Gathering Clouds, Chapter 27

• Posted by The Sunflower Manual February 19, 2017 - Filed in TSC: Long Story - #Harrow  #R.T.H.L.  - 1,704 views

  Chapter 27

   

   

   

   

                  Lencius felt uncomfortably out of place in the Dominion’s side of the camp. Here, the Empire’s red and gold standards switched into that sickly, greenish black. He felt his lip curl.

   

                  He had been born one year after the Great War, when reconstruction of Cyrodiil’s major cities had just begun. Childhood had been… not harsh, but rough. Everyone who could lift a chisel needed to help with the work, while the Thalmor, the ones who’d caused that destruction in the first place, simply loomed in the corners with their hooded robes or shining armour and watched. With no shortage of snobbish comments and sneers.

   

                  Those same sneers adorned the faces of the sentries as he walked into their midst, making his bow arm tense. We didn’t lose, he wanted to shout. This peace is by His Majesty’s grace, not yours. We drove you scum out of our city and threw your Lord Naarifin straight to Oblivion, and if any of you want to try me, I’ll send you after him personally.

   

                  ‘Quaestor Lencius of the Penitus Oculatus,’ he said rigidly to one of the guards. ‘Here to see Commander Larethor.’

   

                  The Altmer sniffed, looking down at him from his upturned nose, as if he were inspecting a particularly foul patch of dirt. ‘On whose authority?’

   

                  ‘First Emissaries Hacelmo, Faesatha, Eloriel, as well as High Emissary Orndil, representative of First Emissary Elenwen.’

   

                  ‘Ah,’ the mer smiled that infuriating, superior smile of theirs, amusement and satisfaction filling his amber eyes. ‘An errand-boy for the Emissaries. Fitting for an Imperial. Go on, then. Fetch.’

   

                  Lencius’ arm tightened further as he imagined filling the guardsmer’s face with arrows. One for each of your eyes, three in your mouth, a couple more for your nostrils… The image sustained him as he turned and marched deeper into the camp without further ado.

  
  

   

                  Larethor opened his eyes lazily, the scent of hay filling his nose. A tangle of dark brown hair was falling over his face. He brushed it off, then followed the wavy strands to their source, his fingers stopping just short before reaching the girl’s temple and stopping on the sharp point of her ear. Grinning, he pulled it towards his mouth and bit.

   

                  She suppressed a scream and woke, staring at him in all her naked glory. Larethor felt Little Sting twitch, and he released her ear, now with a fresh red mark etched on it. His mark. The girl covered it with one hand and turned away as she sat up. A twinge of disappointment ran through him; he had wanted to see those large, soft eyes water. Yes, my dear. Grimace, look away, bite your lip all you want; you’re mine. You’re mine and you know it, you’re mine and you hate it – and admit it, that gives your loins a special fire when I take you, doesn’t it?

   

                  Larethor ran his tongue over his teeth as he studied the curvature of her spine, her golden skin undulating as she tried to hide her shaking. Such sensual creatures, we elves. He allowed his mind to wander briefly as he tried to imagine wooing her. At ninety-seven years of age, Larethor was still in his prime – and decidedly not unattractive with his strong brow and firm jawline. What would it be like, going through all of that ritual and banter for years before the actual bedding? Does the pleasure last longer?

   

                  He snorted disdainfully. Far simpler to just take what one wanted, right then and there. The girl had taken a bit of coercion, however. Her record had seemed spotless – perfect marks in battlemage training, family and bloodline pure. After a bit of digging, though, he’d found with delight that she had a regular suitor, a childhood friend who happened to be a Dunmer.

   

                  Imagine the scandal, my darling. I wonder what Herself would say if she found out about this tryst of yours? Of course, I could be... persuaded to keep your little secret.

   

                  He had taken her maidenhead the same night – that had been almost a full month ago, and he had forgotten her name already. It didn’t take much to lose Larethor’s interest. Regular fornication will do that. To be honest, he found his experiences with the girl’s younger brother during his multiple visits to her house more stimulating. The twelve-year-old elven boy had been exquisitely innocent. What are we doing? Are we playing a game, sir?

