The Cursed Tribe - Chapter 14

  • Chapter 14

    Foreign Land I

     

    The landscape of western Morrowind seemed to be a creation of nightmares with its towering mushrooms, strange dead trees with bare sharp branches, with eerie glowing ropes hanging from them, reaching for anyone who got too close. Then there were the flowers, glowing in the night, swinging in a non-existent breeze, and snapping at those passing them. Of course there were more familiar flowers and trees in this landscape, but they were scarce among all these alien and dangerous oddities of nature.

     

    And if the land hadn’t been strange enough, its wildlife would change everyone’s mind about that matter. Bipedal reptilian creatures with no tails and massive jaws that could snap its prey in half were more than common in that strange wilderness, mostly known as Alits. Of course there were more variations of these alien beasts such as Guars or Kagouti. They were mostly docile unless provoked, which indicated they were not at the top of the food chain. Apparently, the Nix-Hounds - wolf-like reptilians that didn’t eat their prey but sucked them dry - were the most common predators preying on the Alits and their cousins.

     

    Then there were the insectoid creatures such as the Kwama, which mostly kept underground, but there were also those that stalked the land above ground. Ash Hoppers and fire beetles called Shalks were the most common, just as the jellyfish-like Netches floating above ground.

     

    No matter how many times Yamarz visited this mind-twisting land called Morrowind he was still amazed by it and at the same time afraid of it. This wasn’t his land.

     

    It belonged to the Dunmer - the warriors from Adal Matar called them Redoran - and he always struggled to believe how anyone could survive in such an alien world. Everything there was hostile, from the wildlife to the flora and if those weren’t trying to kill them the falling ash constantly spewed from the massive volcano in the distance was, which was why their faces were constantly wrapped with cloth because they have already seen several of their warriors go sick from inhaling the ash for too long.

     

    In a way this place wasn’t that different from some plane of Oblivion in Yamarz’s opinion and even though he came to dislike the place, he couldn’t but respect it. It was them who were the interlopers there and the earth itself was trying to slow them, stop them or kill them.

     

    It’s a test, the chieftain of Largashbur thought. This has to be one of Malacath’s trials, an opportunity for us to prove our worth.

     

    Of course, not everyone shared this sentiment. Most kept bellyaching and that made them weak in Yamarz’s eyes. It hurt to see even few of his own warriors to be among those who complained, but he could take comfort in knowing that most of those were the old Orcs, impatient to meet their Good Death.

     

    They are going to meet it very soon.

     

    He and other leaders of their war party were hiding among the bone-like trees, their armor covered with ash as they kept low, watching a fort of beige stone in the distance. The walls were higher than four Orcs and only Malacath knew how strong, with four watchtowers at every corner of the fort. The main gate was made of black wood but Yamarz noticed a second gate in front of it, made of metal bars.

     

    From what Yamarz understood, this fort was there to protect the main trading route between Selethis and Cormaris, both built near the Drearis River of the north-western Morrowind. The river was pouring into the Sea of Ghosts in the north, not far from Blacklight.

     

    The Orcs’ raiding parties avoided those cities and other major settlements, because they lacked the numbers to even think about attacking such populated areas. So their focus was mainly on the guarding posts and forts along the trading routes and Drearis River.

     

    “The gate is too protected,” Snagam - the warchief’s son and de facto leader of their raiding party - suddenly broke the silence. “Even with a battering ram we wouldn’t be able to break through.”

     

    “And look at the ballistae on the walls,” another Orc spoke, dressed in a thick leather armor made from the hide of Netch. He was a son of one of the chieftains in Adal Matar, younger than Yamarz at least by ten winters. Barral was his name, the blue warpaint on his face indicating he was from the Merdul clan. “As soon as we come in a formation the ballistae will decimate us.”

     

    The Merdul were primarily hunters, coming from the area they were at now. They were one of the last clans chased out of Morrowind by the Dunmer. Yamarz couldn’t help but grit his teeth. The Merdul were excellent scouts and proficient hunters with bows and spears, but what did they know about laying a siege to a Redoran garrison?

