Chapter 9
The Pit of Ash II
He was swimming in a river, deep under the water where the current was playing with him like with a rag doll, swimming through places of light and dark, where hot and cold were hard to distinguish from one another. At one moment he thought his body would burst, aflame, boiling the water around him or even vaporizing the entire river. The next, he was shivering, freezing, unable to move; as though his limbs were encased in ice.
Suddenly there was a darkness, utter and complete, like a black, silken veil covering his sight to keep him from harm by seeing something he shouldn't. And then there was a blinding light, burning his eyes.
But in the moments between those...there were shadows. And those shadows held hidden truths. Because what is a shadow if not the bastard child of darkness and light? Both were so pure that they were blinding, each in it's own way. But shadows...obscure. You can't see the truth if you're looking directly at it; only if you look the other way can you see it with the corner of your eye.
And the river held many truths.
But it wasn't a river. It was an ocean. Calm and unmoving, yet the lights above the water moved as if they had their own life. The bottom constantly shifted between darkness and light, creating obscuring shadows. And he swam closer to see what they were obscuring.
It was a city. A burning city, a gold-white light emanating from the center. And he wanted to reach it. He knew that if he could reach it, he would know the truth. Why so many had died. For what purpose. Why they were too late to save anyone.
The city was swept away by a current of blood and he tried to cry out in anger and helplessness, but no sound left his mouth. He was powerless, just as he had been that day. But he couldn't give up; it wasn't in his nature. He had to know the truth.
He noticed a statue floating next to him. A man; a naked man with only a loincloth covering his crotch; a man with pointy ears and two rows of small horns protruding from his forehead, with his sword raised high above his head, with his tusks pointing upwards in a grin. He reached for the statue, but then he realized it wasn't close. It was far away, and it was its size that made him think he could reach it. And as the statue was nearing, it grew bigger and bigger.
He realized he was no bigger than its tusk. He tried to swim out of its way, but it was heading straight for him. He wanted to cry out, but he couldn't.
And then the statue opened it's eyes, black as night. “YOU HAVE VENTURED TOO FAR, HUMAN.” The mouth then opened, revealing sharp teeth...and then it closed around him.
The darkness removed his sight, and when it returned...he was lying in the ash. He raised his head only to see dust, palaces of smoke, and ethereal creatures. Anguish, betrayal, and broken promises filled the bitter air, like ash.
“YOU ARE MINE NOW!” sounded a voice, like a rolling thunder.
Atub was hovering over the human lying on the bed in the Longhouse. It was beyond her comprehension as to why Yamarz wanted to save this pitiful excuse of a living being, but it was her chieftain's command to cure him. She would have rejected his command if she had sensed even the slightest sign of displeasure from Malacath, but she didn't sense anything. It was almost as if Malacath didn't care about this human. And why should he?
She was considering fabricating a little lie, as she had done many times in the past, but then cast said thought aside. She didn't have anything else to keep her occupied at that moment, so why not cure him?
Males were so easily manipulated and Yamarz wasn't that different from his father. Atub's mother - the previous wise-woman - had taught her that Malacath isn't always close so she can't rely on his counsel all the time. There were times when she had to decide herself, but she declared that she was speaking for Malacath. And no one could tell the difference.
Orcs weren't supposed to lie, but she knew better. And she believed that Malacath understood that. She wasn't that different from the priests of Men, with their silent gods. They could only guess what their gods really wanted and so they spoke in their stead. And no one questioned them, they just bowed, pleased that they received answers from their god - even if it was through a human, blind and deaf, as any other man was.
But Malacath was different. He spoke to his followers. He cared for them. And isn't that a comforting thing, to know that your god is out there somewhere, listening to you, speaking to you, his presence a calming balm - clear proof of his existence?
But he wasn't always near, and that's when doubt comes, crawling itss way into followers’ heads, raising questions. Why doesn't he answer? Did I displease him? And in that moment, one must either rely on blind faith, believing that he will answer once the time is right, or raise one's face to the skies and speak your mind.
She looked at the human again and frowned. A complete unknown. Her invisible hand reached out, from her body, to the currents of Magicka running through the world, grasping and pulling them into her body. A purple glow appeared around the human's body, revealing his aura. She saw his heart - a strong heart - and veins and she saw very clearly the sickness holding his body in a battle of life and death. Her magical sight revealed that his skin seemed to be on fire, green flames licking his skin, sending fumes of smoke right into his throat and lungs, blocking his breath. And she heard his rasps clearly.
