Utilizador:Flyingsandwich/Title Pending

This is the first story i've written since I was 9 years old (6 years ago), so I may be a little rusty. It's received positive feedback on the Gamefaqs Oblivion Forum, and I thought i'd put it on here. It's a work in progress, so i'm constantly updating and writing more. I'm not sure how long it's going to be when it's finished. This is also my first time editing a page on this magnitude, so if anybody can pretty it up a little or format it better, feel free to do so. Take any feedback to either my talk page (User_talk:Flyingsandwich) or the discussion page of this page.

Oh, and i'm Australian, so that's the way we spell 'armour' and 'colour'.

Also, I can't for the life of me think of a title for the story. Suggestions are welcome.

1

Salamar Kelleth clung to the branch with bated breath, watching the heavy-set figure pass beneath him, waiting. He slowly stretched out his dark green Dunmer hand, and called upon some of the magicka within him. “Gotcha,” he whispered as he let loose the telekinesis spell, knocking the burly figure to the dirt.

“Salamar, you snowman! I’m hunting, damn you! Where are you? I swear, I’ll throw you up into that tre-oh, you’re already in it.” He stood up and looked at the slightly built Dunmer with his legs wrapped around a tree branch with a look of mock anger on his face, “Why do you insist on tormenting me?”

“You’ll never catch anything anyway, you’re terrible with that bow. And I heard you coming from a mile away. Nords aren’t made for stalking, friend. I’m just trying to save you the trouble of scaring the deer away yourself.” He slowly drifted to the forest floor, seeming to float on air.

The Nord stepped back. “You know you’re not supposed to do that, Sal. Levitation’s illegal. What if a Forester sees you doing that? You’ll be fined, maybe even locked up!”

“Oblivion take their regulations. I took the trouble to learn Alteration, and that includes the ability to levitate. I’m not going to un-learn it just because the Council says so. Pah! What a stupid law. Why’d they even ban it anyway? I moved out of the city because it-“

“Okay, I know, I know. It’s too restrictive; the people are too uptight, blah, blah blah, blah blah…spare me the tirade.” Salamar held up his hands in a sign of peace;

“Okay, I promise to stop complaining. And besides, I wasn’t even levitating. It’s a slowfall spell.”

“That’s what you always say. Say, shouldn’t you be getting back to Nondrick’s? Your shift starts soon. Look at the sun, it’s almost midday. You’re going to be late! You’ll never get back to town in time now.”

“Relax, Garret. Mysticist, remember? I’ll just teleport back there. I placed a magical marker on my room in the inn. Though I did hope to conserve my magicka and walk back; I’ve been waiting in that tree for what felt like half the day. What took you so long?”

“I…misplaced my arrows.”

“Misplaced your arrows? How do you misplace your arrows? Don’t you keep your quiver with your bow?”

“Well, yeah, but I had a bit too much mead last night-“

“No need to tell me,” came the interjection.

“As I was saying, I had a bit too much mead last night, and decided it would be a good idea to go deer hunting, without the sneaking part. Well, I fired all my arrows off into the night at the skittish little blighters, and I was too drunk to realise that I should retrieve them. I had to trade for some new ones, but I left my purse at my cabin, so I had to go back for it.”

“Typical Garret. I swear you’d lose your own head if it wasn’t attached to your clumsy body. Okay, stand back.” He called out to his surroundings like only one trained in the art of Mysticism can, zeroing in on his magical beacon. When he had found it, he allowed the magicka stored within every cell of his body to take him to it. His eyes opened (he had subconsciously closed them while casting his Recall spell) just as the last particles on residual magic converted themselves into pink light and dispersed.

“Where are those salts?” He asked himself as he searched his alchemical cupboards. He felt slightly drained from the Recall spell, and he couldn’t have himself making mistakes while working at the bar in Nondrick’s Inn. He found the jar containing his supply of Void Salts and took a pinch of them out, placing it underneath his tongue and screwing the lid back on. He replaced the jar and closed his cupboards, locking them magically. It wouldn’t do to have his ingredients and apparatus stolen. That stuff’s expensive. He’d have to work for two years to make up the drakes to replace all of it. He opened his clothes drawers, and put on his more formal crimson work outfit over his light brown tunic. He exited his room and locked the door behind him. He didn’t enchant it. He wasn’t that worried about anybody breaking into his room. There wasn’t that much of worth apart from his alchemical cupboard and its contents. He couldn’t care less if his clothes were stolen. And his Scholar’s Robe, hanging on the back of the door on a hook, was cursed. If anybody other than him put it on, it would strangle them to death unless they uttered the safe word, ‘anyammis’. It meant ‘life’ in Ehlnofex. If someone was smart enough to figure it out while they still had enough air to speak, he felt they deserved to keep the robe. His bow and arrows were also in a hidden compartment under his bed, with a Paralysis trap guarding them. He stopped. He just couldn’t shake the feeling that something bad was about to happen…  

2

He came in at sunset. The heavy door swung open, admitting a dishevelled, weary-looking Dark Elf. His dark red hair was wiry and dirty, and his once-expensive looking suit was torn in places, and Salamar could identify a scorch mark on one of the legs of his pants. He felt a strong surge in the magical continuum when the figure entered. It was part of his natural affinity for Mysticism. He could feel the magic around him at all times. And this worn stranger was definitely a Master of one of the Schools. The stranger staggered towards the bar. “I need a drink,” he croaked to Salamar. “Anything specific?” Salamar inquired.

“Just…something strong. Not mead.”

“Okay. Got some gold, stranger?”

“Please…”

Salamar raised an eyebrow. “You look like you just came out of Oblivion. I’ll front the bill for you.”

“Hey, what about us? You never buy us drinks!” came the cries from the crowd assembled at the inn’s tables.

“Alright then. I’ll put you in a fighting pit with Garret, then take all your money off you. After an hour or so, you might look like this poor soul. Then, I’ll buy you all a round.” The crowd quietened, with a few chuckles rising above the murmur. He handed the weary Dunmer a flagon of rum, and gestured for him to sit on a bar stool.

“Rest. Are you okay? I’m not a healer, but I’m not too bad an alchemist. I’ve probably got something for your cuts up in my room. And you can have one of my tunics, if you like. What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t,” came the reply from the now-quenched throat, “Alval. Alval Uvani. And thank you for the offer. Some salve would be nice, and I do need to change out of these clothes. After a good, long bath.” Alval’s hardened, travel-weary eyes softened a little at the thought of a bath.

Salamar interrupted his thoughts, “Might I inquire as to how you came to be in this state?”

The tired Elf stared at him for a few seconds before replying. “I was ambushed on my trading route. Whoever it was took all I had, except the clothes on my back. They probably thought I was dead. It sure as Oblivion felt like I was. I’m glad I found this place. Where am I, anyway? I’ve never heard of this place before.”

“You’re in Nondrick’s Inn in Cropsford. It’s a fairly new settlement. Apparently, a lone wanderer helped the original settlers, Barthel Gernand and his family settle a goblin war. The warring parties were coming right through here, making it impossible to build. Rumour has it that it’s the same hero who helped Martin Septim defeat Mehrunes Dagon and end the Oblivion Crisis.”

“That’s interesting. What’s your story?”

“I grew up in the Imperial City as an orphan. Dovyn Aren was my mentor, and taught me a fair bit about Alteration. I studied at the Arcane University, advancing my studies in Alteration, and learning Mysticism. Apparently, I have a natural talent for it. I also took the trouble to learn defensive Restoration, but I could never manage to get the healing spells. I became a Master of Mysticism and started teaching, but the city was just too damn enclosed. I left about 5 years ago and moved in here.

“I live upstairs. I get the room for free because I work here, plus a decent wage. The owner, Nondrick, is always going on trips to visit old friends, so for about half the year, I pretty much run the place. Like I said, I’ve taken up Alchemy as a bit of a side-hobby. But what about you? I can feel the power inside you. You’re a Master, I’m sure of it. But of which School?”

“Destruction.”

“Destruction? And what does a merchant need with the School of Destruction?”

“I grew sick of having to pay tolls to highwaymen. Now, I simply destroy them.”

“And who taught you? I’ve never heard of you before.”

“I’m self-taught. I’m also adept at Illusion. You know, when the old trader’s charm doesn’t suffice.”