     

    Yet he said nothing, because they spoke the truth and one didn’t have to be a master tactician to figure that out. While Orcs weren’t well suited for complicated tactics, they all learned at an early age how to defend their strongholds and that knowledge could be applied here. Only this time they were on the other side of the walls.

     

    “We will not attack in a formation,” Yamarz bared his tusks in the fort’s direction.

     

    Snagam gave him a look and sucked on the inside of his cheek for a moment. “Gro-Largash’s words carry wisdom,” he nodded. “The land offers very little cover and being huddled together would only make us an easy target. We will spread out, thus making it much harder for their archers and ballistae to wreak havoc among our warriors.”

     

    Yamarz was of the same mind. Of course, that more or less reduced the casualties from volleys of arrows or the ballistae but still, the enemy could pick them off one by one. Not all of them though, because Yamarz was confident his own warriors would be well protected by their orichalcum armors, just as Snagam’s warriors would be protected by the ebony armor - maybe even clan Timorr with their bonemold armor. But the others with their leather, chitin, fur and iron armors? Not so much.

     

    “And how do you plan on getting inside?” an older Orc grunted and Yamarz narrowed his eyes at him. This one was older than Yamarz, his head covered with a wild mane of greying hair, his face painted white. Most disturbingly, his black teeth had been sharpened to points, perpetually locking the Orc’s facial expression in a death’s grin. He was the chieftain of Ganush tribe, who were known for their fury in battle, and also the only other chieftain - beside Yamarz - present in the war party. All other chieftains had sent their sons in their place this year and that made Yamarz doubt their strength and ability to lead.

     

    “We could make ladders,” someone offered. That wasn’t a bad idea, but the problem was the ladders would only draw the enemy’s fire and someone pointed that out loud.

     

    “That’s why we’ll attack under the shroud of night,” Snagam said boldly.

     

    A silence fell on the war party’s leaders as they exchanged glances with narrowed eyes. They didn’t like the idea.

     

    “Are we supposed to hide in the shadows, stab our enemies in the back? That is not Malacath’s way,” the chieftain of the Ganush tribe growled dangerously.

     

    Snagam bared his tusks, staring into the chieftain’s eyes without flinching. “Who said anything about backstabbing? Look at the land before us, chief Tanash. Look at it!” he pointed at the plain of dry grass and ash covering it. “They would see us coming before we even got remotely close to the walls. But under the shroud of night we would get much closer before they notice us, reducing our casualties, and trust me, we will need every warrior once we get inside. That fort can house anywhere from fifty to more than one hundred Redoran fighters, and there’s just one hundred of us. We need to surprise them.”

     

    One hundred. One hundred Orcs, Yamarz wanted to say out loud, to remind them they weren’t some weak humans or elves relying on magic. They were a warrior race, and one Orc was worth more than three of those backstabbing grey-skins.

     

    But Snagam was right, even though Yamarz knew the warriors wouldn’t like this. Orcs were meant to charge into battle with fury and battlecries on their lips, invoking Malacath, not skulk through the dark in silence. What if Malacath won’t know where to look because there will be no warcry to get his attention? That would get the warriors worried.

     

    But once we get inside the fort… Malacath will know. Oh, he will know very well.

     

    “Chief Yamarz,” the warchief’s son glanced in his direction. “You and your warriors will attack from the south-”

     

    “Don’t command me, boy,” the chieftain interrupted him with a threatening growl. “You might be a warchief’s son, but I am a chieftain.”

     

    “Well said,” chief Tanash released a dry chuckle, his eyes honing on Yamarz. “Me and my warriors will attack the front of the fort from the West, and it would be an honor to have the Largash clan with us.”

     

    To deflect the arrows with our superior armor no doubt, Yamarz thought as he looked at the mix of fur and iron armor the chieftain of Ganush tribe was wearing. He never saw such poor metalwork from Orc smiths which must have shamed them in Malacath’s eyes, but the undeniable truth was that what the Ganush clan lacked in smithing skills was compensated by their prowess in battle.

