The Chorus of Fire, Part 4 - Followers

  • Part 4

    25th of Frostfall, 4E 204, Hammerfell, Southern Bangkorai

     

    Atuul kept staring ahead, watching the narrow walls of the ravine they were passing through, at the brown and grey stones smoothed out by the winds howling through the narrow space. This was still Hammerfell, but this area, this border between Southern Bangkorai and Craglorn regions, divided by the Dragontail Mountains, was basically nothing but rocky hills and grit under their feet, filled with ravines and canyons in between the jagged and smooth rock formations, only making this land harder to navigate.

     

    They had camped a short distance away from the burning town, after the Third found natural cover in one of these ravines and Atuul couldn’t help but notice he’d chosen a spot which wasn’t in a direct line of sight of the town.

     

    The girl had slept in Yaman’s arms, and slept throughout the whole night without a peep. Atuul envied her, because her sleep had been restless. Haunted even. By dreams and visions that shook her to her core.

     

    And now the girl was sitting behind Yaman’s neck, still not saying a word and the blasted ogre kept singing all the time. What was worse was that it seemed to be helping, because now and then the girl joined him, but not with words, but with humming.

     

    What was making the High Priestess angry about it was that the sound was actually pleasant to listen to. The girl was humming, the sound reflecting from the rocks of the ravine they were passing through and Atuul found herself listening to that sound, one could even say enthralled by it.

     

    The ogre was singing a familiar song, one Atuul had heard sung by the foreign bards in Orsinium’s taverns, and the girl accompanied him with her humming, which was doleful and sad and Atuul realized she was tilting her head to hear better, being drawn towards that sound.

     

    It was the strangest experience, for the ogre rarely spoke in long sentences but now the words were pouring from his mouth, low and rumbling, but the intonation was precisely on point, and along with the girl’s humming it drove right into Atuul’s heart.

     

    “I have seen the face of sorrow

    She looks away in the distance

    Across all these bridges

    From whence I came

    And those spans, trussed and arched

    Hold up our lives as we go back again

    To how we thought then

    To how we thought we thought then

    I have seen sorrow's face,

    But she is ever turned away

    And her words leave me blind

    Her eyes make me mute

    I do not understand what she says to me

    I do not know if to obey

    Or attempt a flood of tears

    I have seen her face

    She does not speak

    She does not weep

    She does not know me

    For I am but a stone fitted in place

    On the bridge where she walks

    I have seen the face of sorrow..."

     

    Yaman’s voice slowly trailed off and the girl hummed a last few tunes but then even she went silent. The ravine suddenly seemed to be devoid of all life, of all colour, now that the song ended and Atuul found herself wiping a single tear from her cheek, that was how enthralled by the song she was. She never heard it sung with such sadness, with such sorrow, as done by the most unlikely duo just now. She made sure no one saw how the song affected her, because even she was a bit surprised. It was as if something magical had just happened, as if the song itself was made of pure magic.

     

    She shook her head, clearing her thoughts.

     

    “Everything alright, High Priestess?” the Third caught up with her and she looked down, blinking rapidly, trying to mask her moment of weakness.

     

    “Yes,” she murmured, just now realizing how sore her throat was. She reached for the water-flask on her belt and took a proper swig, treasuring the sensation in her mouth. She poured a bit of the water on her finger and wiped her eyes with it. “Something fell into my eye,” she explained and looked at the Third.

     

    He knowingly smiled and nodded, and she couldn’t even be angry at him for that. He wasn’t patronizing her, he was merely being polite, even though from anyone else it would come out as patronizing. Just not from Trinimac’s Doubt.

     

    His words still haunted her thoughts, those he had said with the town burning in front of them and used to deliver an impact to his words. “Are we Orcs or Orsimer? Are we Orcs or…” What were they? What defined them as one or the other?

     

    She didn’t have to go far for the answer, because it was the dichotomy of Trinimac and Malacath that separated one from the other. But that was just a simplified answer, wasn’t it? They shared the same blood, the same appearance, but the real difference laid elsewhere. Difference. That was it. What said Orcs and Orsimer apart was if they were capable of making difference, of leaving their mark in the world as something other than savage beasts bringing nothing but bloodshed.

     

    She could see the Third’s point of view. How were they supposed to gain the acceptance and respect of the other races if they couldn’t stop acting like barbarians, spilling their own blood and everyone else’s blood just for the sake of honor and traditions? The Orsimer were supposed to be better.

     

    But what if there wasn’t any other way? They were all children of Trinimac, the Warrior-God after all. ‘Warrior-God.’ Back before she left Orsinium an argument had been raging in the Halls of Reflection, with the Third and the Second the most prominent voices - as always - but each on the opposite side. They were again trying to interpret the Book of Truth, the prime foundation of their faith.

     

    Trinimac stood for three primary virtues. Honor, Strength and Unity, sometimes being attributed with Truth too. But mainly those three virtues, yes. And it was interesting how these three concepts could give completely different meaning depending on their order.

