covering the dying corpse.
“Tarthas! Right on time, I thought this was my last breath! Are you all right my boy. What did you see? What did the jaws of Oblivion do to you. Did you find Martin?”
Like a slap in the face Tarthas came to his senses his eyes turned their natural dark green again.
“Martin is outside the Prio—
“Good but we have little time to lose. I fear for the Amulet. I kept it in a secret room, I fear the Amulet was the target. It is in Weynon House, we need to see if it is safe.”
Dai-katana in hand the withered Blade Master rushed to the house, Tarthas in close pursuit. Up the steps to his office, where the wall was rubble and a trashed back room behind the rubble. Jauffre fell to his knees
“Please tell me it was not all for nothing? Martin! He is our last hope along with Vera.”
“Vera?”
“She’s already at cloud ruler temple, we need to get Martin to the temple too. He’s not safe here, they will learn of Martin and Vera’s survival and hunt them down.”
“How do you know Vera?”
“She’s Uriel’s daughter! The true heir, disowned and I thought murdered along with her brothers. Martin is a bastard, but a good scapegoat. He will be their target, look like he is the emperor and when this wretched Crisis is over, if Martin isn’t dead already, Vera Septim will take over as the true Empress.”
He could not argue though he wanted to scream. Something had changed, nothing in the books told of an Empress Vera Septim. Does she die as well? Or was it a change?
“For now, Martin Septim is to be Emperor and is to be treated as such. A coronation will be done at Cloud Ruler Temple. You will escort him. Once more, there are supplies in the chest. I must be off. “
When Tarthas returned to Martin, the priest had an amulet of Akatosh to his lips and was mumbling prayers, eyes closed.
“I know you’re struggling with this idea of being the heir to the Empire but you’d better get used to it very quickly.” He walked right past Martin back the way they came, down the Black Road though he was planning to turn north-east at the crossroad, onto the Orange Road that crossed through the Great Forest and headed to Bruma. Cloud Ruler Temple according to the map he bought was connected to a road that started in Brume, thus Bruma was his destination.
“What happened in Weynon Priory, did a gate open? Why was it burning?” he grabbed Tarthas’ shoulder but was shrugged off gruffly, “Tarthas!”
“They weren’t looking for you, as far as they know, you don’t exist. We’re heading to Cloud Ruler Temple before they figure out you do exist.”
“Let’s get moving then.” He sighed. Deep down Tarthas felt slightly sorry for the priest who’s life was turned upside down in one night. It seemed familiar.
Imps and Wolves plagued the Great Forest. To Tarthas an Imp was fascinating; a tiny grey skinned humanoid floating on leathery bat wings hurling elemental spells at them. The bolts were easily avoided but close by they could group up and claw and bite with sharp fangs and nails.
Right outside the grey forest, at the end of the Orange Road he could see the splendor of the Jerral Mountains. He smiled, just on the other side of them was Falkreath Hold, his home. What was it like 250 years in the past? According to the history the two recent wars, well wars to come, had decimated Falkreath Hold and most other holds to a minimum. The Third Era truly was the prime of the Empire. Talos truly had created unified piece. Damn the Gods for disrupting it.
“We’re stopping in Bruma for the night. I need to get some supplies.” He hadn’t slept since that night in Skingrad. How many days was that? 2? 3? How long had he been in the Deadlands?
The city was similar to Windhelm in certain ways, but it was more humble like Falkreath. It felt like a good place to be, harsh but humble. It was odd to see a settlement like this, he wondered if the Nords felt out of place in Cyrodiil and stayed quiet. He wandered around town and finally found the Jerral View Inn, ironically facing away from the Jerral Mountains. It looked like a good Inn thus that is where they settled. It was 50 septims for two rooms.
He didn’t sleep that night. He couldn’t, no matter how much he tossed and turned, sleep didn’t come. Too much was on his mind again. When Magnus’ first rays shone through his window he got up without effort and woke Martin up. He had slept lightly, most likely in fear of the Daedra that hunted him. They headed through the North gate and deeper into the mountains. Cloud Ruler Temple wasn’t just a monastery it was a fortress and a training ground for the Blades. It is where they learned the Akaviri way of the Blade.
The road thick walls loomed heavily over them, shadowing the rising sun and making Tarthas feel very small. The gate was guarded by one Blade, a Redguard. Beside him in the official Blades suit of armour stood Jauffre, Dai-Katana on his back.
“Grandmaster, is this…?”
“Yes, Cyrus. This is the emperor’s son, Martin Septim.”
The gateguard straightened up nervously, “My lord! Welcome to Cloud Ru;er Temple! We have not had the honour of an Emperor’s visit in many years!”
Martin was as apprehensive as the guard, “Ah, well. Thank you.”
Jauffre cleared his throat “Come, your Blades are waiting to greet you.”
Martin looked at Tarthas, “Go on, your Blades are waiting.
The bastard walked up the steps all the blades turned their heads at the ragged robed priest with awe and admiration. Slowly all the training stopped and everything became quiet other than the wind rushing across the mountain hills and peaks.