     

    “Clan Largash is with you, Tanash,” he solemnly nodded.

     

    Snagam frowned, as if annoyed by the stubborn chieftains but he was lucky he didn’t object. “Very well,” he murmured, nodding. “Does anyone else have a preference?”

     

    None of the other leaders said anything, apparently quite comfortable with Snagam taking the lead. It wasn’t a surprise though, they were all sons, used to following their chieftains and from what Yamarz saw they all lacked a spine. Some of them were even as old as he was, but none of them challenged their chieftains. They all reeked of weakness.

     

    “Alright. Clan Timorr will attack from the north and clan Baktuf from the east. Me and clan Adal will attack from the south,” Snagam challenged Yamarz with a look, as if it really mattered where who will attack from. “The archers of Clan Merdul would be best used as support to all other clans. All agree?”

     

    They all grunted and nodded and chieftain Tanash patted Yamarz’s shoulder. “And whoever gets into the fort first can lay claim to the most precious treasure of all.” He grinned at the other leaders, baring his sharpened black teeth. “Glory.”

    Yamarz’s warriors didn’t take the news well, but he reminded them who the strongest was. If he said something his word was the law and whoever objected could bring their issues up to his fists. Luckily it didn’t came to that. So far he hadn’t given his warriors any reason to distrust his ability to lead.

     

    All of the Orcs that came with him from Largashbur were his family, tied to him by blood. Brothers and sisters, uncles and aunts and even few grand-uncles and grand-aunts - those who were not that much older than Yamarz’s father, the previous chieftain. But now, they were getting old and they came looking for their Good Death, not happy with spending the rest of their lives in the insides of the Largashbur mine.

     

    The oldest ones would be the first to scale the walls, drawing the attention of enemy and their blades, creating an opening in the defenses to buy enough time for the other warriors.

     

    Yamarz glanced at those closest to him, the brothers and sisters and his eyes rested on his older brother Dorung. He never understood why Dorung never tried to became a chieftain since he was the previous chieftain’s firstborn and had a headstart, but Yamarz was all the more glad for it. He probably wouldn’t be here if things went the other way.

     

    Of course, he still had to fight his other brothers for the right to challenge the chieftain and Malacath had been with him then, because quite clearly he was to be the chieftain and not one of his brothers. He had beaten them all in unarmed combat - because brothers fighting with weapons and killing each other would only weaken the tribe - and he had challenged his father for the right to lead the tribe.

     

    “Damn glorious night to kill us some fucking grey-skins,” one of the Orcs murmured in the dark, interrupting Yamarz’s thoughts, and he glanced in the warrior’s direction. It wasn’t one of his, it was one of the Ganash Orcs, his face painted white, his head bald and the first signs of stubble showing up on his jaws.

     

    “Couldn’t have put it better myself, runt,” chieftain Tanash chuckled and patted Yamarz on his shoulder. “Just look. We scared off even the moons.”

     

    Yamarz looked up at the night sky, which was hidden by clouds so thick they hid away even Masser and Secunda, casting the plain ahead of them in darkness. Their plan could work even better now, but it was worrying Yamarz a bit too. Running blind through the darkness… We could trip in the dark and break our necks before we even get close to the fort. Or the ruckus will alert the Redoran. And he didn’t even want to think what would happen if the Dunmer had prepared some nasty surprises on the plain, for invaders just like the Orcs.

     

    There was a strange howling sound coming from the distance, almost like one of the nasty Nix-Hounds, and not a second later Yamarz heard it from behind as one of the Merdul hunters answered to his brothers.

     

    An order to attack, Yamarz gritted his teeth, baring his tusks. He glanced over his shoulder, looking at the warriors behind him. Eighteen of them were from Largashbur and fifteen from the Ganash tribe, with four Merdul hunters. “Spread out,” he growled silently and then motioned forward.

