Alik'r Desert, 20th of Rain's Hand, 206 4E
Another three days through the desert and their prey was still eluding them. Yaman could see how the High Priestess was getting more irritated by every day - like a small runt already picturing the day it gets its first weapon but someone always snatches it away when it tries to reach for it.
But he understood what made her anxious. For him and the Third it was duty, this chase, but for her it was holy crusade. She was plagued by dreams, he heard her each night, rolling over in her tent, muffled screams. The High Priestess believes those dreams are sent to her by the Warrior. But are they? Yaman had to wonder. Each time they were getting closer to their prey the dreams stopped. The further they were the stronger the dreams were. Are they really sent by the Warrior or is it just her mind?
He suddenly snorted which prompted the High Priestess to look at him and scoff. He could almost feel what was going on in her head. The Ogre probably saw a rock and thought it was his relative. Something like that, no doubt. She wasn't hiding her opinion about him. He was just stupid Ogre to her, an Oaf. She clearly felt superior in every way in comparison to him. Not very penitent… he thought. But that's what he always did. Just thinking, not talking.
He wasn't stupid, at least not from his point of view if that matters, he just wasn't a big fan of talking. Words...Words were mostly pointless, just wasting of air. Actions spoke louder than words, that's what he learned when his mother took him to Everember Forge for the first time. There was so much noise, so much heat. Hammers constantly hitting red hot metal on anvils. No words. Only those spoken by the strength of the smiths shaping the metal into weapons and armor.
Vorkhim Lorak. Armored Bracer. One point of Trinimac's Triune, the pure representation of Orcish strength and endurance. He spent most of his life with smith-hammer in his hand, under the constant heat of Everember Forge. He wasn't stupid. He just didn't need to explain himself.
He saw how both the Third and High Priestess were slowing down each day, their bodies becoming weary of the long journey across the hot wasteland, but truth to be told, he didn't mind. This land of Redguards was somewhat close to his heart, calling to him. He felt like if he heard the Warrior in each breeze across the dunes, whispering to him. The heat...it wasn't that different from the forge. It was a harsh but beautiful land.
They got to the top of the dune and Yaman offered his hand to the High Priestess, to help her to the top. She took it, climbed up and continued ignoring him, almost like if she climbed to the top by herself. But Yaman got used to it. He looked to the distance and noticed something in there. For a moment he thought it was one of the desert's illusions, playing tricks on his eyes, but his companions saw it too.
Three figures, barely clothed, hiding in the shade of the rocks, hiding from the sun. And they noticed them too, he saw them getting up on their feet, steel of their weapons reflecting the sunrays. He looked at the Third and shielded his eyes. Not really difficult to spot us with the Vosh Rahk's armor shining like second sun…
“Bandits?” asked the High Priestess and Yaman saw how the Third was thinking about it. Very reserved, hesitant to jump to conclusions. So rare among our people… To Yaman those three figures looked like Redguards, but it was hard to determine if they were bandits. It was quite possible they were on the other end, just merchants being ambushed by bandits. He grumbled and picked his way down the dune, towards the figures.
He heard a chuckle of the Third behind him. “Yaman is right. We won't know until we meet them.”
“What a stupid idea,” murmured the High Priestess. “We should avoid them.”
“Maybe,” Yaman heard the screeching of metal as the Third shrugged. “But He passed through here. Maybe they ran into Him. We could learn more if we talk with them.”
Good point, Yaman thought as he was nearing the Redguards. He could have let them here, for us to find them. But what will be the outcome?
Three men of dark skin remained in the shadow of the rocks above them, with light behind their back, shining into Yaman's eyes, but he pressed forward. When he was nearly thirty steps from them he put all the supplies he was carrying on the ground, with all their water. He took only one waterskin with him and he noticed how the Third cocked his eyebrows at that, but then he mumbled something into his beard and nodded in approval.
Yaman's nostrils picked up their scent as he was getting closer. Sweat, dried blood, fear. Yes, even fear. Orcs' noses could pick up such scents from people. He stopped ten steps away from them and carefully measured them.
They were all lean but muscled, almost as if they were shaped by the desert itself. Two of them wielded shamshirs, thin curved swords meant for attacks from horse's saddle and the third was wielding a heavy scimitar. Their skin was brown with slightly red hue, burned from the sun, but their faces were gaunt with sunken cheeks and black circles under their eyes. Dehydration, frailty. They haven't had water in days.
“He said you would come,” said one of the Redguards, the one with the scimitar, taking a step forward. “That you would have plenty of water.”
