The Cursed Tribe - Chapter 10

• Posted by Karver the Lorc January 14, 2016 - Filed in TSC: CB Story - #"Karver"  #"Cursed Tribe"  - 1,616 views

  

  Chapter 10

  The Pit of Ash III

   

  Their journey to Fallowstone Cave began immediately after Atub collected all the necessary ingredients. She was curious as to whether Yamarz would bring more warriors with them, but he didn't and she didn't insist. The fewer, the better.

   

  She hadn’t performed a direct conjuring of a Daedric Prince in a long time, more precisely since Yamarz had become chieftain. Every new chieftain had to undergo a ritual, in which Lord Malacath was summoned and he would bestow his blessing on the new chieftain.

   

  She remembered that day very clearly. How could she forget the day when her one and only chieftain had been killed by his own son? She wanted Yamarz to die. She hoped Malacath would refuse to give his blessing to Yamarz. But that didn't happen. Frankly, it didn't happen very often. If someone proved to be stronger than previous chieftain, he deserved the blessing. Refusing the blessing only led to more...blood.

   

  And now, she and Yamarz were on their way to the Shrine again. And they were both silent, just as they had been that day. Yet, this time it was different.

   

  There was an aura of disbelief and fear emanating from Yamarz previously, but now there was anger, anxiety. No visible fear from him, but she felt fear. What if Malacath answers and tells Yamarz of my lies? She hoped that Malacath wouldn't answer. She really hoped for it.       

                                        

  A silent god would have been better. What happens to those who displease a silent god? What is their punishment?

   

  Silence.

   

  And she hoped for silence. Just as Malacath could answer their prayers and give them comfort, he could just as easily punish them. And now tell me: which god is better?

   

  “You know that this is madness,” she barked at Yamarz, breaking that silence. “Why would Malacath care about this?”

   

  Yamarz continued walking with his eyes watching the ground before him. He didn't seem to have registered her question. The silence fell on them again, as heavy shroud just as before and it seemed like she had never said anything. A silence so heavy she even doubted she had said anything at all.

   

  “If Malacath is our god, why wouldn't he answer?” he said, catching her off guard, as she adjusted to the silence once again.

   

  “Gods rarely care about the business of mortals. Even Malacath, who is our ancestor, doesn't have to care about everything and everyone. We are just fleas on the back of an immense beast, small and unimportant.”

   

  He looked at her and snorted. “You clearly aren't the ideal wise-woman. I thought you'd be more persuasive in the ways of our faith. Yet it seems you lack the very thing you should spread.”

   

  “I'm no priest!” she spat out. “I don't need faith when I clearly know that our god can answer.”

   

  “So, back to my question. Why wouldn't he answer?”

   

  Atub frowned. She felt cornered. “Why do you think everything in our lives is important to Malacath? What makes us so important to him?”

   

  His expression had a darker side to it when he looked at her. “What you are saying now… Tell me, wise-woman, why do you sound like Malacath hasn’t spoken to you for very long time?”

   

  She was stunted and cursed herself. She had let her emotions take control of her and now she had revealed too much. The truth was that Malacath never spoke to her, not directly, at least. That's why all wise-women were skilled in the craft magic. They could tap into the currents of magic, connect with the Ashpit throught the Void, and feel Malacath's...feelings. She remembered times, when everytime she let herself flow on the currents, she had felt Malacath's presence, his guidance. He had never said anything, but at that moment she knew whether their course was right or wrong. Yet she hadn’t felt that for many years.

   

  “Your silence gives me all the answers I need,” Yamarz said and she realized that she had been silent for quite some time. She stopped and Yamarz continued walking towards the cave, which was in sight now.

   

  And this is how you lost all control, Atub. You underestimated your chieftain and he saw through you. She looked up to the sky. Have mercy, Malacath.

  

  And after all these years, the truth was out. Not spoken, but known. Yamarz always suspected that Atub really didn't know Malacath's will, and now he knew it for certain. Once they got back, there would be consequences. For Atub. Something like this couldn’t go unpunished. Lying...that wasn't an Orc's way.