     

    They started walking towards the fort, gradually increasing their pace. If it was up to Yamarz he would be already charging, but they need to allow the ones carrying the siege ladders to keep up with them.

     

    “Here we fucking go,” that crazy Orc from before chuckled in the night. “We’re coming, grey-skins, oh we’re fucking coming!”

     

    “Shut up, runt!” some female hissed at him.

     

    “You shut up, fucking cow!”

     

    “Enough!” chief Tanash growled, and that finally silenced them.

     

    But the night was far from silent. Yamarz could hear his own loud breathing and the constant clinking and creaking of his orichalcum armor, the same sounds nearly thundering from the Orcs all around him. It was near impossible to say how far that sound was carrying, especially if these kinds of sounds were coming from all the directions around the fort.

     

    There were nearly three hundred steps ahead of them to reach the fort. And with all this ruckus Yamarz doubted they would go unnoticed.

     

    They kept running, nearing the fort and Yamarz’s breath was quickening, the blood loudly pounding in his head as it began to boil with the bloodthirst coming on the verge of battle. He wanted to shout, to growl and to beat the axe against his shield, to let Malacath know he was charging into battle, ready to cut flesh and break bones. He was prepared to bring honor to Malacath and if he died, he would reach the Ashen Forge.

     

    They were two hundred steps away from the fort and he heard loud ringing of armor as one of the Orcs tripped in the night, followed by quiet cursing, but he didn’t allow himself to think about it. They just had to reach the walls, only that mattered. And then they could unleash their fury.

     

    So far the warriors around him did well, bottling up their battlerage, gritting their teeth as they suppressed their warcries that were clawing up from their throats, trying to bring courage to the Orcs and strike fear into the hearts of the Dunmer.

     

    One hundred feet and Yamarz could see movement on the walls. There were shouts coming from the fort and he bared his tusks.

     

    The night suddenly lit up as a bright ball of green flames rose from the fort, slowly climbing up to the sky, revealing the Orcs sprinting towards the fort. Yamarz blinked several times when the bright light blinded him for a moment and once his eyes adjusted he could see that the ball of flame was painfully slowly descending from the sky and he growled. The cover of the night is gone. They can see us now.

     

    Good. He opened his mouth and let out all the emotions he was bottling up until now. “Blood and bones!” he roared, banging with the axe on his shield. And the other Orcs joined him.

     

    A chorus of deep growls and roars echoed on the plain as the Orcs invoked Malacath.

     

    Then the arrows began raining down on them.

     

    There was whistling in the air and something hit Yamarz’s chest, ricocheting into the night, closely followed by another thud on his shoulder, but the orichalcum armor proved a tough shell to crack. An arrow scratched against his helmet and he lowered his head, protecting his face, while also raising his shield higher.

     

    A female of clan Ganash to his right was hit by an arrow into her thigh and then immediately by one into her chest but she kept running as if she hadn’t even noticed it and Yamarz grunted in respect. What Ganash tribe lacked in equipment they sure compensated for it with sturdiness and rage.

     

    A loud snap came from the walls and then a Yamarz looked from under his shield. A ballista on the wall had just fired an enormous bolt that’ve would put even the biggest Orcish hunting spear to a shame and it came whistling towards the Orcs. Yamarz watched its trajectory, quickly figuring out it wasn’t heading towards him and then landed with a loud thud several feet to his right.

     

    There was a surprised cry of pain as the bolt shredded one of the Largash warrior’s legs to pieces, making him drop the tip of the ladder he was carrying and Yamarz silently cursed. The ladder buried into the ground and the Orc in the back jumped to the side as the bolt carved a deep gash in the ground, nearly taking away his feet too.

     

    The chieftain of Largashbur quickly changed his direction, running towards the ladder. He spared a quick glance at the warrior groaning on the ground, recognizing his older brother Dorung. He gritted his teeth, more arrows whistling around as he hanged his axe on his belt and lifted the ladder. “Get the ladder!” he shouted at the Orc in the back, who nodded at him and grabbed the other side of the ladder.