“He?” asked High Priestess, anxious, taking a step forward, but the Third raised his arm with shield strapped on it and stopped her. She threw him a look and he shook his head.
“Yes,” the Redguard replied and licked his lips. “The Orc in black.”
Yaman exchanged looks with the Third and nodded. The bigger Orc raised the water skin which had enough water for three people for at least few days if they would be thrifty.
“That waterskin is yours if you tell us everything,” the Third said. “Every detail.”
The Redguards looked at each other and silently murmured something between themselves. Then the one with scimitar turned back to the Orcs and smirked. “What is stopping us from taking the rest, Orc?”
Again that screeching sound as the Third shrugged. “We are. We need it more than you.”
The Redguard grinned and nodded. “That's fair. Alright, we have a deal.”
“Start talking then,” the High Priestess barked and Yaman gritted his teeth. So smooth…
“It would be easier if I could wash the dust from throat with little bit of water,” the man licked his lips and Yaman looked at the Third who frowned, his eyes measuring the Redguard, calculating.
“Don't turn away from those in need,” the Vosh Rahk murmured and nodded to Yaman.
The bigger Orc shrugged and looked at the Redguard. “Catch,” he rumbled and threw the waterskin their way. The leader dropped his scimitar and easily caught the waterskin, hastily cracking the cork and took a proper sip into his mouth, then handing it to his comrades. He held the water in his mouth, swallowing small doses. Drinking water too quickly can do more harm than good in the desert. It was clear these men were the children of the mighty Alik'r.
“Well?” the Third insisted and man licked his lips in delight and then sighed. He measured the waterskin, how much water was left in it and nodded in satisfaction.
“We stumbled on him not far from here,” he said and pointed to south-east. “Barely walking, dehydrated, clothes torn. He was delirious when we found him, mistaking us for one of Alik'r's illusions. Not many travelers this far south and he stumbled into our people’s territory. All we wanted was a toll and we would let him go on his way. He had no water on him, but that wasn't our problem. He had plenty of other valuable things. That staff looked enchanted and plenty of knives too.” He licked his lips again, eyeing the supplies on the ground behind the Orcs and shook his head. “We had no idea he was one of them. Dancers with the shadows,” the Redguard spat on the ground. “His shadow twitched and dark magicks extended towards us, draining us of our strength, our vitality. We fell from our camels and he took all our water, our clothes and the camels and fled to south-west. But he left us our weapons, saying that you would come, with plenty of water.”
Shadowcasters, Yaman growled in his mind and exchanged disturbing looks with the Third. Shadowmages. Fools dabbling in dark magicks that always twist on them. Blight of the Hammerfell-Skyrim-High Rock borders, having as bad reputation as necromancers. He learned new tricks…
“That's all?” the Vosh Rahk asked. “Did he say where is heading or anything like that?”
The Redguad shook his head. “Nothing like that. He didn't talk much. Except swearing. He was swearing a lot.”
Sounds like Him…
The Third nodded. “Thank you, Redguard. I wish you safe travel.”
Yaman watched the Redguards lay the waterskin on the ground and frowned. He saw them eyeing their supplies.
“We could take you to our people,” the Redguard said. “Just few days away from here, with that water you have it shouldn't be a problem.”
The Third narrowed his eyes and Yaman saw his hand moving to the hilt of his sword at his side. “We thank you for the offer, but our path takes us in a different direction.”
“Shame,” the Redguard said and picked up his scimitar. “We need that water.”
“We need it more,” Yaman growled and he saw how the Redguards hesitated when he reached for his mace.
“Then there is no other option,” the Redguard murmured.
“Sadly not,” the Third replied and pulled out his sword. “May Trinimac judge you fairly.”
“May Tu'whacca have mercy on your souls,” the Redguard replied and then his companions pulled out knives from behind their back.
“Stand back, High Priestess!” the Third shouted and then the knives were thrown their way. No, not their way. Yaman's way. Always the first target… He managed to deflect one knife with his mace but the other ended up in his right arm right above his elbow and the pain made him drop his mace. Hot blood smeared his forearm and he looked at it, with surprise and astonishment and when he raised his eyes he saw two Redguards with shamshirs.
The first one that got to him swung his sword at his bare torso, but Yaman surprised him - as many other opponents before him. People always had hard times to expect a big lumbering creatures to be fast, but some were.
He stepped into the swing, using his long arms to his advantage, his left hand blocking the Redguard's swordarm at wrist and then he swung his fist. But the Redguard was fast too, he ducked under it and his shamshir then left a deep wound on Yaman's thigh. He roared in pain and before the Redguard could get out of his reach he grabbed him by his shoulder and spinned.