“Well, Alval Uvani. I’m impressed. Care to tell me how you came to be a travelling merchant?”

Once again, he hesitated before speaking. Salamar sensed that there was something Alval wasn’t telling him. “I was born into it. My mother and father were trading partners. After they passed away, I inherited the business. It’s taken a bit over 20 years to become a Master of Destruction. Plainly, you’re a faster learner than I.”

“Now now, you were self taught. I had the tutelage of some of the finest minds in Cyrodiil. Plus, I have a knack. Most mages will never achieve Master level in their entire lives.”

“For most mages, it isn’t often a matter of life and death.”

 

3

They chatted into the night until the moon was high in the sky outside, and most of the regulars had gone back to their houses. The cook, Garret’s wife, had gone home. Salamar brought down some salve, treating Alval’s wounds with in between serving customers.

Salamar looked around the tavern, “It’s almost closing time,” he turned towards the remaining customers, “Time to start clearing out, people. Nondrick should be back in the morning, and I’m looking forward to a good night and day’s sleep.”

The bleary eyed Alval Uvani turned towards Salamar Kelleth at the bar, “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what, sera?” He concentrated, trying to hear what Alval could. Then he heard it.

“Sounds like…hoof beats. Lots of them. Getting closer. What the hell? Could be soldiers. But what are they doing galloping through here at this time?” Then, the shhing sound of swords on leather, and a gurgled cry of pain. Battle cries outside. “Oblivion take it! Bandits! What are we going to do?”

“We have to escape. There’s too many of them to take on. You’re not a fighting mage, and I feel terrible. I can’t take them all out. I might kill myself-or all of us-in the effort.”

“You’re right. We’ll go out the back. I’ll enchant the-“ Crash. The door splintered under a heavily armoured bandit’s axe. “-door. By my ancestors, kill him!”

The injured mage stood up, “Hmm. Steel armour.” “Why are you looking at his armour!? He’s advancing on us!” “There’s no point throwing a fireball at him if steel doesn’t burn. Lightning however…”

Salamar felt a surge in the air as the menacing figure was blown out the door, his now-scorched armour sparking as he flew through the cold night air.

“In there! Set the inn on fire!” came a shout from outside.

“No you don’t, you fetchers! Not Nondrick’s!” Salamar’s whole body glowed as he cast a defensive spell on the building. The whole room flashed purple for an instant, and the clatters of the torches bouncing harmlessly off the roof could be heard from outside. “Now, let’s go! Just let me collect my effects. Can you hold them off for a minute?”

“I think so. Make it quick, Salamar,” He turned towards the door, his red eyes flickering with power as he prepared a spell for whoever else was foolish enough to enter the building.

Salamar sprinted upstairs, taking them three steps at a time. He’d already magically unlocked and opened his door by the time he got to it. He grabbed his Scholar’s Robe and put it on over his work tunic. It was symbolic, as well as practical. It was given to him when he began teaching at the University and he’d placed a Feather enchantment on it. While he was wearing it, he could carry a full-grown Bosmer around as though he was almost nothing. He then picked up his leather carrying bag and opened his alchemy cupboard. He placed his mortar and pestle in, and then took out the jars of ingredients he could turn into useful potions while out in the wilderness and some basic foodstuff. He also put a stone chopping board in, for preparing food and potions. It killed him to leave all the other things behind, but they would just get in the way. He opened his drawers, and took out a fresh tunic; he hadn’t forgotten about the state of Alval’s clothes. Then he heard it: “You bastards! You killed her! I swear on her life, I’ll kill every last one of you!”

“Garret! Oh no, they killed his wife. Gods…” He reached under his bed, opening the hatch and taking out his bow and quiver of arrows. Because he cast the trap, it didn’t go off at him. He strung the bow and slung the quiver over his right shoulder. He ran over to the window and threw it open, scanning the small town square for Garret’s house. He saw him outside, engaged in fierce combat with a dismounted bandit. The reason for being dismounted was clear; Garret had slashed the horse with his claymore, probably as they were trying to run him down. What the raging Nord didn’t see, however, was the second bandit creeping up behind him. Salamar nocked an arrow, drew, calculated the distance and power, and let loose an arrow. It sailed true. The arrow tore through the man’s head, killing him instantly. “Garret! When you’ve got your hands clear, get in here as fast as you can!” he called, his voice carrying down to his friend.

Garret cut the fatigued bandit down, and began running towards the inn: he got the message.

Alval was spent. He’d blasted three more bandits since Salamar had gone upstairs, and he couldn’t muster up the willpower to cast much more. A shortsword-wielding bandit clad in leather armour poked his head around the corner. Seeing that the mage was weakened, he strolled towards him, twirling his blade. Alval was sure this was the end. He looked into the man’s face, staring at him with all the hatred and menace he had; he wanted this man to know who he was about to kill: “Sithis comes for those who kill his children, scum,” he whispered.

The bandit looked surprised, and he stopped moving. Then he collapsed to the ground, blood mixed with air gurgling in his throat. That was odd. He didn’t think Sithis would actually kill the bandit. He didn’t know that was how he worked. Then the reason became clear. The broad-shouldered Nord behind him pulled his claymore out of the dead man’s back. “Three blessings, Nord,” gasped the exhausted mage. Then he fainted.

“Salamar?”

Footsteps on the stairs, “I’m here. Garret, carry Alval. We’re going out the back door.” Garret looked at the unconscious form on the ground.

“Who is he?” replied the Nord quizzically.

Salamar smiled, “He’s a friend. And I owe him my life.”

“Good enough for me,” he grunted as he picked up the Elf, carrying him in both arms, “Let’s go.”

 

4

They escaped out the back door as planned and stole away into the forest. Garret wanted to go back and fight them, but Salamar talked him out of it. The sheer number of them, coupled with Alval’s condition made it a bad idea. They travelled south, to Timberscar Hollow, a cave in the forest. It was empty, save for some bones and other signs of previous goblin occupation. They salvaged some bedrolls from old crates in the cave and Salamar started mixing salves and other medicines to treat Alval. He was stabilising, but he was unfit to travel. In the morning, after they ate breakfast, Garret stood up. “Salamar, we have to go to the Imperial City. Get the Legion’s help.”

Salamar was applying a cool paste to Alval’s forehead, and he looked up from his work, “I know. But Alval can’t travel, and I have to stay with him and treat him. Besides, after the Oblivion Crisis, they’re all held up in politics and bureaucracy. You’ll be lucky to get a squad of soldiers out within a week.”

The young Nord ran his hand through his blonde hair. “We can’t just leave Cropsford to the bandits. What if they’ve taken some of the townspeople prisoner? What might they do to them? They killed Jellinda…”

Salamar stood up. “I know, damn it! Look, I’ll stay here with Alval and you go to the city. Get help. But we,” he gestured to himself and Alval, laying on a bedroll, “have to stay here. And while you’re there, see if the University can spare a healer. Just tell Raminus you’re a friend of mine.”

Garret raised an eyebrow, “Are you sure you two will be okay here? What if someone comes while I’m gone?”

“Gods have mercy on anyone who tries to open that door without my permission.”

“And if they happen to be a mage?”

Now it was Salamar’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “I’d like to see a Mysticist of my skill level wandering the forest. Hell, I’d like to see a Mysticist of my skill level, period.”

Garret nodded. “Good point. I’ll leave now. I’ll come back to get you, I promise.”

“I know you will. Good luck, muthsera.”

Garret left right away. Salamar hoped he’d be back soon, but he knew that it would probably be at least a week before even a small number of soldiers were dispatched to deal with Cropsford. The Council didn’t care for the smaller settlements at the best of times. The aftermath of the Oblivion Crisis, coupled with the fact that the Empire had no Emperor and no heirs-this time for real-ensured that little farming towns like Cropsford were the least of their worries. But maybe the fact that bandits hardly ever band together in that magnitude would arouse their concern. It had certainly aroused his.

5

Alval awoke the next morning. “You…wha? Where…are we? Have we been captured? Why…am I dead?”

Salamar looked up from his chopping board, where he had been sorting quantities of ingredients. He was relieved to see the man awake again. “We escaped to Timberscar Hollow two nights ago. You’ve been completely out of it…I was worried you might not make it. Garret left for the Imperial City yesterday to try and get help from the Legion.”

“Who’s Garret? Is he the one who killed that rogue?”