Jauffre stood tall and strong next to him, in the grandeur of the Akaviri craftsmanship with a voice unexpected from a humble monk this Grandmaster commanded the Blades “Blades! Dark times are upon us. The Emperor and his sons were slain on our watch! The Empire is in chaos. But there is yes hope. Here is Martin Septim, true son of Uriel Septim the Seventh!”
In unision and with conviction the Blades yelled “Hail, Dragonborn! Hail, Martin Septim! Hail!”
Jauffre turned to martin and waved his hand, beckoning at all of the Blades, “Your Highness. The Blades are at your command. You will be safe here until you can take up your throne. They would like a reassuring word from their new Emperor.”
“Jauffre. All of you. I am not used to giving speeches. But I wanted you to know that I appreciate your welcome here. I hope I prove myself worthy of your loyalty in the coming days. Thank you.”
Once more only the winds echoed off the Jerral peaks.
“Well then,” Jauffre said disappointed, “Thank you, Martin.”
The Blades dispersed and carried on with their duties.
Martin pulled Tarthas aside and sighed, pinching his eyebrows, “Not much of a speech, was it? Didn’t seem to bother them though. The Blades saluting me and hailing me as Martin Septim… I don’t mean to sound ungrateful! I know I would be dead by now if it weren’t for you. Thank you. But everyone expects me to suddenly know what to do. How to behave. They want an Emperor to tell them what to do, and I haven’t the faintest of idea…”
“I’ll tell you what we need to do, we need to get that Amulet back.”
“Of course. The Amulet of Kings. So we… I… can take it to the Temple of the One and light the Dragonfires. And stop the Oblivion invasion. Maybe Jauffre will know where to start.”
Tarthas turned round and walked to the Grand Hall, he found Jauffre giving orders left and right to darting Blades. He grasped Jauffre’s plated shoulder.
“Ah, Tarthas, I wanted to speak to you. You have proven yourself worthy of the Empire, as worthy as any of the Blades to stand by Martin’s side during this Crisis. As the Grandmaster of the Blades, I would be honored to accept you into our order. Will you join us?”
“What does that consist of, what are my duties?”
“The Blades are sworn to the service of the Emperor, as the mortal representative of the Dragon Blood of the Divine Talos.”
Tarthas hesitated, “Yes, I can accept that, I will join the Blades. But that is not why I approached you. Shouldn’t we try to find the Amulet of Kings?”
The Grandmaster walked to a similar study to the one in Weynon Priory except that it had Plaques with Blade shield and weapons adorning the walls. He sat himself down uncomfortably, “You’re right. We must try to recover the Amulet before the enemy takes it out of our reach. You should head back the Imperial City. Baurus may have learned something about the assassins. You’ll find Baurus at Luther’s Broad’s Boarding House in the Elven Garden’s District of the Imperial City. The Amulet is the key to everything now. We have to reseal the barriers.
“I know. I will be off at dawn.”
“May Talos guide you my friend.”
The west wing was the sleeping quarters. Much like Jorrvaskr it looked like everyone just fell in any bed they felt like. Thus he dropped into the nearest one to the door, not bothering to take off his leather and mail. Once more dreams plagued his restless sleep. Dreams from deep within his subconscious that decided to wake from their slumber.
Everything was black, white and grey, wispy and insubstantial. The trees of the great forest were like smoke, being tugged at by a wind that he could not feel nor hear. A wolf howled somewhere in the forest of smoke. He saw a shadow flit between the wisps. Whatever it was he followed it, cautiously. The shadow between the smokes was always out of reach. Once again the wolf howled. The Shadow was slowing down, or was he getting faster? As he ran, flitting between the wispy trees he saw a werewolf running parallel, its red eyes glinting in the grey. The Shadow stopped and turned, Tarthas stopped too. The werewolf cowered between the trees, panting, licking its maw, waiting to feed. The Shadow grinned a glistening fanged grin and closed in, biting Tarthas’ neck. Like acidic venom the pain burned through him, making every vein seethe and writhe. His blood boiled. Soon everything was black, nothing, not even pain.
Tarthas woke up in an Inn’s bed. What inn, he did not know. His throat was parched and he was ravenously thirsty.
“You sleep rather soundly for a murderer.”
Tarthas stayed silent and looked at the black robed and hooded man before him, the man with the grin of someone who enjoyed killing, reveled in it. Exactly like how Tarthas reveled in slamming the man into the Inn’s wall with lycanthropic strength and sinking his fanged teeth into his neck. He drank thirstily, as if he had been without water all his life. When he felt satisfied he left Lucien Lachance gasping for breath and clutching his exposed and bleeding neck.
Tarthas walked down the stairs to see a carnage, the whole inn had been brutally murdered, bodies thrown around and shredded. As he walked out of the inn the scene was the same. A whole town murdered brutally. He distantly heard the sniffling of a small girl coming from behind a home.
The sniffling came from a small eight year old girl, she looked drained of all life. She looked up at Tarthas with fear and screamed.
“The monster! Don’t bite me again! Please!”
Tarthas looked in shock as the little girl ran away terrified of him. What had he done in his sleep? Where was he? He had to leave the town behind and carry on going. Leave this place, forget about it. With the mountains to his back he spotted the White-Gold tower and heeded for the Imperial City. He had to stay on track.
Next Chapter