This human can't even survive a little bit of cold. He would have died if I wasn't here. Pathetic. What use are you to Yamarz, Imperial?
She reached further into the currents, drawing more into her body and her sight changed from purple to dark violet. She expected to see a small ball of violet light above the human's chest. Instead, she saw a golden light spreading through the Imperial's whole body, a light that was nearly blinding her. She shut off her magical sight.
That's one very strong soul. Unclaimed, pure. Untouched by any god because this soul refuses all gods in all forms and aspects.
Nothing could possibly be so pure; nothing could possibly remain free and unclaimed. She felt vile in that moment and thus she reached out again with her magicks to touch the soul. It recoiled; it was pushing her away and she felt the human's body weaking. She realized that this could kill him. She pulled away and saw a small green glow amidst the golden light.
“What are you doing?” sounded a high-pitched voice behind her and she spun around. She expected that brat with only half a brain, but it wasn't Gularzob. It was Grulmar. She smiled. Oh, if anyone here knew just how special he is.
“What do you think?” she asked him and prompted him to come closer with a gesture.
“I don't know,” he answered and rubbed his shoulder. “I just felt...something. Like ants were crawling under my skin and it was getting worse the nearer I was to the longhouse. And then it stopped.”
So the boy is sensitive. Oh, if only Yamarz knew that his son could become a mage. A powerful one. But our traditions prevent that. He will be a warrior. He might be a chieftain one day, but one is certain. He will be a...Champion.
She scowled and put her hand on his shoulder. “Listen to me, runt. There are rivers flowing through this world, unseen and unheard, but there are a few that can sense them.”
“Sense them?” he asked.
“Yes. You can't see them, hear them, touch them, smell them or even taste them. But you just know they are there. And there are a few who can tap into those rivers and draw power from them. That's what you felt. I was drawing power to help this human.”
“You mean magic? I can sense magic?” said Grulmar with excitement and he raised his eyes to meet Atub's. “And can I use it too? Throw lightning from my hands?”
She kneeled before him, looked directly into his eyes and squezed his shoulder. “Listen to me carefully, Grulmar. You could do those things if you were trained. But you won't be. You're an Orc, and you will be a warrior one day. Your destiny is not to become a mage. Nobody here can ever learn the truth about this. You won't speak about this to anyone, do you understand?”
He nodded with pain in his face and Atub noticed she was squeezing his shoulder too tightly. She released her hold. “But I can teach you something else.” She reached into her pouch and pulled out a few ingredients. “The nature is full of ingredients from which you can make potions with magical properties. Do you wish to learn that?”
His disappointment vanished and was replaced with eagerness to learn. You are a very special Orc, my boy, she thought.
As she was about to explain to him the different properties of the ingredients in her hands, she felt something. There was a wind, blowing right above the current, reaching down, deep into the water and pulling something from it. She looked at the Imperial and used her sight.
The golden light was gone. His soul was gone. Claimed.
“Go find Yamarz,” she whispered to Grulmar. “Now!” she yelled when she saw he wasn't moving. When he ran off, she sat on the floor and leaned with her back against the bed, head in her hands. Why did you take this man's soul, Malacath?
There are times when an Orc needs to let out some steam and those were the times when even the chieftain got his hands dirty in mines, leaving his armor outside, wearing only ragged clothes, with a pickaxe in his hands, mining the precious green blood flowing through the rocks.
Muscles aching from hours of monotone swings, thoughts occupied by rhythmic beating of metal against rock - that was something that helped Yamarz to cool down. He wanted to kill someone, something. Anything. He needed blood and that was bad. Orsimer were quick to anger, but surrender to bloodlust was a completely different thing. Every Orc had that berserker rage running through his veins, but there were a few who let that fury consume their mind and they were no better than animals. They had to be put down, or they would endanger those around them.
He had to beat it out.
“Hey, that's my spot,” called someone from behind him, breaking his rhythm. He glanced back and saw Mul. He was a big orc - one of the biggest ever born, except for his brother Gadba - looking at him with a frown on his stupid face. Both Mul and Gadba were gifted with muscles, but unfortunately, no brains. Yamarz sometimes regretted that the previous chieftain let his stupid younger brothers live. But their lack of intelligence didn't make them bad miners.