   

                  Oh, yes, he had chuckled as he reached for his belt. We’re going to have lots of fun.

   

                  Larethor shook the sweet memory out of his head. The march to the Shadeclaw village was long and cold, and unfulfilled lust would only make the journey more unbearable.

   

                  At any rate, the young mage should last him for a few more nights, then it would be time for a new conquest. He highly doubted that he’d find anyone worthy in Tsukikage, though. I don’t fuck cats.

   

                  Someone knocked on one of the front posts holding his tent up. ‘Ye-eess? Come in,’ he drawled.

   

                  An Imperial pushed open the flaps and walked inside, squinting at the dim light. A bow of wood and horn hung on his back, along with a full quiver. He was wearing a crimson vest under his light Legion cuirass, and an additional stitched band of dark red was strung from his shoulder to his waist. That Penitus Oculatus spectre, Lencius. The one old Titus sent to meet the Shadeclaws. Holds the rank of Quaestor. That reminds me, have they found those missing Justiciars yet?

   

                  At any rate, it was a safe guess that the Po’ Tun knew they were on their way. The First Emissaries had been beside themselves with rage when they heard of what the Emperor had done, but they couldn’t confront him directly without conclusive proof – or without revealing the source of their information. It had been an entertaining sight, watching the spoiled officials swallow their indignity.

   

                  ‘The Emissaries request your presence, Commander Larethor,’ Lencius said stiffly. ‘Report to their tent as soon as you are… able.’ Those sharp, archer’s eyes took in the whole scene with just the barest hint of disapproval. Remarkable self-control for an ape. I wonder if he can be house-trained.

   

                  ‘Of course.’ Larethor swung his legs over the side of the bed, smirking as he saw the Imperial give a little flinch at his exposed Little Sting. Yes, it’s not so little, is it? ‘Allow me to dress, and I shall be there shortly.’

   

                  He gave the girl’s firm hindquarters a slap as he reached for his trousers, sending her scurrying off. ‘All right, off with you. I’ll expect you back after the sun sets and we make camp again. Warm the bed while you wait this time. And do eat more, darling, your tits are starting to sag.’

   

                  The revulsion was hardening in the Oculatus agent’s eyes now, his fierce distaste curdling into hatred as his gaze fell on the bloody bite marks on the girl’s shoulder, neck and breasts. Lencius wanted him dead. He could see the man planning the kill now as they locked stares. Yes, look deeper into my eyes. An arrow between them – is that what you see? So simple-minded. Do you know what I see, Spectre?

   

                  Larethor let his grin widen as he stared back, picturing the Imperial bound and gagged, bent over, buttocks spread. The image became so vivid in his mind that he found himself trying to gauge how good the young man would feel.

   

                  Lencius was in his early twenties, and had a hawkish face as well as a slightly hooked nose. Not completely brutish in his features, but still rough around the edges. Handsome in a rugged way. He had the olive, tanned skin of his people, but wasn’t as swarthy as most Imperials. Clean-shaven; that was always a plus. Narrow hips and a taut, wiry frame. The arms – and likely also the legs – were too much, though. Far too thick. The constant pulling on that bow of his is to blame, he noted, his nose wrinkling. Are there any Legionnaires good enough to bed, or even to look at naked? Even their women have those knotted muscles. Disgusting Colovioid monkeys.

   

                  The breakfast bell rang on the Legion’s side of the camp, followed quickly by the Thalmor’s own chime. Lencius broke eye contact first, his face tightening as he pushed the door flaps out again. ‘The Emissaries will be expecting you,’ he said curtly, then left the tent.

   

                  Larethor yawned, then set about putting his clothes and armour on. As commander of the Third Division, he had an additional black coat of paint over his glass plate and bracers.

   

                  His spear was propped up on the side of his bed. He unwrapped the leather around the head and gave it a light tap. As sharp as ever. Reilanco, the engraving carved onto the shaft read. The Beauty of the Hunt. Larethor rubbed a few specks of dust from the Altmeris etchings. An elegant name, as expected of the Altmer, but truth be told, he preferred the name that Nords, Imperials and Redguards knew it by.

