Gathering Clouds, Chapter 22

  • Chapter 22

     

     

     

     

                    Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fourteen heartbeats in one minute. Remaining steady. It seems the decline has stopped.

     

                    Harrow snapped his timepiece shut. Almost one month had passed after he drank of the Clear Flask. His hunger had eventually abated as the potion did its work, and the kits were ready to return to their lessons today. I wonder how different our performance will be. I feel more energetic, despite my lower heartrate. No signs of anaemia at all. I haven’t coughed or sneezed in almost two weeks, and my breathing seems… deeper? Clearer?

     

                    As he pondered what Rendanshu had done to his body, his feet carried him on his way to Mokko’s dojo. The sun was beginning to rise, golden shafts of light glittering off the icy surfaces of Tsukikage’s roads and rooftops. Harrow unconsciously adjusted his weight as he stepped on the slippery cobbles, then smiled as he realised what he was doing. Even learning to walk in Tsukikage is good training for balance.

     

                    Master Mokko was waiting, his face stern as ever, in the middle of the training hall. Ambarro and a few of the other kits were already there, and the rest gradually arrived as Harrow sat down on the wooden floor.

     

                    Mokko was never one to indulge in unnecessary pleasantries. After counting and greeting Year 182, he got to the point immediately.

     

                    ‘You haven’t attended lessons in almost two years. The missions you have completed may give you a false sense of experience and jadedness and, coupled with your enhancements with Rendanshu, lead to overconfidence and bravado,’ he said. Then, all of a sudden, he raised his voice.

     

                    ‘Combat stances,’ Mokko called, his hands flying out of his sleeves with an audible whoosh. ‘Now!’ And he became a steel-grey blur whirling between the kits as they scrambled to rise.

     

                    Before Harrow could even stand up properly, Mokko had knocked Shiyo and Tom down with a single kick, swept Io off his feet with another, and sent Nacadi flying with a palm strike, moving so quickly that it looked like one synchronised motion. Io flipped up, and his momentum was met with a vertical chop. The black-spotted kit thudded back down.

     

                    Harrow flew at him with a knuckle aimed at his temple. The instructor didn’t even look at him as he reached backwards and caught him by the wrist, then slung him over his shoulder and threw him bodily into Yuuzen and Cika.

     

                    Diia ducked underneath a straight, then flinched as Mokko turned his hand downwards and grabbed her by the mane. Ambarro tried an uppercut, which was easily dodged with a slight lean, and then he was grabbed himself by the scruff of the neck. Mokko braced his feet against their ankles and pushed down, slamming their heads into the floor.

     

                    Urokko, Rinka and Kaori rushed him from the sides and back. Mokko thrust both his arms sideways and simultaneously twisted his waist, kicking backwards. Urokko and Rinka each received a palm to the face, and Kaori’s breath exploded from her mouth as a heel was planted flat into her solar plexus.

     

                    Harrow tried to extricate himself from the tangle of limbs he was buried under. He managed to free one hand, just in time to look up and see Mokko catch Tenna mid-leap and clap her around the temples. She collapsed, with her splayed elbow landing squarely on Harrow’s forehead.

     

                    In less than ten seconds, all thirteen of the kits were down. They were all still conscious – Ambarro and Diia barely so – but Harrow knew that if Mokko had actually intended to do them harm, most of them would have been dead by now.

     

                    ‘Remember, kits,’ the instructor said, his fur not even ruffled. ‘You still have much to learn.’

     

                    Mokko had given them a demonstration much like this one when they first entered his dojo over eight years ago, only he had done it with one arm behind his back that time. We must be improving, Harrow thought with a painful smile.


     

                    The kits had been given exactly fifteen minutes to recover, during which Mokko introduced them to their new schedule.

     

                    ‘The usual morning training routine is doubled. Six laps around Tsukikage instead of three, and the one hour sparring session is now one and a half hours with no breaks. A half-hour swim around the lake will also be added between the two sections, so head there when you’re done with your run. It’s time you broke your new bodies in.’

     

                    ‘Swimming? In the lake?’ Shiyo asked, looking slightly anxious. The kits all knew how to swim, but their lessons had been conducted in small, enchanted pools with warmer water. The lake that Mokko was speaking of was near the centre of Tsukikage, where the mountain streams flowed down and collected in a large depression. The lake led into much of the icy runoff of Mount Furiya, and the surface was frozen solid year-round.

     

                    ‘Don’t worry,’ Diia said confidently. ‘The Clear Flask’s changes to our circulation means that our resistance to the elements is boosted significantly. No Shadeclaw has ever died from exposure, be it the hottest reaches of the Alik’r or the coldest peaks on the Jeralls.’