     

    The Third was a staunch defender of the most popular: ‘Honor, Strength, Unity,’ with which most agreed. It was the mild version, the one saying that honor was first and foremost, that honor gave them strength. That united they were stronger than divided, and they were united in this honor. Now this interpretation was sometimes too close to the Stronghold faith, but the main difference was in the interpretation of honor itself, because for Trinimac’s order honor wasn’t a word tied directly to traditions as was the case with Malacath’s followers.

     

    The Second, on the other hand, Trinimac’s Wrath, proposed a change in these doctrines, a very subtle change of the sequence of the virtues, which on its own was so nuanced most people wouldn’t catch it. The Second proposed to change the interpretation into: ‘Strength, Unity, Honor.’ It was a very subtle change, but it did reflect the Second’s opinion that the Orsinium should be more expansive, not letting the humans or anyone else trample them back into mud.

     

    She wondered how that discussion fared now with Trinimac’s Doubt not there to dispute those opinions. Before she’d left the Second had been gaining more and more supporters…

     

    “High Priestess?” the Third’s voice pulled her out of her thoughts and she blinked several times, just now noticing they’d finally walked out of the ravine and she narrowed her eyes when she saw something she hadn’t seen in some quite time.

     

    Green.

     

    There was a forest ahead of them and she could see the blue right behind it, realizing it was a lake.

     

    “I’m sorry. My mind trailed off,” she murmured and looked at the Third again. “What were you asking?”

     

    He rubbed his beard, a concerned look on his face. “Is it what I had said earlier? My apologies, High Priestess, I didn’t mean to-”

     

    “No,” she stopped him with raised hand, her eyes for a moment darting towards Yaman and the little Altmer girl sitting behind his neck. The ogre was showing her his metal bracers, explaining what they meant and she kept nodding, even though she didn’t understand a word. She used that moment to collect her thoughts and was glad the Third didn’t press on her. “You were right, what you said. The questions you asked were on point, and I haven’t answered. But I will answer now,” she murmured, grasping her staff harder, looking the Third directly into his silver eyes with determination. “We are Orsimer and we should be better than them. The girl...you were right. It was the right thing to do.”

     

    He bowed his head slightly in humble thanks. “We do live in… turbulent times, High Priestess. Our direction isn’t clear and we squabble over interpretations of where we should go, but more importantly how we should go there. With our arms open and or with swords held high? I’m not so arrogant to claim that my opinion, my interpretation, is the the singular truth, but I do believe in this with my whole heart, just as you believe your own interpretation with yours. My role is to make sure that every opinion is heard and presented with a counterpoint of the opposite side, side that doubts it this particular point of view.”

     

    Yes, that was the role of Trinimac’s Doubt. Everything had to be balanced, everything needed someone to hold the mirror, to show the reflection. Yet a mirror could be impartial, which was something that the Third couldn’t be. But no one expected that from him, because what was a lantern without a fire burning inside, illuminating the way? Nothing but a cold box of glass.

     

    They were Orsimer. They talked with their hearts.

     

    But not a single heart was the same.

     

    “This is why this mission is so important,” she replied, looking into the distance. “Trinimac’s Order… we argue over semantics, and even though the order is structured as a triumvirate to make sure overzealous madman doesn't take over it, it makes us too indecisive. Every opinion is weighed for too long and we move nowhere. The King of Orsinium is held in check by the Trium and the Trium is held in check by the King and that gets us nowhere. We need our god to lead us.”

     

    He narrowed his eyes, mulling over his response before he finally spoke. “Do you really believe that Trinimac speaks through the prophet, High Priestess? My apologies, I do not wish to doubt your visions, but I have to. Ever since we had met the prophet… and after what we had seen in the town. I have my doubts, High Priestess. I am even scared. Is this Orsimer really the right person to lead us all? To interpret our god’s words?”

     

    She hesitated for a second, uncertain if she should speak about the last night’s dream. But they had the right to know. Truthfully, they had to know. “There will be no interpretations. Only the Warrior-God.”

     

    The Third frowned, clearly not understanding. She saw the question in his eyes and she sighed. “I had a dream last night. A vision. We had it all wrong.”

     

    “What do you mean, High Priestess? The prophet-”

     

    “I am the prophet,” she interrupted him and his eyes grew large at that bold statement. “This journey, this mission, it is me interpreting the visions sent by Trinimac. Does that not make it a prophecy? Does that not make me a prophet?”

     

    “High Priestess-”

     

    “No!” she growled, seeing that look on his face, the doubt and the concern. “I am not trying to usurp power, to make myself more than I really am. I am just stating the obvious. I am the prophet. But the Orsimer we are chasing is much more than that. Much much more.”

     

    He was clearly shaken by those words, unable to formulate a response at first. He was chewing his lower lip, which made his tusks more prominent and then he finally dared to ask. “What did you dream of, High Priestess?”