“Yes,” he replied, “he saved your life. Carried you all the way here.”

“I’m grateful. I thought that was going to be the end of me,” he mumbled.

“I’ve been waiting for you to wake up. I need to go out and look for ingredients. I’ve got Aloe Vera and Primrose leaves, but I need to find some Tinder Polypore caps and some boar meat. The recipe calls for ham, but I’m hoping boar meat will suffice. They should be similar enough.”

“And what is this concoction for, might I ask?”

“If it works, it should be a general revitalisation drink. It’ll restore your energy, alleviate your fever and generally give you back your willpower, allowing you to muster up the magical power to cast powerful spells again,” the apprentice alchemist explained with a satisfied look on his face.

Alval smiled. “Sounds great. How long will it take to be ready once you get the ingredients?”

“One night. But it won’t be an instant fix. If I had all my apparatus it would be more potent, but as it is, you’re going to have to take it every morning and every night. I don’t know how I’m going to store it. Maybe if you have the strength, you could search deeper into this cave, see if you can’t find some old bottles, or carafes?”

“Sure, I’ll give it a go. But not before a meal. I feel like I could eat a horse, rider and all.”

After Salamar had prepared a basic meal for Alval, he left, reassuring his new companion that he had placed his best enchantment on the door, and nobody was getting in. He also gave Alval some of the small bag of Void Salts, just in case he needed to fight inside the cave. It wouldn’t do to have him run out of magicka when he most needed it. In his weakened state, Salamar severely doubted Alval could fight off anything more dangerous than a mudcrab.

Garret jogged non-stop to the Imperial city. He was there by sunset, at the west gate. A man in the armour of the Legion approached him as he came to a stop outside the stables, seeing that the man had obviously been running for a long time. “You there! What’s the problem?”

“I need to speak to a commander, now! Cropsford’s been attacked by bandits. They killed my wife among other townspeople, and they may have taken some prisoner.”

“The Watch can hardly spare any men at the moment. You’re going to just have to-“

“No! You’re going to just have to get someone with a little more authority! We have a man on death’s door holed up in a cave out there, with a high ranking member of the Mage’s Guild! Not only that, but there were dozens of bandits attacking my town. They don’t normally band together like that. I tell you, something big’s happening.”

“I’m sorry, but the Watch has too much to deal with at the moment sir, there’s nothing I can do.”

“That’s the point! They must’ve realised that you have a lot on your hands, so they’re choosing now to strike! Who knows what they’ll do next!”

The soldier hesitated. “Alright, I’ll take you to see Servatius Quintilius. Come with me.”

6

Salamar closed the rotting door behind him and started out into the trees, his bow in his left hand and his leather bag slung across his shoulder, along with his quiver. Before he forgot, he cast an invisible magical beacon just outside the door, in case he couldn’t find his way back. He decided the Tinder Polypore was more important than the boar meat, so he started examining tree trunks. After about half an hour of searching, he finally came across a tree with some Tinder Polypore growing on the base of the trunk. He snapped four caps off and put them in his bag, clasping it shut again. “That should do. Now the hard part. I have to find a boar.”

It turned out to not be as hard as he expected. He saw two life forms walking along a dirt path through the trees, courtesy of the life detection spell he had cast to aid him in finding a boar. He crept through the trees until he could see them, and saw two Wood Elves walking along, a pole held between them. On that pole was tied a dead boar. He slung his bow over his shoulder and stepped out of the trees. “Hail, Bosmer!”

The two small figures turned around, startled, dropping their boar in the process. Salamar was hoping he could talk them into giving him some meat off their boar, but those hopes were shattered when they drew their shortswords. “Put your bow on the dirt, Dunmer, and empty your pockets!”

Salamar held up his hands in a sign of peace. “I don’t want any trouble, it’s just that I have an injured friend and I need some boar meat to mix him a potion. I’m simply requesting you let me have a cut off that boar you have there.”

“And we’re simply requesting that you give us everything you have, before we kill you,” threatened one of them. They began striding towards him, their swords raised.

Salamar adopted what he hoped looked like an aggressive stance, raising his hands and making them glow and crackle with energy. “Have it your way. I’m giving you a choice. You give me your weapons, and your entire boar. Or I kill you.” He hoped his robe masked his shaking legs. He had no intention of killing these men.

The Bosmer halted. They turned to each other, murmuring for a few seconds, then nodded. They turned back to him. The one who had threatened him before, obviously the senior of the two, spoke again. “We’re calling your bluff, mage. Go on Dunmer,” they spat the word like a curse, “strike us down with your almighty power.” Salamar faltered. He hadn’t thought that they’d do that. His assailants saw the look of hesitation on his face and charged. He had no idea what to do. Then it struck him. Alteration deals with changing the very being of things. Why not try and make their swords too hot to handle? He’d never thought of using Alteration to fight before, but he didn’t have any other ideas. They were closing in on him, and he didn’t have enough time. He knocked them back with a telekinesis spell, giving him more time. He concentrated. He didn’t want to make their swords hot, they were already hot. He knew they were hot, he could see them being hot in his mind. He called upon his magicka to reinforce that knowledge and make it reality. The elves dropped their now-red hot swords and fell to their knees, howling in pain. It had worked. “Now empty your quivers and put the arrows on the ground, or I will kill you.”

The sobbing Bosmer complied. They pulled their arrows out with tender fingers and threw them to the ground, then turned tail and ran. Salamar watched them go until they disappeared around a bend. He picked up their arrows and examined them. They were good quality arrows. Serrated steel heads and a solid, but light shaft. He didn’t have enough room in his quiver, so he put his old arrows in his bag and filled his quiver with the new ones. He then picked up the boar, the enchantment on his robe making it feel as light as a rat and set off in the direction he came from.

After getting lost and backtracking several times, he made it back to the cave. The door glowed as it identified him as the caster of the protective spell and he entered the cave, closing it behind him. Alval was sitting up on a chair, a blanket wrapped around him.

“Salamar! I found some blankets in the lower levels of the cave. I also found those bottles you wanted. I see you’ve caught a boar,” he indicated the dead animal on Salamar’s shoulder, ”what about those mushrooms?”

“Well, they’re not technically mushrooms, because they don’t have stems. But I found some.”

“Great!” Salamar noticed he was more cheerful than when he left. He seemed to be recovering, “Did that boar give you much trouble?” Salamar dropped the boar on a wooden table, throwing up dust from the ancient wood.

“It wasn’t so much the boar that gave me trouble, but the bastards that killed it.”

“Do tell. But first, tell me something else. You’re not having any trouble with that boar at all, yet you don’t look very strong, if you don’t mind me saying. How’s that?”

“This robe I’m wearing. I enchanted it with a feather effect.”

“Oh, I see. So…the boar. What happened?”

“I came across two Bosmer carrying it, and I planned on asking for some of its meat. They attacked me.”

“Attacked you? Are you okay? You said you’re not a fighting mage, did you kill them with your bow?”

“No, I wouldn’t have had time to unsling it, nock an arrow, aim and fire. I actually used Alteration to thwart them.”

Alval looked interested. “I’ve never heard of anybody doing that before.”

“Well, neither have I. But I didn’t have any better ideas. I made their swords red hot. They dropped them like a bad habit. Blistered their hands, I did. After they gave me their arrows, they were more than happy to run away,” he said, smiling.

“That’s very resourceful. Ingenious, one might say.”

“You’re looking perky, Alval-“

“Call me Al.”

“Okay. You’re looking perky, Al. Feeling better?”

“Oh, yeah. Still in terrible condition, but my head isn’t so messed up now.”

“Well, that’s great. We’ll see how you are once we get some potion into you. I won’t need all of the meat for the potion, so it looks like we’re having boar stew for dinner. It won’t be ready for lunch; I need to dry it first. I brought some food from my alchemy cupboards-“

“Yeah, I noticed. I had some carrots. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. You need to eat, after all. As long as you didn’t eat them all, I can chop some up for the stew. You eat onions? I brought some of those too.”

“This is sounding great. You’re making me hungry,” Alval replied, licking his lips, “Just don’t give me honey. I’m allergic.”

“Well, I’m afraid we’ll have to ration slightly, until Garret gets back.”

“That’s fine. I think I’ll take a nap, let you get back to that potion of yours.” he yawned, “Oh yeah, I found a calcinator down there as well. Thought it might be useful.”