Gadba arrived and slapped Mul. “You know who is that, you idiot?”
“Who?”
“That one who took your spot.”
“I know who took my spot. Him.”
Yamarz rolled his eyes and continued in his work.
“And he's the chieftain.”
“Which one?”
“Ours, you idiot.”
“But which chieftain? The old one or the young one?”
“Now that you mention it... I don't know. But he's the chieftain.”
“So how do you know it's the chieftain?”
“I saw him once. On the surface.”
“We never go to the surface, Gadba.”
“We do. Everyday after we finish here, we go outside and sleep.”
“Really? Then tell me why does the ceiling look the same as in here? Except for all those shiny things on it.”
“That's a sky, you know. It just looks like the ceiling because it's night.”
“Oh. You're so smart, Gadba. You met the new chieftain's wife?”
“You met the new chieftain's wife?”
“Don't repeat everything I say. That's one piece of a female. Everytime I see her I have this strange feeling in my crotch.”
“You want to piss?”
“No. It's like if I had rocks in my...thing, you know. And then it's like piss, but white, and my Rocky is soft again. It feels much better than pissing into the shaft.”
“Sometimes, I think your head is made of rocks.”
“That would be good! I could use it to smash other rocks. Easier to mine, then.”
“Oh, good point. I wish my head was made of rocks.”
Yamarz turned around, annoyed by their moronic discourse “Don't you have something to mine, idiots?”
They looked at each other and Mul said: “I found a big load of ebony at the bottom pocket of the mine.”
“Did you mark it?”
“No, I don't need to mark it. I remember it.”
“So where is it?”
“You can tell, because it has lots of ebony.”
Their voices trailed off as they went deeper into the mine and Yamarz sighed. “Idiots,” he murmured.
There was a sudden light as the doors to the mine opened. Yamarz blinked a few times to adjust to the sudden light. He saw a small figure running towards him.
“Chieftain!” yelled Grulmar. “Something happened to the human.”
Yamarz stormed into the longhouse and with a quick look he accessed the situation. Atub was hovering over the motionless human. Nothing had changed since he left. He looked at Grulmar. Is this some kind of game?
Atub noticed him and frowned. She probably wanted to say something about him being covered dirt and dust from the mine, but then thought otherwise. “We have a problem, Yamarz,” she said, with a dull voice.
He didn't reply, just narrowed his eyes.
“Whatever plans you had for this human, you would do well to forget about them. I think we lost him for good-”
“What did you do, female?!” he growled.
“I didn't do anything, you ungrateful brat. I'm trying to keep him-” she barked back but was stopped by a hand grabbing her throat, lifting her from the ground and smashing her back against the wall. And the vice was still crushing her throat, and Yamarz really wanted to crush her throat in that moment.
“What-did-you-do?” he snarled with tusks very near to her face, threating to get even closer.
“Nothing,” she rasped. “Malacath...claimed his soul.”
He dropped her to the floor and looked at the Imperial. When someone slept, there was a hint of consciousness in that state, such as eyes moving beneath the eyelids, but his eyes were completely still. Like he was dead, yet he was still breathing. His soul was trapped between a body and something else. “Continue,” he looked at Atub.
“What, you didn't understand, you oaf? His soul is now in the Ashpit, trapped to please Malacath. There's nothing we can do about that.”
Malacath has taken his soul into the Ashpit. Shit.
For Orcs, Malacath was a ancestor who cared for them, a god who was always near. But Yamarz had to remind himself that he was also a Daedra and beside his children, he didn't give a crap about Men and Mer. There were exceptions of course, mostly for those who worshipped him. Some of those might have been given the opportunity for their souls to go to the Ashen Forge to fight till the end of times.
He looked at the Imperial. What purpose does your soul have in Ashpit, human?
He needed that man. He needed his help, he needed his debt. So there was only one solution, and it made his knees tremble in something very close to fear.
He eyed Atub with a scowl. “Bring Troll Fat and Daedra Heart, wise-woman. I wish to speak with Malacath.”
Her eyes almost popped out of her sockets. “Our last Daedra Heart...is this weakling really worth it?”
“Do as I command, female,” he growled. “Or I will be forced to find another wise-woman, because you're certainly testing my patience.”
“As you command,” she murmured.
Comments
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