     

                    ‘You sound sure of yourself.’ Mokko’s blank stare gave nothing away. ‘That will be all. Begin.’

     

                    The kits assembled around the training hall and got moving. As Harrow clambered onto the dojo’s roof and leapt off, he pulled out his timepiece and started counting his heartbeat again.

     

                    One.

     

                    He landed lightly on an adjacent building and set off into a sprint. The morning air was as crisp as ever as it filled his lungs, but it no longer felt as cold.

     

                    Two. Three.

     

                    The edge of the building came up and he jumped again, pushing off at an acute angle. The first few times he did this his heart almost fluttered into his mouth. For over two years a slight thrill would still run through his body whenever he started falling. Now, after six more years, his heart was steady.

     

                    Four. His outstretched fingers latched onto another rooftop and he swung himself up without breaking his pace, continuing his sprint. Five. Another stretch of rooftops and he would reach the walls. He spared a glance at his timepiece. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine.

     

                    Harrow placed a hand on the wall as he approached it, then ran up sideways. Ten. Eleven. Momentum was beginning to lose to gravity and he bounded off as he felt the friction disappear, just in time to grab a nearby lamppost and pivot off into the air again. Twelve. He rolled as he landed, then carried on running the instant his feet touched the ground. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen.

     

                    The eatery was coming up. He jumped to a pile of crates and used them to spring up into the rooftops again. Eighteen. A Po’ Tun adjusting his weather vane turned to smile at him, bowing in greeting. He inclined his head in return. Nineteen. Twenty.

     

                    Twenty heartbeats in one minute. His timepiece confirmed it. No observable change in respiratory rate. Body temperature normal. I’m not even sweating at all. The Clear Flask is truly a masterwork, and it’s only the first of the Nine Flasks of Rendanshu. Small wonder that most Shadeclaws die of old age and not in action.

     

                    Then he remembered that he would be lucky to even be able to take the Pale Flask, and he felt the familiar cloud of bitterness and anger return to the pit of his stomach. He forced it back down. I am what I am. No one is to blame for this. Not my parents, not Grandmaster Takarro, not the healers, not the Sages who first devised Rendanshu, not even the dunce. No one except…

     

                    The Dragon Priests. Harrow felt his anger morph into hatred, and he jumped and dropped harder than he should have, cracking the ice on the tiles he landed on. Once, when he was but a child, he had vowed to hunt down every single Dovah-Sonaak. There were books in the library dedicated to these strange apparitions and the Nord tombs they were consigned to, and he had devoured all of them. Servants of the dragons from long ago, in the Dawn Era. Even the Dwemer had been unable to date the exact years. Estimates range from ten thousand to three million. Consigned to Nordic barrows after the defeat and eventual extinction of the dragons in and after the Dragon War, guarding them even beyond death. Appears extremely emaciated, generally dressed in ragged robes and full face masks of metal. Wields exceptionally powerful magic. Practically inexhaustible. Some depend on their masks to survive. Stronger ones do not. Supposed to be bound to their barrows. What made them leave and hunt for Mother and Father?

     

                    He had even tried to learn the Dragon Language, which the Priests apparently spoke. The words had lingered in his mind far too long, and his head had almost burst open with pain when he tried to read them. Not a single scholar in Tsukikage knew why. Master Torako had shrugged. These ancient languages have great power. I am not suggesting by any means that these simple scribblings by Dwemer archaeologists have spells sealed in them or are magical in any way, though. As far as we all know the book you’re holding and the words inked on them – Dwemeris and Dovahzul alike – are normal. It might be a side-effect of whatever Valesse-ko went through with the Priests when she was carrying you, but I sense no anomalous magic in your neurons. I’m afraid I can’t help you, young one.

     

                    He had grown now, if only a little, and no longer harboured exotic fantasies of revenge. And the Dragon Priests who had assaulted his parents were likely all dead, killed by the resulting explosion at the conclusion of their battle.

     

                    Still, Harrow thought darkly as he finished his first lap. I will not weep overmuch if a Dovah-Sonaak ends up on my target list.


     

                    Being on guard duty at the city of Alinor is one of the worst assignments possible for a footmer of the Aldmeri Dominion. There were a thousand regulations thrown in your face every day, and one toe out of line netted you six months in re-education. And it was boring. Unbelievably boring.

     

                    What oh what did I do to deserve this? Faniel wondered, fingering his pike. He had been dropped smack dab in the middle of the Premier’s glass tower. Right outside Her office, no less. What nonsense. Alinor is so secure that any potential assassin would have been rooted out and dealt with even before he got within two miles of Herself.