     

    An arrow burrowed into the Orc's skull through his eye and he fell dead on the ground, the ladder once again hitting the ash. “Tusk!” Yamarz growled. “The ladder!” he shouted, trying to get the attention of the other warriors, and bared his tusks in anger. He began pulling the five-step-long ladder through the ash, keeping his shield raised to protect himself from the arrows.

     

    Fifty steps away from the fort and the ballista fired again, aiming for another ladder. The Orcs carrying it had barely enough time to dodge and the Redoran adjusted their aim, aiming for the ladder itself this time, completely shattering it while also ripping the warrior head’s off as the bolt bounced off the ground, blood splattering from the remains of the Orc’s chest.

     

    More arrows banged on Yamarz’s shield and then finally someone grabbed the ladder on the other side and he saw one of the Ganush warriors.

     

    “Move your fucking arse, chief!” the warrior shouted and Yamarz groaned, recognizing that irritating Orc. And so Yamarz moved his arse, letting the words slide for the moment. There would be time for answering insults later.

     

    As he neared the wall he noticed a flash of lightning to his right, coming from one of the watchtowers, and that lightning hit something on the southern side of the fort. It was closely followed by agonized screams of Orcs.

     

    “A mage!” someone shouted and Yamarz pointed at the watchtower, looking around, looking for the Merdul hunters.

     

    “Shoot at the mage!” he yelled even though he wasn’t even sure at who. But someone must have heard him since arrows were shot in the watchtower’s direction and Yamarz could see flash of magic as the mage raised some kind of protection.

     

    And then suddenly the green flames on the sky died out and they were all plunged into darkness.

     

    “Keep focusing on the mage!” he shouted, seeing it worked at keeping the mage occupied. The arrows rained all around him, but the Dunmeri archers were mostly shooting blind. “The ladders!” Yamarz kept coordinating the warriors even though he could barely see them.

     

    And then he was near the wall. He put the ladder down, burying the two metal tips into the ground. “Ropes!” The Orcs began rallying to his voice and soon there were ropes wrapped around the ladder and the warriors began pulling, overturning the ladder.

     

    He could see one of the old Orcs jumping on the ladder in the moment when it was standing straight and he began running over it as it began falling towards the wall. It hit the wall with a loud thud of wood hitting stone and-

     

    The night lit up again as another ball of green fire flew to the sky and Yamarz could see three ladders being raised. First went the old Orcs, and the Dunmer tried to push away the ladders with long poles with hooks on their ends, but the warriors who had helped lifted the ladders with ropes were now hanging on those ropes, keeping the ladders fixed in place.

     

    Stones were now raining down from the wall above them and Yamarz kept his shield raised, listening to that beautiful song of metal clashing, to the cries of pain and fury. Rock landed on his shield, pushing him down to his knees and he growled in anger. He couldn’t wait any longer.

     

    He headed towards the ladder, shield raised, and began climbing up.

     

    And the climb became one of the most difficult moments in his life. He felt as if he’d just put a large target on his back, that all eyes were set on him, and he could feel the arrows pound on his armor and shield. He was completely helpless, the ability to control his fate taken from his hands, and all he could rely on was sheer luck. But could one really rely on that fickle bitch?

     

    But luck was with him that day, because he managed to reach the ramparts and he pulled out his axe, jumping down on the wall with a battlecry on his lips. The beige stone under his feet was slick with blood and he stumbled over the corpses of both Orcs and Dunmer. But there were more dead bodies of the grey-skins than of his own kind and that left him feeling proud for his warriors. They were in the Ashen Forge now.

     

    The ramparts were no wider than two steps and the Orcs that managed to get to the top before him were pressing against the Dunmer trying to hold their positions. But the Orcs were constantly pushing them back, stepping over the dead bodies of the enemy, even though there wasn’t much room for a proper swing.