“Thanks for that. It will be.”

 

7

Alval lay down on his bedroll, wrapped in his blanket. He fell to sleep quickly. Salamar sat down at the table and cut a gash along its stomach and hung it up to drain. He put a bucket underneath it; the blood could be useful in alchemy. He’d never read about boar blood being used before. It would be interesting to investigate. He began chopping up the light grey Tinder Polypore caps and grinding them into a paste. He could prepare it all, and add the meat last.

Alval woke up half an hour later. It was lunchtime. Salamar wasn’t particularly hungry, so he directed Alval to some bread and cheese in one of the compartments of his bag. Alval ate and asked Salamar some questions about alchemy, then went back to sleep.

Two hours later, Salamar decided the boar was almost ready so he put all his ingredients in the calcinator Alval found and mixed them up together. He added water and stirred it until it wouldn’t mix anymore. He was about to wake Alval up and ask him to light a small fire underneath the calcinator when he remembered what he’d done with the Bosmer earlier that day. He did the same thing then, but to a lesser degree. He didn’t want to evaporate the water and char his ingredients. He slowly raised the temperature until it was simmering, all the while stirring it. Finally, he cut off some boar meat, removed the skin, fat and fur and chopped it up finely. He used his now washed mortar and pestle to grind it into a sticky paste, then put it in the calcinator with the rest, where it slowly assimilated into the mixture. He added more water to thin the viscous potion, and when it was completely mixed, he covered the top with a damp cloth and left it sitting on the table. By that time the sun was low on the horizon outside and the red afternoon light was filtering in through the wood in the door. By morning, the potion would be ready to bottle. He hoped it would work like planned.

He cut more meat off the boar and cut it up into thick chunks. He chucked it in the bottom of an old cauldron he had washed earlier. He shuddered to think what-or who-had previously been cooked inside it. He roughly cut up some more vegetables and put those in too. He poured some water in and raised the temperature in the same manner as he did with the potion. He added some herbs from his alchemy jars and hoped they tasted good together. He’d never tried cooking before; he was just mimicking what he’d seen Garret’s wife in the Inn do. She was dead now. He recalled the night when the bandits attacked. Why had they singled out his little town to attack? Or was it just a random act of evil? He had observed Garret sitting by himself before he left for the city. He was mourning for her. It was clear he wanted revenge. He wondered how he was going with getting assistance from the Legion. Probably still waiting on an audience. Last he heard, Hieronymous Lex had been replaced by a new, more practical Captain. Maybe he would use his brain, unlike the superstitious Lex and his imaginary ‘Thieves Guild’.

After the stew was thick and aromatic, he woke up Alval. “Dinner’s ready,” he said softly while placing a hand on his shoulder, “want some stew?”

Alval shot up like a loaded trap, grabbing Salamar’s throat with his teeth bared. His eyes widened in surprise and he released his grip. “Gods! I’m so sorry, are you okay? I…I had a bad dream. You startled me.”

Salamar staggered back, hands massaging his throat. “No, no…it’s okay. Sorry to startle you. What were you dreaming about?”

His eyes glazed over. “The man that attacked me.”

“Oh…well, the stew’s ready. You hungry?”

Alval stood up. “Ravenous. Let’s eat.”

Salamar ladled it out into clay bowls, also found in the cave. They ate in silence, Alval only breaking it to compliment Salamar on the stew.

Alval put down his bowl, the remains of his dinner still steaming. He let out a long sigh. Salamar looked up. “What is it?” he inquired. “Salamar…muthsera. I’m afraid I haven’t been completely honest with you.”

Salamar knew this was coming. “Not completely honest about what?”

Another sigh. “I’m not a travelling merchant. I never was. I’m a Speaker in the Black Hand, the ruling faction of the Dark Brotherhood.”

Salamar’s heart skipped a beat. “I thought there was something you weren’t telling me, but I never expected this. You haven’t been…hired to kill me have you? Is this all an elaborate set up?”

Alval made a calming motion with his hands. “No, of course not. If I were hired to kill you, I’d have simply done it while you slept. And I was going to retire anyway. Just…calm down and let me explain. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“No, I trust you. I’m not sure if I should, though.”

“You can trust me. Okay, I’ll go right from the start. I lived in Morrowind on a farm with my mother and father. My father was a skooma addict, and one night I walked in on him beating my mother. I killed him. Stabbed him over and over and over, but it was too late for my mother. She died in my arms and I fled the country on a smuggler’s ship. “A recruiter for the Brotherhood came to me while I slept on the ship and invited me into the family. I had nothing else, so I accepted. I never really worshipped Sithis and the Night Mother like the rest of the fanatics. I don’t revel in the kill. I stayed because it payed well, and they promoted me because I was good at it. "But lately, not all has been well in the Brotherhood. There was a traitor. People were being murdered. An assassin among assassins. Then the Black Hand was being targeted. First J'Ghasta, then Shaleez. I knew I’d be next, and I wanted out. I was on my way to tell Ungolim that and that’s when I was ambushed. As the world faded to black, I saw my attacker. He wore the body armour of a Dark Brotherhood assassin. This is why I ask you to accompany me, as a friend, north-east.”

“I believe that you have no intention to do more evil, and I will accompany you…as a friend.”

Alval stood up and embraced his friend. “Thank you. Thank you, sera.”

After Alval released him, Salamar realised he was forgetting something the shock of what he'd just been told had wiped everything from his mind. “What about Garret? What about Cropsford? He’ll come back and find us missing.”

“We’ll leave a note, or something. After I deal with the traitor and make clear that I’m not part of the Brotherhood anymore, then we’ll come back and help with Cropsford.”

“Okay… but might I ask…why are we going northeast? Are we going to Cheydinhal?”

“Close. We’re going to Fort Farragut.”

 

8

Salamar bottled his potion in the morning, and Alval took a dose. It seemed to make him feel better. He was still a little fatigued, but he tested his magical strength by setting the table on fire, then putting it out with a cold spell. Salamar packed up his alchemic ingredients and apparatus, taking special care to make sure the potion was safe and they set off. They agreed they would head east to the Corbola River and follow that north. Then when the river turned east, they would continue north and cross the offshoot that used to lead to what is now Lake Poppad. They would head north again until they reached Cheydinhal, and then go around the back of it to Fort Farragut. It was about 2 day’s journey. Salamar suggested they stop in Cheydinhal for supplies, but Alval couldn’t risk being seen. It was believed the traitor was operating out of the Cheydinhal sanctuary and even though it had been cleansed and the murders continued, Alval wasn’t taking any risks. Everybody thought he was dead, and he wanted it to stay that way until it became necessary to reveal his presence.

They found the river without any difficulty or complication and made good time. It was fairly easy going. Sloping, but not hard. Probably safer than using the roads too, Salamar reasoned. The incredibly territorial mudcrabs served only as practice for the quickly-recovering Uvani. They camped in a small, relatively sheltered area, surrounded by rocks and steep slopes. The hill would’ve left them open to bandit archers, but they set up their bedrolls on the opposite side of a rock where they would be unseen. There was a house on the opposite side of the river but they didn’t see anybody outside it. They packed up in the morning and, after a meal and Alval’s potion dose, set off again. At about midday, they reached the offshoot.

Alval turned to Salamar, “How are we going to get across? I might be recovering, but I’m not a good swimmer even when I’m in good health.”

Salamar smiled. “Remember back in Nondrick’s, when I told you I studied Alteration? Well, we’re going to walk across.”

“Excellent.”

Salamar cast the spell on both of them and lectured Alval: “Now, with Alteration, it’s not enough to just cast the spell and walk across. You have to know it will work, otherwise it won’t. As soon as you stop believing you can do what you’re doing, you will stop doing it. If you think you’re going to fall into the water, you will. Now, because I’m casting the spell on you, I can probably hold it, even if you falter. But it will definitely help if you comply.”

Alval nodded. He hoped-knew, he corrected-that he wouldn’t fall in. They both stepped confidently onto the water’s surface and walked. For Alval, it was a surreal experience. The water was underneath him, softly rippling as his feet touched the surface. They crossed the intersection and continued between the two hills rising out of the water like an arcane doorway. They continued a short distance until they found a shallower slope that they could scramble up. As they stood up at the top, they were stopped dead in their tracks by the sight that met their eyes.