     

                    And yet here he stood, chin pointed out and rigid, full combat regalia, sweating out of every pore in his body. Some kind of enchantment kept the Premier’s tower cool and breezy – for a person clad in light robes, not a complete set of gilded elven armour. Faniel’s posting meant that he was counted as a Grand Guard, and that in turn meant that an additional layer of paint was slapped onto his heavy plate. A very heat-absorbing layer of paint.

     

                    When his shift change came he almost cried in relief. Instead, he nodded at his replacement, saluted, and marched down the tower, his stride perfect, upper lip stiff, a fierce stare on his face, just as he was trained. Appearances, after all, were everything.

     

                    This obsession with image was really beginning to grate on Faniel, however. Whenever he complained about this the older mer would shake their heads at him and sigh, muttering ‘youngsters these days’ under their breath. Pubs, bars and taverns normally thrived in capitals. Not Alinor. All but the most upscale lounges were shunted out of the city when the Thalmor took over, and the Premier was surrounded by a full square mile of government buildings. One square mile of nothing but official business. It was enough to make Faniel choke. By the time he managed to get to one of the alehouses in the outskirts, he’d only have enough time for a quick pint.

     

                    He was in a particularly foul mood when he arrived at the tavern, and he let his displeasure show on his face. That was enough to get him a full table by himself. A quick nod at the barkeep sent him scurrying over immediately.

     

                    ‘Whisky. And I mean whisky, understand? Not your half-arsed watered-down whiskey. And be quick about it.’

     

                    The barkeep came with his drink barely ten seconds later, setting it down nervously on his table. ‘Here you go, milord. Compliments of the house.’

     

                    Faniel grunted and took a sip. Smart mer.

     

                    As he crossed his legs and raised the flagon to his lips again, a blue-grey furred Khajiit dressed in dull white robes crashed into his table. A few drops of whisky sloshed out. Some went into his eyes and he swore. The entire tavern went quiet.

     

                    ‘T’ergo is deeply sorry,’ the Khajiit grovelled. ‘T’ergo will pay for your drink, good sir, and wishes no ill will between us…’

     

                    Faniel set his flagon casually on his table, then got up and punched the babbling cat across the cheek with his gauntleted fists. He fell over on his back with a muffled whine, and Faniel punched him again, drawing blood.

     

                    ‘It was already free, you mange-addled moron,’ he spat, kicking T’ergo in the gut with his sabatons. ‘By Mara, the things I’d do to you if only I had more time. I see scum like you all over the place, thinking that you somehow deserve to stand beside the Altmer simply because we were benevolent enough to help you with your little moon problem. It’s long past time we taught you back-alley strays a lesson.’

     

                    The high elf added another kick for good measure, then went back to his table and drained the whisky. It seemed to sour along with his mood. He made sure to step on the Khajiit’s tail as he left, drawing another whine.

     

                    The barkeep and the other customers in the bar looked away pointedly as T’ergo dragged himself upright, whimpering, and headed for the door. Such incidents had become commonplace in the Summerset Isles, and they had all learned to turn a blind eye. Nobody wanted to be the next one to disappear from their homes.

     

                    The bruised and battered Khajiit limped his way out of the main gates of Alinor, after a thorough inspection by the Thalmor watchmen. T’ergo made his way, hunched over and wincing, to the woods surrounding the Altmeri capital. Then, as the trees grew thicker and the glitter of the glass city faded into the distance, he straightened and pulled his robes off, folding them and stuffing them into his pack. He was wearing a dark grey tunic underneath.

     

                    Jorra made it to the top of a tall tree with a couple of bounces off two thick branches. He squatted and wiped the last of the blood off his nose. Not even broken. The guard isn't half as strong as he looks. The Grandmaster wasn’t lying when he said that security was extremely tight, though. Hopefully the concoction works as intended.

     

                    The Premier’s tower security protocols included a full body cavity search of every person who passed inside, as well as an extremely detailed sweep for Magicka traces. Eavesdropping spells would be detected immediately. Needless to say, all attempts at infiltrating the tower itself had proved unsuccessful. But all a Shadeclaw needs is one weak link.

     

                    Jorra had spent almost a month preparing the potion he had just slipped inside Faniel’s whisky. The guard shift was changed every week, although some of the personnel still kept to their individual routines by force of habit. It had been easy to predict Faniel’s once he found out that he preferred to drink traditional Altmeri spirits. The shinobi pressed two fingers to the side of his ear and closed his eyes, channelling his Magicka. He was fairly confident that the potion had made it through inspection. Whatever small magical trace it left would be masked by the Altmer’s own.