     

    One of the Orcs holding the line suddenly fell backwards with a sword in his skull, dragging its wielder with him. The Dunmer fell face forward on the ground behind the line of Orcs and Yamarz bared his tusks, stepping closer and stomping on his helmet. The strange bonemold material gave up and split inward, cracking the Dunmer’s skull and Yamarz then jumped forward, to close the gap.

     

    He rammed the closest Redoran with his shield and brought his axe down, burying it into the Dunmer’s shoulder, shattering the collarbone. Blood sprayed all over his face as he ripped the axe out and shield-bashed the grey-skin. As soon as the Dunmer fell on the floor he was replaced by another one.

     

    The enemy’s sword slid over Yamarz’s shield and landed on his helmet. The whole world began ringing after that blow, but the orichalcum held and the chieftain of Largashbur let out a furious battlecry as he hacked at the Dunmer in front of him. He moved forward, stepping over the corpses, and the Orcs followed, trying to keep up with him.

     

    A blow ripped the axe out of his hand and so he buried the edge of his shield into another Redoran’s face, then swung again and crushed his windpipe. He pulled out his other axe and began hacking at any grey-skin that came into his view, falling into the rhythm of blood and death, completely loosing track of time as his world shrunk into blocking with his shield and swinging with his axe.

     

    Someone grabbed him by his collar and pulled him back and he was about to rip the fool’s throat out, but through the red mist in front of his eyes he noticed it was chieftain Tanush. “Yamarz!” he shouted at him over the sounds of the battle.

     

    Yamarz shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts and looked around. The Orcs were swarming the ramparts, pushing the defenders back, and he could see the Dunmer retreating, heading for the garrison where they planned to barricade themselves. He could see that the other tribes had also managed to gain footholds on the walls, cutting through the Dunmer with brutal efficiency.

     

    Tanush’s face was covered with blood and disgusting gray mash that must have been a brain once, bits of it and even hair dripping from his warhammer.

     

    “They’re done! Malacath! Blood and bone!” the chieftain shouted, pointing at the watchtower and Yamarz looked up to see the Dunmeri mage impaled on three spears, his legs dangling in the air as the warriors that scaled the tower pushed him from the edge and let his body fall the fifteen steps on the ground.

     

    The green flames disappeared but the night was far from dark as the Orcs began setting the barracks on fire, while pillaging the other houses in the fort.

     

    Yamarz bared his tusks in a victorious grin as he grabbed Tanush’s shoulder. “We have pleased Malacath this night!” he shouted while looking around, at the warriors close to him. “Grab everything valuable! Weapons, armors, furs, even the tusking gold! The fort is ours!”

     

    The other tribes would now round up the civilians in the fort and put them in chains, but not Yamarz and his warriors. They weren’t slavers, they were true Orcs. They took things by force, but never someone’s freedom. But for the sake of this alliance they had to grit their teeth and look the other way.

     

    Malacath was surely pleased.

     

    But at what cost? Yamarz wondered as he glanced at the plain where his older brother fell and he was sure he wasn’t the only of his warriors that passed into the Ashen Forge today.

     

    The pyres would burn bright that night.

    Reflection. There were few things in the world as terrifying as one’s own reflection. This copy staring back with the same eyes and same expressions, faithfully copying every movement without a slightest delay. There were people who claimed that a mirror was a window into one’s soul, but the Dunmer archer who stared at his reflection in the mirror was of a different mind.

     

    Mirrors are doors into another worlds. Those staring back at us don’t have to be us, but someone entirely different, someone who’s fate greatly differs.

     

    One that was alive and one that was dead.

     

    But which is which?

     

    The tall Dunmer archer was standing in a simple war tent, the mirror hanging on the main pole. His bald head was glistening in the light of candles, his cleanly shaven face frowning at the reflective surface in front of him. His left eye was red with the fires of Red Mountain, but the other was milky white, blind. An unseeing eye, that sees everything that is not. There was a long scar over that eye, starting above his eyebrow and continuing down to stop at his cheekbone.