The remains of a gate to Mehrunes Dagon’s Deadlands. The black, red-tipped spikes rose out of the depths of the earth like a monument to everything evil about men. The ground was devoid of life around it, save the otherworldly Bloodgrass plants. Salamar felt a strong magical presence here.

After several seconds, both of them realised what they were doing and shook their heads in an attempt to shake the trance off them. “Evil,” Alval uttered.

Salamar chuckled and raised his eyebrows. “Says the assassin.”

“The Dark Brotherhood takes contracts from men and mer, killing individual men and mer. We…they have never tried to hand Tamriel over to the Daedric Lord of Destruction. In fact, I believe it was the Dark Brotherhood who ended Akaviri rule over Tamriel.”

“I believe that was the Morag Tong. The Dark Brotherhood assassinated Emperor Pelagius. His reign was a glorious one,” he retorted.

“Alright, alright. This isn’t a competition. Let’s keep moving.”

“First, I want to collect some samples of this Bloodgrass. It’s rare. After all, you have to go to hell and back just to get some.” He collected all the Bloodgrass present and they continued north. The sun was just beginning to set by the time they saw Cheydinhal. They saw a settlement just south of the city wall, so they skirted around that and Alval led the way to Fort Farragut.

“So, what’s through that door?” Salamar asked, gesturing to the entrance to the fort.

“Skeletons. Wraiths. Other undead. But we’re not going through there. That’s the dead man’s entrance.”

“Oh, that’s comforting. I would’ve gone through that door. So where are we going?”

“Hidden entrance. Follow me.” He led the way around the side of the fort and climbed up onto a broken tree trunk. He pulled open a metal trap door, revealing a rope ladder. “Down the hatch,” he said cheerfully.

Salamar eyed the trap door. “Isn’t that a little obvious?”

“You’d be surprised. Only one person’s ever found it.” Alval winced, “It’s probably best I didn’t tell you what happened to him.”

“Then you’d better go first. But before you do…what’s down there?”

“Hopefully, Lucien Lachance. He’s a Speaker as well. Chances are he’s dead though. If not, then there’ll be components for the Black Sacrament, the ritual to summon the Night Mother.”

“The…the Night Mother? So she’s real?”

“Very real. Not to worry. I’m sure she won’t cause us any harm, especially considering the circumstances. Even if she did, we wouldn’t feel a thing. The life would be sucked from our bodies faster than we could blink.”

“That’s…comforting. Why are you summoning the Night Mother?”

“She’s going to tell me where the traitor is, and then I’m going to kill him.”

“Do you mind if I stay out here?”

“Yes, actually. I’d just feel more comfortable if you were somewhere I could see you. The Night Mother instils in people an irrational kind of fear. I can’t be sure you wouldn’t run for it.”

“…Alright. Lead the way, sera.”

They climbed down the ladder and Alval called for Lucien Lachance. He wasn’t there. “That was to be expected. Even if he was still alive, he’s probably gone into hiding. I know I wouldn’t stay here if there was somebody killing Black Hand members.”

Salamar sat down in a chair while Alval gathered components for the Sacrament.

He eyed the thing Alval was holding in his hand. “Is that…is that a heart?”

Alval looked up. “Yes. Lucien was a bit of a fanatic. Much like the rest of the Brotherhood, really. I was the exception.”

He picked up a silver dagger off a bookshelf and rubbed some Nightshade petals on it. He scattered bones and a skull in the middle of the room, placing the heart in the middle of it all. He then began stabbing the heart over and over, chanting, “Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, I summon thee. We have been betrayed and I seek revenge. Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, I summon thee. We have been betrayed and I seek revenge…” It was horrific. Then, a disembodied voice rife with malice filled the room: “Child…I had wondered when you would summon me. I think you will be disappointed with the news I have to give you.”

Salamar was filled with dread. If he didn’t get out of there, something terrible, terrible was going to happen. He stood up, ready to run for it. He didn’t care about the undead. He had to get out of there.

“Salamar. Sit down.” Alval’s commanding voice penetrated his panic and he regained his senses. He sat back down, eyes still wide. “Unholy Matron. As you probably already know, there is a traitor within the Family. He thought he had killed me. I seek revenge before I leave the Brotherhood.”

“I am…disappointed to hear you are leaving. But I will not impede you. You have served me well. Now…to the traitor. He is dead. The one who attacked you was not the traitor. He was acting under the orders of the traitor, who was switching Lucien Lachance’s dead drops for fake ones of his own. It saddens me to say, but Lucien was killed by the surviving members of the Black Hand, under the false impression he was the traitor. They came to me, and it was there Mathieu Bellamont revealed himself, and Lucien’s Silencer killed him. It is resolved.”

Alval bowed his head. “That…that is good, Mother. I trust you will tell Ungolim I have retired?”

“Ungolim is dead. I will tell the new Listener. He will be pleased to hear that he didn’t kill you. I think the coming days will be very interesting. For you…and Cyrodiil.”

“Interesting? What do you mean?”

“That would be interfering. I deal only with murder, not with…no, it is best you discover for yourself. Goodbye Alval Uvani, former Speaker of the Dark Brotherhood, honoured child of Sithis…”

Salamar suddenly felt the dank room warm up. He realised he had been shivering. “What in the name of Azura was that about?”

“I am released from my service to the Dark Brotherhood, and my vow to revenge. The person who attacked me was an unknowing pawn of the traitor. The real traitor is dead.”

“Well, that’s good. That means we can get back to saving Cropsford. And I just remembered: I placed a beacon outside the door to Timberscar Hollow when I was out looking for the ingredients for your potion. That’ll save us a trip back.”

Alval smiled. “Excellent. So, shall we go? But first, I think we should stock up in Cheydinhal.” “We have no money. I left it all in my room in Cropsford.”

“What about that Bloodgrass? You said it’s rare. It’s sure to fetch a good price at the Mages Guild.”

They went into Cheydinhal and Salamar reluctantly traded some of the Bloodgrass for gold, then went into the March Rider and bought a new steel dagger for Alval. They had a meal in the Bridge Inn and bought some beef, cheese and oranges to take with them. They stepped outside the gates. “I suppose you’re going to lecture me about Recall spells now?” said Alval.

“No. Just hold on. Whatever you do, don’t let go. Otherwise you’ll be walking back.”

“I think I can do that,” he gripped Salamar’s arm tightly; “shall we go?”

Salamar closed his eyes and cast the spell. He opened them to see Alval staggering around clutching his eyes. “That light is blinding! Why didn’t you warn me?”

Salamar shrugged. “I didn’t know. I’ve always just closed my eyes for some reason. Relax, it’ll wear off.” And so it did. A few minutes later, Alval’s vision was back to normal. They stepped into the cave to see if Garret had been there- -and were thrown through the air, collapsing in a heap on the hard floor.

“I’ve been waiting for you two,” said a smooth voice.

Salamar looked up. “Gods…”

 

9

There, standing in the doorway was a Wood Elf with wavy light brown hair, slender but strong, carrying a sword of gold. He seemed to emanate a sense of confidence and his very presence demanded respect. There stood in the doorway Jodas Gallantus, the Champion of Cyrodiil.

Salamar stood up and bowed. Alval slowly picked himself up; Salamar felt a charge building in the magical continuum. Salamar drew himself up to normal height and said, “Champion , sir. What is it you want us to do? Why are you here?”

“I want you dead. I’m here because I don’t want any witnesses. Yet.” He looked pointedly at Alval, “I wouldn’t try it. This shield,” he held up a golden-coloured shield that looked like it was Dwemer in origin, ”is called Spell Breaker. It was given to me by the Daedric Prince Peryite. This ring,” he held up his other hand, drawing attention to a dull looking ring on his finger, “is the Ring of Namira. You can guess where I got that. If you cast that spell, chances are it will be reflected back upon you.”

Salamar was flabbergasted. “You instigated the attack on Cropsford? Why…”

“Those idiots in the capital don’t know anything. All they care about is politics and who’s doing something, not what's actually being done. I’m actually doing it. I’m taking control of Cyrodiil for myself. Now…which one of you is the Speaker who led me here?”

Alval was taken aback. “Me? How did I lead you here?”

“The Night Mother told me.”