   

  Yet there was one time when he himself had lied. And in his mind it was justified; it was for the greater good. For the good of his tribe, for the good of all Orcs in Skyrim. It was when Lorbulg returned from the war and began to talk about his own war. About Orcs going to war.

   

  And Yamarz couldn't let that happen, so he had lied. And Lorbulg was banished.

   

  Does that justify a lie? When you say something that isn't true only to save everyone around you, is it wrong? Yes, at least in the eyes of Orcs. Orcs see everything in black and white, there is nothing in between. For Yamarz that was the greatest lie of all lies. Malacath's lie and his Code.

   

  There were shades of grey everywhere. How could they not see it?

   

  But what if it's just a test? Malacath's test of our faith? The world certainly wasn't a place of just black and white, but what if Malacath's Code aimed to make it that way? Clearly distinguishing the right from the wrong takes away all moral dilemmas, all indecision, thus making life easier. Or not?

   

  Just take a look at the Orcs as a nation. What did they achieve with their black and white? Are their lives easier? No, they live the most difficult lives in all Tamriel. It makes them stronger, but it also makes them blind. And those who followed the grey were now amongst other races, lost and drifting in the darkness.

   

  But for tribal Orcs...the darkness...is where we shine.

   

  The cave was inhabited by a pair of bears which were dealt with quickly. Yamarz wasn't in the mood for delays; his axes made bloody bags of meat, bone and fur from those two bears. One would think it would help him to let off some steam, but it only served to make him feel like he needed more.

   

  Now he was watching Atub preparing the summoning ritual under Malacath's statute, five times bigger then him. The grove was silent, constant snow falling from the skies, obscuring his sight with thousands of white dots. Yamarz thought he would be freezing right now, but he felt as though his blood was boiling.

   

  He needed that. He needed that rage, that bloodlust, if he was to talk to Malacath. If he wasn't angry, he would be afraid. He wanted to make a demand and that was more than bold. You don't make demands of Daedric Princes and walk away with all your limbs still attached to your body.

   

  Atub was just finishing the last few sentences in gibberish, waving with her arms in the air, completely ignorant to the cold. But her fur clothes were much warmer than Yamarz's orichalcum armor, of that he was sure. She turned around to look at him and nodded. He stepped forward in front of the statue and frowned on a bowl full of frozen Troll fat.

   

  He took the Daedra heart in his hand, brought it before his face and then bit. The heart was mostly frozen too and he thought it would break his teeth, but he managed to chew so he could swallow it. It stuck in his throat and he felt like throwing up, but he forced that piece of meat down his throat, into his stomach. He couldn't disgrace Malacath's shrine by vomiting.

   

  Atub took the heart and threw it into the bowl. She raised her hands and faced the statue and yelled: “Malacath! We summon you!”

   

  There was only silence, but then the wind raised and a gust almost swept Yamarz off his feet. The bowl, and everything within caught fire, green flames dancing in the strong wind. And then a thunder rolled from the mountains.

   

  But not from the mountains of this world.

   

  “YOU SUMMON ME, YAMARZ?!”

   

  Yamarz stepped forward and opened his mouth to answer, but another clash of thunder interrupted him.

   

  “I WILL HAVE WORDS WITH YOU, YAMARZ. I SUMMON YOU!”

  

  He was looking at the statue of Malacath, then he blinked and, when he opened his eyes again, he was in the land of ash and dust. He immediately held his breath and scanned his surroundings.

   

  Every Orc was familiar with the Ashpit and every Orc knew that the air there is toxic. There were few pockets of air, where a storm of dust couldn't rage and that was what he was looking for. He didn't see anything and so he ran blindly.

   

  There wasn't any time to think about why he had ended up in Ashpit. There was only one thing to concentrate on now. Survival.

   

  He ran, his lungs burning, his sight becoming cloudy. He stumbled and fell to the ground, raising a cloud of dust. He raised himself up on all fours and looked forward.  