   

                  Big Sting. He allowed himself a quiet laugh. It’s big and it stings, what else do you need to know?

   

                  A flowing taupe cape the same colour as the robes on a battlemage went on his shoulders. It was getting cold as they approached the Jeralls from the highlands. He lined an additional layer of sable fur around his collar, then stepped outside into the camp.

   

                  What do the Emissaries want this time? Larethor wondered. Probably more whimpering about how difficult my mission is going to be, how I need to be cautious, and all that rot.

   

                  The Twinstinger scoffed. Diplomats. No soldier in history had ever gotten things done by whining about his work. He ground the butt of his spear into the snow as he walked towards the Emissaries’ tent. Soon now. Soon we will reach this village of yours, and then we’ll see what you’re really made of… shinobi.

  
  

   

                  A bolt of lightning spiralled from Harrow’s palm. It splattered away harmlessly on the stone walls on the far side of the training field. The boy thrust his hand forward and tried again. A small amount of electricity wrapped around his body as the spell impacted, but had no effect otherwise.

   

                  Torako observed him from the side. After a few more attempts, he raised a hand and called for a stop. ‘That’s enough. Take a small break and allow your Magicka reserves to regenerate. Meditate if you have to.’

   

                  ‘Apologies for my lack of progress, Master,’ Harrow said as he shook the Magicka exhaustion from his numbed arms, dropping into the lotus position to rest. ‘I thought I’d be able to perform the technique by now.’

   

                  ‘You’ve begun your advanced training for barely a month, and already you expect to be able to ride lightning? You ask too much of yourself, kit. Lightning techniques this complex cannot be mastered in such a short time, no matter how prodigious you are.’

   

                  ‘In another few months, the other kits will take the Blue Flask. I cannot afford to slack off myself.’

   

                  In the past month, Harrow’s response to his inability to continue along Rendanshu had shifted from depressed lethargy to furious energy. He’s training as hard as Ambarro now, Unaka had remarked. And that was no mean praise.

   

                  ‘All right,’ Torako said. ‘Let me see how I can help. What don’t you understand about the spell?’

   

                  ‘Advanced Application of the Elements mentions a spell of “Lightning Riding”, and explains it as a spell that allows for extremely rapid movement by infusing the caster’s physical form with the lightning bolt and, in a sense, becoming it. The author then details the basics of property-to-energy and how to follow the trail of… “Anthnekvagrelz”. The translator noted that there is no direct equivalent in Tamrielic or Eastern Akaviri. The closest meaning would be electric… spot? Particle? At any rate, I took it as instructions to somehow insert myself into the lightning bolt, but that’s as far as I’ve gotten without specific instructions.’

   

                  ‘Mhm, Anthnekvagrelz,’ Torako nodded. ‘Explaining this is going to give me a headache. You know about the Dwemer’s particulate research?’

   

                  ‘A little, though I can’t wrap my head around it completely. Scholars still debate exactly how accurate their findings were as the equipment used to observe or otherwise visualise the phenomenon has been rendered inoperable or destroyed when the Dwemer became extinct. Dwemer science and logic is millennia ahead of the rest of Tamriel, and I know that their work has usually been validated historically, but I find the claim that what we know as solid matter is mostly empty space with a framework of invisible dots… hard to swallow.’

   

                  ‘What you can perceive of the world is merely a fraction of what actually exists. You cannot see, hear or touch Magicka in its natural state, but you can access the power regardless. Is this not the same?’

   

                  ‘Your analogy does make the idea easier to grasp, Master,’ Harrow replied, frowning. ‘But I would still like to know exactly what Anthnekvagrelz are.’

   

                  Torako let his breath billow out through his puffed lips. ‘All right. According to the Dwemer, the world as we know it is made of base particles too small for the naked eye to see – or any form of detection magic currently in use, but I digress. Everything from air and water to trees and mountains and all living beings are made of these particles. Some of these particles can carry a charge of energy. This charge is what we call electricity, and can be transferred from one particle to another. The particles that carry the charge are what the Dwemer call Anthnekvagrelz.’