The air became electric again. Salamar saw the look of hatred on Alval’s face. “You…” Alval became a flurry of movement, throwing a fireball, a bolt of lightning and a cloud of pure coldness in the blink of an eye. Salamar saw the purple glow on the traitorous Champion a split second before the spells were reflected.

“Nooo!” He dived in front of Alval, casting an absorption spell as he went. He felt rejuvenated. He used the absorbed magicka to cast the most powerful dispel spell he had ever cast. He directed it at Jodas, trying to neutralise his artefacts.

“Now, Alval, take him!” Alval threw another bolt of lighting at the laughing Bosmer. He ducked a split second before the reflected spell came back.

“Now stop. You seriously expect to just…dispel Daedric artefacts? They are made from the very blood of the Daedric Princes! Give it up, young mage.”

Another ring on his finger flashed for an instant, and the Champion seemed to fade into the background. In the dim light, it was impossible to see him. They spun around wildly. “Where is he, the n’wah?” Alval sneered. Then he collapsed on the floor.

“Wha-“ thunk. Salamar felt something crash down on the back of his head. Pinpoints of light seemed to bloom in front of his vision, and then everything went black.

Noises. Talking. Dull shapes.

Salamar opened his eyes groggily. “Where…am I?” Then he remembered. “Alval! Is he okay?” he raised his voice, “I swear, Bosmer! If you’ve killed him, I’ll destroy this place and take us both with it!”

A blurred figure stepped in the doorway. “Watch your tongue, lest I cut it out. Your friend is unharmed. I don’t know why I didn’t just kill you in the cave. I just have a feeling I should keep you alive.”

“Where are we?” “You’ll be pleased to know we’re back in Cropsford. You may not be so happy when I tell you everybody is dead. The bandits wanted to keep hostages. We don’t need hostages when we’ll have the whole country soon.”

Salamar started chuckling weakly. “Haha. Hahaha. You fool. There’s a squad of Imperial Legion soldiers on their way right now. We sent a friend to get help. I bet the Night Mother didn’t tell you that.”

“You think those oafs can capture me?”

“No, but they sure can take out your average bandit. You’ll be left without an army.”

“I can get more. But thank you for informing me of this. I think it’s time to find a new base of operations. I’ll be back soon. I have to get the men together.”

Damn. I shouldn’t have said that. Now we’ve no hope. Unless… He waited until Gallantus was gone before casting a life detection spell. He looked all around, looking for something resembling…there. A cloud of what looked like men riding horses, coming towards the town. It was either reinforcements or Legion soldiers. Excellent. What perfect timing. Now…to get free of these bonds. He moved his hands to test the strength of the rope and discovered there was none. He was free to move around. He figured his captors thought he was sufficiently imprisoned by all the bandits occupying the town. He waited until he could hear the first shouts and the sounds of swords being drawn. Funny, he thought. He heard that sound in Cropsford only a few nights ago. He thought it was soldiers last time as well. But considering the sounds of battle outside, he guessed it actually was the Legion. He wondered if Garret was out there with them. He looked out the window and saw him almost instantly. Clad in new steel armour atop a horse loaned to him by the Legion, he was cutting down men with his heavy claymore. Salamar stepped tentatively out the door.

“The prisoner! Get him!”

“Oh no,” There were two bandits coming towards him and he was unarmed. He wrenched one bandit’s sword from his hand with telekinesis and slashed him across the throat. The other one turned tail and ran, so he tripped him up and used his own sword to impale him as he went down. He held his hand out and the sword flew into it. He looked around for Alval. Surely, he must’ve heard the commotion and come out to help. He wasn’t there. It was probably best to leave him until the end of the fight. He saw a Legion soldier running over to Gallantus. But he wasn’t trying to kill him.

“Sir Jodas, how good of you to aid us!”

“NO!” Salamar shouted. But it was too late. The usurper drew his golden sword and ran the soldier through. A small fire bloomed in the wound as the man dropped to the ground. Jodas saw Salamar and started running towards him, his sword raised above his head. Salamar couldn’t think of anything to do. Everything he had, this man would just counter. Then a horse collided with his attacker, knocking him to the ground. Garret leapt off the battlehorse’s back and hefted his claymore. The Bosmer leapt to his feet with uncanny speed and engaged his friend. Even with his heavy claymore, Garret could keep up with Jodas Gallantus and his katana. Salamar suspected it was Goldbrand, an artefact of Boethia. “Run!” his friend shouted. The pair were locked in fierce combat, the two of them a blur. Salamar went to find Alval.

He found him in Nondrick’s Inn amongst a pile of bodies. Salamar feared he was dead until the sharp looking Dunmer sat up, instantly alert. He must’ve been awake, waiting for somebody to come in. “Salamar! What’s going on out there?”

“The Legion’s here. I need to find my effects.”

“Well, they seem to be using this place to store the bodies so I assume they put the loot somewhere else. Let’s go.”

Alval ran out the door, a stream of fire erupting from his fingertips to engulf a mace-wielding bandit. Salamar followed. While Alval was dispatching an Orc with lightning, Salamar saw a bandit fire an arrow at a soldier. It tore through the man, continuing on to strike a horse through the eye, making it fall and crush its rider underneath it. “That’s my bow, you s’wit!” Salamar charged at the archer before he could nock another arrow and cut him across the forearms. The man dropped the bow and Salamar blasted him into a brick wall. The snap of the Wood Elf’s neck was clearly audible. Salamar winced. He slung his bow and quiver over his shoulder and ran after Alval, who was entering a building.

When he ran through the door he found Alval holding Salamar’s leather bag up. “Is this it?”

“Yeah, thanks. Let’s go.”

Alval held up a hand. “Wait a minute. I saw the bandit with that bow. How did he do that? It went through him like he was nothing.”

Salamar unslung his bow and held it up. Alval saw a slight red tint to it. “It was given to me by one of my colleagues at the University. I enchanted it myself. Every arrow fired from this bow can tear through a man and his armour as though he were made of cloth. But the enchantment wears off after one target. After that, the arrow just acts like normal. Which is why it didn’t go through the horse. Let’s go. Garret’s out there duelling that bastard Champion. We have to help him.”

They ran outside to see the two fiercely duelling in the middle of the town square while the remnants of the battle fought around them. They were both exhausted, plainly, and Garret was beginning to slow. Jodas brought Goldbrand down in an overhead strike at Garret’s head and Garret was just in time to block it with one hand on the side of his blade and the other clutching the hilt. The Bosmer continued to strike downwards at the steel claymore with unexpected speed. Garret was forced to his knees. He parried one more blow and pushed himself up, throwing Gallantus off-balance. He whirled around, swinging his heavy claymore at the teetering Wood Elf’s legs.

Jodas Gallantus leapt backwards, high into the air and landed on a passing horse. He kicked its rider off and galloped away before anybody could do anything. By the time Salamar had an arrow nocked, he was too far away. They ran over to Garret through the last few fighting bandits and dead bodies on the ground. “Garret! Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

The Nord was spent. “I…you…good…kill him.” Then he slowly collapsed to the ground, dead.

Salamar bent over his fallen friend. “No! Healer! Gods damn it, did they bring a healer?” He saw a figure in white robes, tending to the wounded. “Plunkett! Help!”

The figure looked up, “Salamar Kelleth. It’s been a while.” Then he saw Garret, “Gods, is he okay?”

“No! Help him! He just fought that bastard fetcher Champion!”

Bennis Plunkett, the Altmer healer ran to Garret’s unconscious form on the ground and ran his hands over his chest, glowing blue. He stood up, slowly shaking his head. “He’s dead. Gone beyond rescue. I’m sorry, friend. He…champion, you say? Champion of what?”

“The Champion of Cyrodiil. Jodas Gallauntus. He’s behind all of this. He wants to take control of Cyrodiil.”

“Gods. Are you sure? But he saved us all? He’s an honourable man.”

Alval spoke up. “Not anymore. He’s the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood. He attacked Cropsford then captured us. I don’t know how he’s going to do it but he wants Cyrodiil. He’s sick of the Council fiddling around with politics. He’s taking advantage of the Empire’s weakened state.”

“We…we have to relay this to the Council. I have to stay here and heal the soldiers. Find Servatius Quintilius. He should be here somewhere.”

The pair went to find Servatius. They found him standing over the bodies of three freshly-dead bandits, blood glistening on his sword. He took an aggressive stance when they moved towards him.