   

  There was an immense eye looking at him. An eye as large as a windmill, the pupil black as void, the iris grey and speckled with yellow spots. And that eye belonged to a giant face, of course.

   

  “YOU AREN'T REALLY HERE, YAMARZ,” laughed the face and the sound made his tympanic membranes pop. “THAT MEANS YOU CAN BREATH HERE, YOU IDIOT!”

   

  Yamarz opened his mouth and inhaled deeply. The air entering his lungs was so fresh, like the air in a deep forest with flowers covering the ground. “Lord Malacath-” he began but then a boot kicked his ribs and he rolled over.

   

  He was looking at a much smaller version of Malacath, the size of an average Orc; at the same time, he was also looking at the giant Malacath, now raised up and looking at him from it's unbelievable height among the clouds of dust.

   

  “Tell me, Yamarz,” said Malacath, hovering above him. “Why did you summon me?” Yamarz wanted to rise, but the Daedric Prince's foot had him pinned to the ground. “Stay down and answer my question.”

   

  And here I thought you're all knowing, thought Yamarz.

   

  Malacath shifted his weight and more pressure came down on Yamarz's chest. “I'm fucking not! You think I have time to check every fucking idiot who says my name? But I heard you quite clearly, so answer my bloody question!”

   

  Even though Yamarz wasn’t really in the Ashpit, the pressure was quite real and painful. “The human,” he burst out. “You claimed his soul. But I need him.”

   

  The Daedric Lord looked at him in disbelief and then laughed. The pressure was gone and Yamarz could finally breath normally again. He looked at the giant and was glad that he wasn't laughing. A laugh from that collossus would probably made his skull explode.

   

  “Really, Yamarz? You come here with demands? You, who are so blind that you can't see you’re being played?”

   

  Yamarz frowned at that, not quite following.

   

  “So you want the soul of human who was sacrificed to me by your wise-woman?” continued Malacath.

   

  “Sacrificed?”

   

  Malacath laughed again. “Blind fool. And I always considered you to be quite clever.”

   

  “Atub sacrificed that man's soul,” growled Yamarz, finally understanding. “Without my acknowledgment.”

   

  “More or less inflicted his soul with Ashpit's essence. Imagine my surprise when I found a human's soul floating on the borders of my realm. I bet she didn't even know what she had done in the first place.”

   

  “I'm going to kill her.”

   

  “Do as you want, chieftain,” spat the Daedric Lord; Yamarz didn’t like the way he said it. It sounded as if he was mocking him and Yamarz didn't know why. “But why do you want that human's soul? Why do you need him so much?”

   

  “Lorbulg. I want him to find my brother,” answered Yamarz.

   

  Malacath's face darkened and Yamarz noticed that he grew a little in size. “You want some human to do your job?! Is that what you're telling me?!”

   

  “I can't find him on my own!” yelled Yamarz in response. “He's been out there too long! I'm not weak! But I need help finding him! And this human can help me.”

   

  “Then find another one!” growled Malacath.

   

  “This one has to pay a blood-price,” growled Yamarz, causing Malacath to fall silent.

   

  “Let me show you something,” whispered Malacath and the view changed so suddenly that Yamarz's head started to spin. When it stopped, he looked around.

   

  They were in some kind of arena, with hundreds of Orcs sitting all around it. But it wasn't an arena. It was...hands, clasped together just as when someone gathers water from a river, making a bowl, so that the water doesn't trickle away as quickly. And these hands were the arena, with the Orcs sitting on the fingers, shouting and roaring, waving their arms and pointing to the bottom.

   

  The bottom was full of sand, creating some flat ground on which there was someone fighting. Yamarz noticed the human, swords in his hands, fighting two Orcs. The Imperial managed to slash one’s leg, but then the other one cut off the Imperial's arm and Yamarz nearly screamed as the wounded Orc decapitated the human. His dead body fell to the ground only to re-appear once again, uninjured and ready to continue fighting.

   

  “That Imperial is quite a formidable foe. So far he has died only a hundred times or so,” said Malacath.

   

  Yamarz looked at him and the “arena” again. “Is this the Ashen Forge?”