   

                  ‘Continuing along that line of thinking,’ Harrow stood, rare excitement growing in his eyes. ‘Any attack with lightning is simply a stream of Anthnekvagrelz, then?’

   

                  ‘You catch on quick, as always,’ Torako smiled approvingly. ‘An electric current is formed by the flow of individual Anthnekvagrel particles. The particles have to come into contact with one another, however, or else the current would be broken. This is why one cannot send electricity through empty space. There are substances that resist the flow of Anthnekvagrelz, such as air and wood, but there are also substances that direct the current particularly well, such as seawater, most metals… and Magicka, if it could be called a substance.’

   

                  ‘So the only difference between arcane lightning and true lightning is the medium through which the current is transmitted? If magical lightning bolts use Magicka as a medium, what is true lightning conducted through?’

   

                  ‘Now we reach a different topic entirely. True lightning differs from arcane lightning by more than just the medium. In fact, the process of creating a true lightning bolt is almost completely opposite to that of arcane lightning, and involves resistance rather than conduction. There are Ayleid spells and techniques involving this process, but you are most certainly not ready for them yet. The raw Magicka drain could kill you.’

   

                  ‘Very well,’ Harrow said reluctantly. ‘I can wait. Back to riding lightning – so I have to infuse my body with the stream of Anthnekvagrel? Does that mean that I can ride any kind of electricity, not just arcane lightning?’

   

                  ‘Attempting to use anything other than Magicka as the conduit would be highly inadvisable,’ Torako cautioned. ‘You can control your magic, direct it, aim and land it in a certain area. Other forms of electricity are not so predictable or malleable.’

   

                  ‘Understood. If that is the case, then the best way to start practicing would be to try the technique with a stream of lightning and not a bolt. It’s more stable, and would allow me to study the pattern of the current before leaping in.’

   

                  Harrow raised his arm again and a single, steady line of crackling blue spat from his hand. The spell was barely more than a series of sparks, but Torako understood. The less power he used, the more time he had to try. The young elf glared at the lightning in concentration, his arms and legs trembling as he clenched his muscles, every fibre of his being willing himself forward into the river of electricity.

   

                  For almost fifteen minutes nothing happened. Then, just as Torako was about to tell him to stop before he used up too much Magicka, a few trickles began crawling back up his arm from the stream. Their speed and intensity slowly increased, until fine hairs of energy wreathed his entire body.

   

                  The trickles enveloped Harrow’s thin form, and he disappeared in a flash of lightning, reappearing a split second later on his hands and knees, two feet away from where he stood. He looked dazed and confused, but otherwise unharmed.

   

                  ‘Very good,’ Torako exclaimed. ‘Very, very good! You managed to ride lightning one full year before I learned to do so. I knew letting you read those tomes was the right decision.’

   

                  ‘I lost my focus for just an instant,’ Harrow panted. ‘That was enough to snap me out of the current. Sloppy of me, Master. I apologise.’

   

                  ‘You’re far too hard on yourself. Trying to concentrate on the flow of the individual Anthnekvagrel is exceedingly difficult. It is almost impossible to do so without a thorough understanding of electricity.’

   

                  ‘I will do more reading tonight, Master.’

   

                  ‘That would certainly help. If you haven’t done so yet, I recommend starting on Thermal and Temporal Dynamics, and possibly some of the Ayleid texts. They offer great insight into-’

   

                  A loud gong rang out over Tsukikage, drowning out everything else. The clear, metallic peal echoed three times across the village.

   

                  Teacher and student both fell silent. After the gong faded, Torako stirred and spoke.

   

                  ‘Is your formal kimono ready?’

   

                  ‘Washed and pressed.’

   

                  ‘The Emperor and his delegates will be arriving within the week, if they are close enough for the scouts to see. Prepare yourself; the Thalmor attachés will not be easy to deal with. Balancing secrecy with courtesy will be nigh impossible. I’ve already asked this of Diia, but since the two of you do spend quite a bit of time together – please keep an eye on Ambarro.’