Salamar put his hands up. “Whoa! We’re the good guys. We need to get to the Imperial City. We have important news for the Council.”

“I’m afraid that won’t happen, civilian. No visitors to the Palace until this is resolved.”

“If we don’t get there, it will never be resolved. We have news regarding the safety of Cyrodiil, and maybe even the entire Empire. We need to get to the Council.”

The Captain thought about it for a few seconds. “Okay. Take these two horses,” he whistled for two black horses, “and ride hard for the city. They’re the fastest we have. Tell them Servatius Quintilius sent you. If they don’t let you in, just say the code word: Nerevar.”

 

10

They left the ransacked town behind and galloped for the Imperial City. They rode in complete silence until they got to the gate. They didn’t stop galloping. “Let us in! Open the gates!”

The guards thought about denying them access for a moment but, seeing that they wouldn’t stop, they quickly opened the gates. The two riders burst through the gates and rode straight for the gate to Green Emperor Way. They dismounted before getting close to the gate, knowing they’d probably be killed if they tried to charge in there. They pushed open the gate and ran straight to the Palace entrance.

“We need to see High Chancellor Ocato! Servatius Quintilius sent us.”

“No visitors to the Palace.”

Salamar groaned, “Nerevar. Now let us in.”

“How did you…? Okay, go on in.” The guards waved them in.

They burst through the doors to the Elder Council chambers. The Council was in session. Everybody went quiet and stared at the unexpected arrivals.

Salamar looked around, “High Chancellor Ocato! We need to speak.”

The red-robed man regarded them with curiosity, “I suppose if the guards let you in, you must be allowed. But whatever you can tell me, you can tell the rest of the Council. Now speak.”

They told them about what had happened with Cropsford and Jodas Gallantus and his plans for Cyrodiil. They carefully left out the part about Alval being an ex-assassin. There were many gasps and exclamations to the Nine throughout the Council chamber as they told the tale. One diplomat even fainted. By the end of it, Ocato appeared quite flustered.

“This is quite an accusation you make against Sir Jodas. Are you absolutely sure?”

Alval mumbled under his breath, “No, my spells were reflected by a mudcrab with a frying pan on it’s head.”

“Absolutely, your honour. We both saw him.”

“Did you see which way he fled?”

“Uh…he went north. Yes, definitely north.”

Ocato turned to the assembled Council. “What should we do?”

One representative stood up. “We should send a force to bring him in before he can do anything else!”

Another got up and turned to the speaker. “Didn’t you hear the young Dunmer? He’s wearing artefacts from the Daedric Princes themselves! There’s no way we can take him down, let alone arrest him alive!”

“If I may,” a short Bosmer in green robes stood up, “We should send our best trackers to follow him and see where he goes. Then we can plan our next move. The other members all murmured their agreement.

Ocato stood again. “Then it is decided. I will dispatch our most skilled trackers to follow the traitor, while we plan our next move. I will have my personal Battlemage, Evangeline Beanique find a way to counteract his enchantments.”

Salamar raised a hand. “With all due respect to you and your mage, I think I should do that. I am very well versed in the School of Mysticism and I have friends in the Arcane University who can help us. While I have no doubt about miss Beanique’s skill, I think it will require a finer technique than simply setting his rings on fire.”

“Wonderful. Then you go to the University and study up on it. Thank you for this information.”

The two left the Palace and went straight to the Arcane University. They entered the lobby and were immediately greeted by Raminus Polus. “Salamar! I heard you were in trouble, are you okay? I dispatched Bennis Plunkett to help out,” he saw Alval, “and who might this be? Is this the dying man? Did Bennis patch him up okay?”

Salamar help up a hand to calm him. “Bennis didn’t get to us in time, but I mixed him a tonic. He’s fine now. Look, I need to speak with Tar-Meena. We need to find a way to counteract Daedric artefacts. It’s urgent.”

“Of course. Might I inquire as to why?”

“Long story short, Jodas Gallantus is trying to take over Cyrodiil, and we need to defeat him.”

Raminus let out a long breath. “Right away then. I trust you know where the Archives are?”

“I haven’t forgotten. We’ll go straight there.”

Alval raised a hand. “Er...do you need me there? I’m starving.”

“No, it’s fine. I’ll come get you if I need you.”

Alval went to exit, then stopped. “Wait! I don’t have any money. Do you have any left over from Cheydinhal?”

“Oh, right.” Salamar reached into his bag and took out a small sack of gold. “Here. This should get you a good feed at the Tiber Septim Hotel. See you later.”

Alval headed back into the city, while Salamar went to the Mystic Archives to consult Tar-Meena (who specialised in Daedric cults) and the vast resources of the Mystic Archives.

It was well into the night, and Alval had had quite a feast, when Salamar came into the hotel. His bleary, tired eyes scanned the room, stopping when they fell on his friend. “Alval. Come with me.”

Alval stuffed his remaining food into his mouth and downed his glass of wine before standing up and following Salamar out of the room. “So what is it? Have you found something?”

“Yes. But it isn’t what we expected.”

 

11

“Die?” Alval was shocked.

“Yes. The conduit-a person-will die.”

The two were back at the University, alone in the Mystic Archives. Tar-Meena had gone to bed.

“So let me get this straight. Somebody holds a Varla Stone, speaks these magic words, and then some ancient Ayleid magic flows through them, destroying the artefacts?”

“Not necessarily destroying them, but sending them back to Oblivion. So…for all intents and purposes, yes. They will be destroyed.”

“Then the person who invoked the magic dies?”

“Such is the nature of Ayleid magic. It’s too powerful for any normal being to wield and thus the conduit will be destroyed more definitely than the artefacts. It says in the book that ‘A great Alyied Fyre will take it’s price in blood.’ Unless you happen to have a god or Ayleid on hand?”

“Okay. So who’s going to do this? And where are we going to get a Varla Stone?”

“The Varla Stone’s easy. We have a few here at the Arcane University.”

“And the conduit?”

“Well, I haven’t talked to Ocato yet, but I was thinking we’d have some sort of public thing and hopefully, somebody will volunteer.”

“Hmm. Okay. But first, we sleep. I’m bloody tired.”

“Use the Mages Quarters. Out the door, first on your left. If anybody asks, just tell them you’re with Scholar Kelleth.”

Alval went to bed, and Salamar headed for the beautiful White Gold Tower in the centre of the city.

The excitement in the air was palpable. A crowd was gathered in the Talos Plaza District of the Imperial City, in front of a stage erected in the middle of the pathway to Green Emperor Way. On top of the stage stood High Chancellor Ocato, Salamar Kelleth (in his treasured robe), Alval Uvani and several of the High Chancellor’s personal guards.

Ocato’s voice rang out through the area. “The Empire is in grave danger! Our beloved Champion of Cyrodiil, Jodas Gallantus, has turned against us and plans to take over Cyrodiil with an army of rogues! Wh—“ An Imperial Spy, clearly exhausted and dishevelled, ran through the crowd, leapt up the stairs and almost collapsed at Ocato’s feet. Salamar swept over to support him. A hush fell across the district. The eyes of almost every citizen of the city were upon him. “They…they’ve taken Cheydinhal. An army of bandits, led by Gallantus has taken over Cheydinhal. Killed the nobility and taken over.” Then he went limp in Salamar’s arms. Dead. Fatigued to his limit, this man had given his life to deliver the news. A collective gasp came from the assembled people.

“This…this is bad. Very bad. Rally the troops. Prepare a full scale assault on Cheydinhal.” Ocato turned back to the crowd. “He has taken over Cheydinhal already! There is only one way to stop him. Whoever volunteers for this heroic deed will die. Who will give their life for the Empire? For your country?”

The murmur died down again. Dead silence. Then… “I will.” Alval Uvani stepped forward. “I will give my life to destroy Jodas Gallantus.”

Salamar ran to him. “Why? Why do it?”

Alval raised his voice so all could hear. “I have led a life of murder and misdeed. I was a Speaker for the Dark Brotherhood. I took innocent lives for money. It’s time I repaid my debt to the world. I will redeem myself, and save Cyrodiil.”

“That is honourable and brave of you, sir. In light of the situation, I will overlook your past and you will not be prosecuted. It is done! I give you your hero, Alval Uvani!”

Cheers rose up throughout the crowd, but Alval quietened them with a gesture. “Please. I’m no hero. Just an old killer, trying to make up for his past.”