   

  Daedric Prince nodded. “Yes and no. Just believe me when I say that those Orcs see something completely different to what you see.”

   

  The Ashen Forge. The place where Orcs went after death, if they suffered a Good Death. A place where the battle was unending. When Yamarz looked closely at those Orcs he saw that they were maimed, with mortal wounds and missing limbs. He bet they didn't see themselves that way. They were young, healthy and full of fire. They were happy.

   

  “Now tell me why I should take away their plaything?”

   

  Yamarz looked to god and met his gaze. There was so much power in those eyes and yet he didn't flinch. “Lorbulg must be punished. And I need that human for that.”

   

  “Punished? For what?” asked Malacath, catching Yamarz off guard. He always thought that Lorbulg represents everything Malacath hated, that he deserved to be brought to justice. Especially after what he did in Faldar's Tooth.

   

  “You thought that your revenge is mine, Yamarz?” laughed Malacath. “You brought that on yourself, so don't hide behind me. You banished your brother, because you were afraid he's stronger. And he wants to prove you he is stronger.”

   

  Yamarz was stunned. He always believed that what he had done was the right thing. Did his god just say that it wasn't the right thing to do? “I thought you disavowed him. For what he did-”

   

  “I'm the patron of outcasts! And you made him into an outcast of the outcasts! My aspect turns pushing away into pulling closer. So how could I disavow him when he's still my child, maybe more than you? He no longer follows the same Code, but he still thinks of me as his god.”

   

  “So was he right? Are we all weak; is his way the path of strength?”

   

  Malacath shrugged. “That remains to be seen.” He looked at Yamarz and pointed to the human. “He's yours. If you want to find out who's right, take the human and find Lorbulg. I'll be watching, to see who proves to be right.”

   

  The Imperial disappeared and Yamarz felt his soul being pulled away from Oblivion, back to Tamriel. And just before he returned, he heard Malacath's words.

   

  “If betrayal doesn't kill you first.”

  

  He opened his eyes, standing in the grove full of snow, the statue hovering above him. Atub still had her hands raised to the sky and the Daedra Heart still burned with green flames. And then the fire died out.

   

  Atub looked at the flames and then at Yamarz. He growled and hit her with his armored fist. One of her canines flew away, broken and bloodied. She fell to the ground with pain and surprise in her eyes.

   

  “I banish you, female!” he snarled. “You are not wise-woman anymore. You lied; you betrayed your chieftain. But no longer! You are banished from Largashbur and you shall never return or I will kill you with my bare hands.”

   

  He turned on his heels and marched away. There won't be any more betrayal. I won't let anyone betray me again!

  

  He was staring at the bottom of his tankard, thinking how long it had been since he had drunk the inside of it. Or how many tankards he already drunk. It hardly mattered, but it was still something to keep his thoughts occupied. It was better than perpetually thinking about Yamarz and how to make him suffer. If he thought too much about it, he would get angry and would want to kill someone.

   

  He looked around the Ragged Flagon and all those faces, both familiar and unfamiliar. Vekel the Man was behind the bar, talking to some young, ginger nord. Some new guy probably. There were other faces, but none he knew. The Flagon was quite crowded these days, but he really didn't care. He wasn't with the Thieves Guild, he just had a few contacts there and so they allowed him to stay there.

   

  “Hey, Lorbulg,” someone said, sitting on the chair next to him.

   

  “What do you want, Mallory?”

   

  “Don't use that ‘I kill you’ voice on me, friend. You were the one asking for work. And I got you some.”

   

  That captured Lorbulg's interest. He was getting bored. “Well? What's the job?”

   

  “I don't know. That Black-Briars want to hire you. She'll speak with you in the brewery.”

   

  “She?”

   

  “Maven Black-Briar.”

   

  “Oh. Why me? She must have dozens of idiots to do her bidding.”

   

  "Why are you so reluctant? Gold is gold, right?”

   

  Lorbulg got up and rumbled. “Yeah, you're right. See you around, Delvin.”

   

  “Likewise,” grinned Delvin.