   

                  Torako headed for the Council Chamber after he finished, leaving Harrow there to finish up on his training session.

  
  

   

                  Lencius was having trouble breathing.

   

                  The air on the Shadeclaw’s mountain was painfully thin, and each breath seemed excruciatingly shallow. He felt as if he was about to suffocate at any time, but trying to suck in a larger lungful made his mouth and throat burn with the cold. No wonder they hide up here. The air itself is trying to kill me, but since the shinobi have gotten used to it, they have a natural advantage against invaders.

   

                  If they could find the village in the first place. They had marched for almost two weeks into the Jeralls, the snow and rocky terrain hampering their progress. Some of the Legionnaires had succumbed to the chill, their skin growing blue and their movements becoming sluggish. Nobody had died yet thanks to the mages, but they were spread thin enough healing frostbite alone.

   

                  The Emperor had insisted that the afflicted men be brought into his tent for warm meals and beds, and some of them had even been allowed to ride in his personal carriage. While Lencius respected and admired him all the more for that, he was beginning to think that it was a bad idea. What if some of them fake being ill? Food won’t last forever.

   

                  And of course the Dominion troops had no trouble. Their own mages walked around with nothing but their robes, and though their footmer wore the same types of heavy coats as the Legionnaires did, Lencius had a sneaking suspicion that they were fortified with magic as well.

   

                  He rubbed his face, which had gone dead from the cold, and winced as the fresh flow of blood stung his cheek. Drawing my bow’s going to be hard, what with this damned cold. Be lucky if it doesn’t snap in half.

   

                  ‘Hey,’ Unaka said. ‘Miss me?’

   

                  Lencius’ breath burst from his mouth in a cloud of vapour as he turned, astonished, to stare at the Po’ Tun that had seemingly materialised on his right. Between the blizzards, the constant uphill hiking, and the blinding white ground as the snow reflected the sunlight, he hadn’t even noticed the shinobi approach.

   

                  By the looks of it, neither had any of the others. To his pride, the men of the Legion kept their cool as the shadowy black figures popped up around them, with only curses and the occasional gasp. He was amused to see the Thalmor react far more dramatically, yelling in shock and confusion at the sudden appearance of the catfolk. A couple of them shrieked like schoolgirls.

   

                  Two of the shinobi clapped their hands to their sides and bowed before the Emperor, who had just come out of his carriage. One had brown fur, the other was dark grey.

   

                  ‘Greetings and felicitations, Your Majesty,’ they said in unison. ‘The Shadeclaws of the Village under the Shadow of the Moons are most honoured by your presence. We did not expect such a swift arrival. The Imperial Legion is disciplined indeed.’

   

                  ‘The honour is mine, good Po’ Tun of Tsukikage. I confess, I drove the men harder than I should have.’ Titus Mede the Second did not have the booming, authoritative baritone of his namesake, but his voice was smooth, pleasant and charismatic, and when he spoke others tended to listen. ‘I am very eager to see my old friend again. Tell me, is Grandmaster Takarro doing well?’

   

                  Lencius turned to examine the Dominion forces as the shinobi exchanged pleasantries with the Emperor. What he saw unsettled him.

   

                  The Thalmor were not joining in the conversation, which by itself was worrying enough. They were simply watching, like a band of predators waiting for their prey to slip up. The Twinstinger and his hand-picked mer from the Third Division were acting particularly… shifty, Lencius thought. That’s the word for it. They were studying the shinobi with odd expressions, somewhere between indifference and interest.

   

                  Lencius’ eye settled on one of Larethor's personal battlemages, and he followed the Altmer’s lingering gaze. It led all over the shinobi. They were taking note of everything – the Shadeclaws’ garb, their weapons, their size, their gait.

   

                  Disturbed, he turned back to the Emperor, who had gone back inside his carriage. The two Shadeclaw sentries talked briefly with his coachman, and then began leading the way to the village.

   

                  With eyes still glittering atop their blank faces, the Thalmor followed.