     

                    A small hum filled his skull, giving him a slight itch, then it cleared and he was listening through Faniel’s ears.

     

                    ‘No excuses, General,’ a sharp, authoritative female voice ran down his fingertips and rang out against his eardrum, rich with scorn and arrogance. The Premier, Jorra assumed. ‘I want our troops in place and ready to mobilise at a single word.’

     

                    ‘You Eminence, we simply cannot do this with the speed you ask of us.’ A lower voice. Male. Gruff, tired, resigned. ‘Not without the Empire taking notice.’

     

                    ‘Those squawking monkeys wouldn’t notice if a dragon was thundering over their heads,’ the Premier snorted. ‘Do you think so highly of Imperials, General?’

     

                    ‘The Altmer of old underestimated Tiber Septim’s fledgling Empire as well, and-’

     

                    A slap. A hard one too, by the ring of it.

     

                    ‘You are treading dangerously close to heresy, General,’ the Premier’s voice grew deadly cold. ‘Must I find a more faithful replacement?’

     

                    ‘My apologies, your Eminence.’ The General sounded shaken.

     

                    ‘I want our mer in position across all eight of the other provinces by Last Seed of 197, General. That includes Hammerfell. I don’t care how difficult it is to smuggle agents through the borders, or how hard it is to set up strongholds in the Alik’r. Get it done.’

     

                    ‘As you command, your Eminence.’ The sound of ruffling sheets. The General was pulling out maps? ‘These are the locations of our already established bases. Skyrim is proving easier than most, as our ability to move about freely is aided by the Concordat’s ban on Talos worship. We have sleeper cells in major cities and holds here, here and here, and the colour gradients show our projected strength if we were to militarise in these areas…’

     

                    Jorra frowned, frustrated. He had Faniel’s ears but not his eyes.

     

                    ‘Very well,’ the Premier said as the conversation drew to a close. ‘I see you remain just competent enough to justify keeping you in your position. Show yourself out. You have duties to return to. The Great War is not over yet, General.’

     

                    Jorra listened in for several more minutes, until he was sure that they had finished. Then he released the magic and sat back in the tree, feeling suddenly weary.

     

                    ‘No,’ he murmured as he craned his head, staring into the horizon. The sun was beginning to set, lighting the sky ablaze in flames of red and orange. Stormy clouds were brewing in the east. And perhaps it was his imagination, but he caught the faint, iron scent of blood on the wind. ‘The Great War is far from over.’



     

     

     

      

     

     

     

     

     

Comments

7 Comments   |   Karver the Lorc and 5 others like this.
  • Caladran
    Caladran   ·  January 18, 2019
    Mokko always scares me! And, The Thalmor... something wicked is coming this way soon.
  • Sotek
    Sotek   ·  January 22, 2017
    There's nothing good about Thalmor; even as a potential food source. Too stringy and too many rules to chew through......
  • A-Pocky-Hah!
    A-Pocky-Hah!   ·  January 21, 2017
      ‘I want our mer in position across all nine of the provinces by Last Seed of 197, General. That includes Hammerfell. I don’t care how many we’re losing there, or how hard the fighting is in the Alik’r. Get it done.
    Hmm, last I checked the w...  more
    • The Sunflower Manual
      The Sunflower Manual
      A-Pocky-Hah!
      A-Pocky-Hah!
      A-Pocky-Hah!
        ‘I want our mer in position across all nine of the provinces by Last Seed of 197, General. That includes Hammerfell. I don’t care how many we’re losing there, or how hard the fighting is in the Alik’r. Get it done.
      Hmm, last I checked the war in ...  more
        ·  January 21, 2017
      Ach. I actually completely forgot about the Treaty. I really ought to do more research before writing about the Great War. I'm assuming that it's still going to be harder for the Thalmor to infiltrate Hammerfell, though, given that the Aldmeri Dominion ha...  more
  • The Sunflower Manual
    The Sunflower Manual   ·  January 20, 2017
    The Aldmeri Dominion always have something cooking. Usually several very malicious somethings.

    More importantly, Lissette-ko... read the chapters in order! D:<
  • The Long-Chapper
    The Long-Chapper   ·  January 20, 2017
    Tehehe, so the Aldmeri Dominion have something cooking. I'm sure the Shinobi will make things right as rain again. 
  • Karver the Lorc
    Karver the Lorc   ·  January 20, 2017
    Huh. So Great War is far from over. Now that sounds really interesting. Thalmor troops all over Tamriel...I bet they have nothing good for other races in their sleeves.