12

They had to wait for a couple of days before departing for Cheydinhal, to wait for soldiers from the other cities. As well-garrisoned as the capital was, there weren’t enough soldiers for a full-scale assault on a city. On the morning of the third day after Alval had volunteered, the last troops arrived from Anvil, and they prepared to leave. They were gathered at the gates to the city, with Ocato seeing the soldiers off, when a mass of figures could be seen crossing the bridge. They rode horses of all kinds, their armour glinting in the sun. Behind them came more riders, these ones wearing mages robes which billowed in the breeze. They stopped in front of the assembled soldiers, and one of the armoured riders dismounted his horse and saluted Servatius Quintilius.

“Harrow. Fighters Guild, sir. We understand Gallantus’ gone mad and taken over Cheydinhal?”

Quintilius studied Harrow closely. “That is correct, yes. Have you come to offer your services?”

“Rightly so, sir. We’ve got some Mages Guild fellows here as well. Normally we wouldn’t get involved in this kind of thing, but we’re talking about the fate of the country here.”

“Your assistance is welcome, of course. But…how did you find out?”

A large group of mages came through the gates from inside, led by Raminus Polus. “We sent word to the guildhalls in all the cities. Thought you might appreciate the help. We’re here to fight for our freedom, if you don’t mind.”

Servatius and Ocato looked surprised, but pleased. Servatius spoke up. “Excellent. Well, let’s get everybody briefed, and we’ll be on our way.”

Servatius Quintilius went over the plan again for the members of the various guilds who hadn’t heard it before. Gallantus was expecting a full scale siege, as was the way the Imperials fought in situations such as this. What they were going to do was this: The invading force would hide out of sight of the city, and under cover of night, Alval and Salamar would sneak in and get into the Dark Brotherhood sanctuary. Hopefully, there would be assassins in hiding there. Alval would take his former Brothers and Sisters and kill the guards at the main gate. They would open it to allow the soldiers to enter, while Salamar would still be in the Sanctuary. Once Jodas’ army was focused on the main gate, Salamar would open a portal in the Abandoned House to let the mercenaries and mages through and attack from the rear. Then Salamar and Alval would deal with Gallantus. It was a good plan, hopefully one that they wouldn’t see coming.

They left for Cheydinhal just after midday. They didn’t encounter any trouble on the way. Any creatures that may have attacked a solitary traveller shied away from the massive force. The mages trained in Illusion maintained a fairly effective Chameleon spell, to try and conceal their presence from anybody scouring the landscape from a long distance. They made fairly good time, arriving just as night began to fall. The main force hung back, and Salamar and Alval approached under cover of night, and Alval’s Chameleon spell after Salamar set a marker in the hidden camp, a guide for his portal. There was only one solitary watchman on this part of the wall, and Salamar dispatched him with an arrow from his bow. Salamar then levitated up to the battlements and tied one end of a rope to the wall, and tossed the other one down to Alval. Alval scaled the rope with ease, despite his age. They tossed the rope down the other side of the wall and climbed down. They stayed in the shadows, flitting through alleyways towards the Abandoned House with Alval leading the way. Most of the guards must have been asleep in the houses. Houses stolen from the innocent citizens of Cheydinhal. As Alval peeked around the corner of a building, the discovered what had become of the residents of the city. Piled high amongst a pool of blood, both fresh and dry, were bodies. Some were burned, others dismembered, some with arrows sticking out of them.

“Bastards…” Salamar had looked around the corner as well. “They’ll pay for this.”

Alval put a calming hand on his shoulder. “Come on, let’s keep going.”

They finally arrived at the door to the house which hid the Sanctuary. Alval tried opening it. “Locked. Damn, I don’t have my key.”

Salamar stepped forward. “Here.” He placed his palm on the door, and a soft glow could be seen under his hand. The door silently swung open. They entered the basement, and followed a passage carved out of the rock and dirt. They were greeted by a black door, with the symbol of the Brotherhood painted on. Then, it spoke, its voice rasping and ghostly. “What is the colour of night?”

Alval stepped forward. “Sanguine, my brother.”

“Welcome home, Brother…”

The door swung open to admit them, and they stepped through. The chamber seemed to be empty, devoid of life. “Freeze! Try anything stupid, and you will be sent to Sithis with a hail of arrows!”

Alaval raised his hands in a sign of peace. “Relax, Sister. It’s me. Alval Uvani.”

“Alval?” the assassin spun him around, and studied his face, “I feared you were dead!”

Alval smiled. “Takes more than a little spell to kill me, Sister.”

“I’m so sorry, it was all a big misunderstanding. Everybody was killed. There was a traitor, but it wasn’t who we thou-“

“I know, I know. I’ve already sorted that out. But now, we need your help. And any other assassins in this place.”

“I assume you’re talking about the takeover of Cheydinhal, yes?”

Alval nodded. “Yes. We have an army amassed outside, and we need to open the gates for them. That will let the soldiers in, then my friend here is going to open a portal to let more soldiers in. We’re going to kill Gallantus.”

The female assassin looked at Salamar as though she hadn’t noticed him before. “Alval, a friend? Wow, you really got hit hard. Hey, wait a second! Gallantus? Jodas Gallantus?”

Alval nodded again. “The one and only. He’s the one who took this place over, and he’s planning to do the same to the whole country. We have to stop him.”

“We’ve only got 3 other Brothers in here right now, but that will be enough. The Dark Brotherhood wouldn’t normally help, but we can’t operate under these conditions. Let’s go.” She looked at Salamar, “Good luck, little…”

Salamar spoke up for the first time since entering the old house. “Salamar.”

“Good luck, Salamar.”

13

He sniffed, then wiped his nose with the back of his hand. The glove had a little cut in it, and it hurt against his tender skin. "Ow! Damn cold. Why couldn't we set up base somewhere warm, like Skingrad?" He was a marauder in Gallantus' army. He didn't have a name. He cast it aside many many years ago, thinking it would make him seem mysterious. 'Call me whatever you like.' he used to say to the women. Then he realised there was riches to be had plundering ruins, and the occasional village. He wasn't really for all the unnecessary slaughter caused by their takeover of Cheydinal, but he knew an opportunity for money and power when he saw one. He was one of the few guards stationed by the west gate. The rest were inside, sleeping, or guarding Jodas Gallantus. He envied them, inside the castle with the fires burning merrily. He wasn't allowed to carry a torch, either, because it would ruin his night vision. Suddenly, one of his comrades fell to the ground, clutching his neck. He saw the arrow in between his hands, and the blood seeping out of the wound. The other gate guard sprang to his feet and went for his sword in its scabbard. He was shot down before he could unsheath it, flailing as he fell. The unnamed marauder was better prepared however; he already had his sword drawn. He saw the figure in black armour rushing at him, and deflected the dagger strike with his blade, spinning his wrist in such a way that the dagger was wrenched out of his assailant's hand and thrown away. He used the momentum of his deflection to turn full circle and try to decapitate the assassin. But when he reached his original position, there was nobody there. Then he felt the feet against his leg. One behind his shin, one in front of his knee. They kicked with one, and pulled with another, and his leg broke. As he went down, they sprung up and grabbed his neck. Their grip was like ice. He saw the blue glow coming from the hand. Their grip was ice. His windpipe froze, and they released him. Left him on the paving to die. More assassins came out of the darkness and helped open the gate.

Meanwhile, in the basement, Salamar was opening the portal and leading the voluntary army through. The mages and the mercenaries. He saw people he worked with from the Arcane University. Raminus Polus and Hannibal Traven were even there. He helped the leaders organise the troops. Foot soldiers went in the Sanctuary, the basement and the first floor. The mages waited upstairs. They all moved into position as quietly as possible, and waited for the signal.

A group of bandits were sitting at a table, having an arm wrestling competition when they heard yelling. Then they heard the gates open. They got up and ran to the gate, only to see Imperial Soldiers rushing in, weapons drawn. "SOUND THE ALARM! ATAAAACK!" They managed to call out before they were swamped and cut down. The bell started ringing, and the rogues poured out of houses and the castle gates.

"I guess that's our signal." Salamar murmered. "Go!" The mages cast their concussion spells, and the whole front wall of the top floor was blasted to splinters. The mercenaries ran out the front door and smashed windows to make new exits as the mages provided support from above.