     

    Red and white. One bursting with life, one lifeless. The red of blood and fire, the white of pale death. Those were two extremes his vision kept shifting between. Neither and both. Ah, Lord Vivec, the irony is not lost on me.

     

    He could see his reflection in the mirror, staring at himself, but at the same time he could see through the mirror with his unseeing eye. And what did he see?

     

    A desolate and cracked landscape of hopelessness where every desperate thought crackles in the form of purple lightnings in the sky. A place filled with infinite despair and shattered towers floating in the hair and dark crystals looming over everything as intimidating guardians. Intimidating. Hmm. No. Solemn guardians. That sounds better.

     

    Vivec would surely approve of the wordplay.

     

    A scratch on the tent’s fabric interrupted his thoughts and he pulled his gaze away from the mirror. Someone cleared a throat outside and he opened his mouth, but only a faint rasp came out. He cleared his own throat, only now realizing how dry it was. How long had he been staring into the mirror? Hours? Days?

     

    “Enter,” he said, more resolutely now and the tent’s fabric parted as legs of a whore from the dark waterworks of Vivec City. A young Dunmer dressed in full Redoran armor entered and bowed, his raven like hair falling over his face.

     

    “My Lord,” he murmured with a hint of awe in his voice. “Green flames have been spotted over the Fort Avushal.”

     

    He was silent for a moment, glancing back to the mirror. “What is it with us and mirrors, Aranthos? We stare at our own reflections, completely mesmerized by every mimic the mirror reflects, by the light in our own eyes. Are we that vain? Is that what sets us apart from animals? Vanity?”

     

    “My Lord, the Fort-”

     

    “Or maybe what we see disgusts us, terrifies us. And so we stare into the distant world in the mirror, looking for confirmation of our self-condemnation, or for irrefutable proof of us being wrong about ourselves.”

     

    The only answer the second Dunmer gave was silence and that made the Lord turn his head to look at him. Captain Aranthos had lips pressed into a thin line, his head slightly bowed, waiting for his Lord to finish his musings.

     

    He sighed. “Very well. Pass the orders. We leave with first rays of sunlight. The enemy has been revealed to us and they shall meet Velothi justice, just as it was taught to us by Lord Boethiah.”

     

    The Captain bowed once again. “As you command, my Lord.”

     

    “Captain?” he said softly, stopping the young Dunmer’s retreat into the night. “I do not wish to be alone this night. Relay the orders and then come to me.”

     

    The mer hasn’t flinched even by a little. “As you wish, Saint.”

     

    Now the Lord flinched, grimacing. “Blind obedience doesn’t suit you, Aranthos. I am no Vivec and you are no man-wife. I shall not force myself on you as some Balmora thug.”

     

    “My Lord,” the Captain boldly looked up, staring right into his eye. “Your wish is my wish.”

     

    He narrowed his eyes and then he nodded. “Then I shall show you what has been shown to me by Vivec himself, a lifetime ago.” He paused for a moment, his sight drawn towards the mirror yet again, drawn towards the desolate plane on the other side. “Aranthos?”

     

    “Yes, my Lord?”

     

    “Remove that vain thing from my tent. No more reflections.”

     

     

     

Comments

4 Comments   |   The Long-Chapper and 6 others like this.
  • ShyGuyWolf
    ShyGuyWolf   ·  June 17, 2018
    cool
  • Caladran
    Caladran   ·  June 11, 2018
    Must have been painful for Yamarz not to shout war cries when they're approaching the fort.
  • The Sunflower Manual
    The Sunflower Manual   ·  June 10, 2018
    There's just something about seeing the carnage (kinda loose and disorderly, but still carrrnaaageee) of an Orc raiding party that appeals to one's more... primal side... no? Just me? Pff.



    Blood and bone! WRRRRRYYYYYYYYY!
  • The Long-Chapper
    The Long-Chapper   ·  June 8, 2018
    Oooooo, a cameo in the end as good as the Cameo in Solo: A Star Wars story. Fortunately for you, the rest of your story is also excellent, so Star Wars could learn a thing or two from you. :D