He threw him right into the path of the next Redguard who dodged to a side, but that one second made him lose his balance and Yaman with rage in his eyes reached him before he could raise his weapon. Yaman's fist hit him right between the eyes and the big Orc could hear the nose break. The Redguard's eyes rolled in dizziness and Yaman's left fist sent him to the ground in a spray of blood and teeth.
The other Redguard was getting back on his feet and Yaman growled. He quickly hobbled towards him and stomped on his arm. The bone broke like a dry twig and the Redguard screamed in pain, suddenly stopped by Yaman's boot hitting his temple.
Yaman looked at the wound on his leg, on the blood pouring down his thigh and sat down, the leg no longer capable of carrying him as the rush expired. He saw the Redguard with the scimitar on his knees, vainly trying to stop his intestines from spilling out of his belly. There was a shock written all over his face, right along with pain and disbelief.
“How could this happen to me?” he heard people asking often, right after their body was violated by cold steel. The strange sensation of steel puncturing skin, flesh and bone which threw people into shock. The astonishment, the realization of how vulnerable the body is. So fragile... Mortal.
The Third was standing over the Redguard who raised his eyes to the Orc in gold armor, his eyes clearly asking “why?” but there was no clear answer to that. Not when violence and primal instincts took over and he looked at the Third with the High Priestess standing closely behind him. There was hesitation and sadness in the Third's eyes, reluctance. He saw the Redguard was in pain, dying, but he didn't want to cut him down. Yaman saw that and he understood.
Easing one way's off the world is an honorable notion, but...more often than not it felt more like execution. Murder of someone who can't defend himself. But the man could suffer for hours until his soul passed to Far Shores or whatever afterlife Redguards believed in.
The Third sighed and raised his blade. “The righteous stand before the darkness and the Warrior shall guide their hand,” he murmured and then swung his sword, opening the Redguard's throat and stepping to the side to avoid the geyser of blood spraying from the opened artery.
Yaman heard rumors about the Third, about his Gauntlet. They said that he might actually be even better than the First, who was the mortal weapon of the Warrior, his first blade. They could have been just rumors...or not.
The Thirds bloodshot silver eyes gazed towards Yaman sitting on the ground next to the unconscious Redguards and frowned when he saw knife protruding from Yaman's arm and blood pouring from his thigh. “They're alive?” he asked and Yaman nodded. The Third lowered his head in respect and turned to High Priestess. “Would you be so kind and pray to Trinimac for some healing? For Yaman.”
She bared her tusks at him and looked at Yaman with disgust. “Why is that everytime something like this happens he's injured?” She walked towards Yaman and sneered. “You're too dumb to dodge the blades?” She pointed at one of the shamshirs lying on the ground. “Those things hurt. Cut. Cut is bad.” She pulled the knife out of his arm without any warning and he had to suppress a painful cry.
Instead he just nodded when she crouched in front him and her hands began to glow with golden light, easing his pain. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the light of Trinimac pouring into his body, basking him in His comforting warmth.
He heard shuffling of a body being dragged over the sand and opened his eyes to see the Third dragging the still breathing Redguards to the shade under the rocks. He checked their injuries and looked at the broken forearm of one of the Redguards. He then went back to Yaman, took the bloodied knife from the ground and went looking for the other one. When he had both of them he started making a splint for the Redguard's arm.
“They are going to die anyway. Why bother?” the High Priestess barked and the Third looked at her.
“Because this is an honorable thing to do. I'm giving them a chance, just like Trinimac is always giving a chance to us.”
Yaman just shook his head. She won't understand. The reason why Yaman got hurt was because he was trying not to kill them. Because everyone deserved a chance, just as the Third said.
The Priestess shook her head in disbelief and continued healing Yaman's injuries.
“Water that was for three men is now for two. Their odds at survival increased,” the Third murmured and kneeled beside Yaman, looking to the south-west, the direction their prey escaped. “He has camels now and plenty of water. He will do anything to stop us from catching up with him.”
“No one can outrun fate,” the High Priestess whispered, but they both heard her loud and clear.
“Where do you think He's heading?” the Vosh Rahk wondered. “Sunkeep? Chasetown? They're hardly worth mentioning, no port there. Dragon Grove? He would have to cross the mountains. The only reasonable choice is Hegathe.”
The High Priestess paused and raised her eyebrows in surprise. “But that's directly across the desert, all the way down to the south.”
“It's the only port. If He gets there before us he could get on a ship and we'll lose our only chance how to track him.”
Crossing the desert. He's hell bent on shaking us off or dying in the process.
He's scared. But so are we.
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