     

    She closed her eyes, recalling the image, and there it was, bright as day. “I dreamt of a room full of light. The walls were made of pure gold and the ceiling was carved out of crystal so clear it seemed as if there was no ceiling at all. The floor was lined with orichalcum and moonstone, intertwined. And at the other side of the room were steps, and at the top was a throne. To the left were the Penitent, to the right the Vorkhim Lorak and in the center, guardians of the steps, were the Vosh Rakh. The room was filled with Orsimer, but also other races, bowing towards the throne… And on the throne. The one we are chasing sat there. There was no crown on his head, but his eyes burned with radiance and those tattoos were emanating golden light. And he looked right at me and for the first time since I received this visions, I heard him. I finally heard his voice. It was a mere whisper, but it sounded like thunder to me.”

     

    “What did he say?” the Third asked, mesmerized by the description.

     

    “One word, Trinimac’s Doubt. One word.” She leaned closer, smiling. “‘Rakash.’”

     

    “Rakash?” the Vosh Rakh frowned and thought for a moment. “An old word, from the times of Torug. It means…” he paused and stared into the High Priestess’ eyes with shock. “Vessel.”

     

    She nodded. “Rejoice, Third. Our god will walk this world once again.”

    They walked through the forest, heading towards the lake with the High Priestess leading them. Yaman now carried the girl on his arm again, because the branches of the pine trees were quite low, but besides that they encountered no resistance. There were no bushes in this forest and Yaman enjoyed the shade and the temperature drop the trees offered.

     

    Though he kept glancing over his shoulder, checking on the Third, because the Vosh Rakh seemed uncharacteristically pale, as if he had seen a ghost. It surely had to do something with the discussion he and High Priestess had a few hours ago, back at the mouth of the ravine. He hadn’t hear the words, but he wasn’t blind. Something had shaken the Third to his bones and Yaman was afraid to ask about that. Because if something could scare the Third…

     

    The High Priestess kept stopping, always just for few seconds, and then kept walking towards the lake. Yaman always watched with narrowed eyes, somewhat uneasy about it. She could feel something they couldn’t, follow a track they couldn’t see, but he would be damned if he understood how that worked. All she explained was she could feel some kind of trace of magicka, but Yaman just couldn’t imagine it.

     

    Feeling something that wasn’t really visible… Maybe it was like air. One could feel air moving with his skin, so maybe she could feel this magicka in similar manner?

     

    He shrugged all of a sudden, which made the Altmer girl throw him a confused look. He smiled at her and shook his head, letting her know everything was fine. She pressed her lips into a thin line, her eyes looking right through him, into a distance of memories only she could she. He could merely imagine the flames of burning building in her eyes.

     

    She still hadn’t spoken a single word and most of the times she was lethargic, still reliving the horrors of the previous night. Did she watch her parents die? Did she see who did it? Those questions haunted Yaman and more importantly, there was one question that he wasn’t brave enough to ask even himself. Did the prophet do it?

     

    He shook his head, humming a sailor’s shanty he heard a long time ago. The songs seemed to be the only thing that made the girl forget at least for a moment about what happened, and she would often join him, humming like a little hummingbird. He could tell she had a beautiful voice, a sense for intonation, and he always felt strangely sad she wouldn’t speak a single word, wouldn’t sing a single tune.

     

    He knew that it would take his breath away. Everytime she started humming he found himself being drawn to the rhythm, being completely enthralled by the nuances of the sounds that were coming out of her throat and sometimes he even missed a step as he got so lost in it. He always had to find balance, confused for a moment, sad the humming stopped, but he knew she would start again.

     

    Yaman saw her eyes honing on his arms again, being drawn towards the ornamental bracers on his forearms and he smiled. He stopped, which surprised her and she looked at him with a hint of fear, not knowing what to expect. He put his mace on the ground, leaning it against his thigh, and began unstrapping the bracer on his right arm, eventually handing it to her.

     

    She took it with caution, her golden eyes wide with wonder and her fingers traced the lines and swirls of the ornaments. He smiled again, picked up his mace and started walking again.

     

    The Altmer looked at him, question in her eyes.

     

    “Vorkhim Lorak,” he said and she tilted her head, frowning. He had to force himself not to laugh out loud, because the way she did it was… so heartwarming. This exactly was the reason why everyone, every race, was equal. The children were all the same. He had seen this exact expression on his own daughter’s face so many times he could never forget it. The confusion mixed with irritation at their own inability to understand.

     

    The children. They were all the same. It was when they grew up that they started repeating the mistakes of those who came before them.

     

    “Vorkhim Lorak,” he repeated. “Armored Bracer.” He then pointed at the bracer and then at himself. “Vorkhim Lorak. Yaman.” She still didn’t understand and he narrowed his eyes. He then pointed behind him, at the Third, at his armor. “Vosh Rakh. Third.” Then he repeated the process with the bracer and himself.

     

    It wasn’t exactly easy to explain the factions of Trinimac’s Order when it was a mix of two languages, old Orcish and Tamrielic, with the girl speaking neither. But recognition flashed in her eyes and she nodded, but if she really understood that was completely different topic.

     

    The ground was covered with a bed of dry brown needles that fell from the trees, often hiding roots which Yaman sometimes tripped over. There was one he tripped over, nearly falling, and when he quickly regained his balance he cursed. “Crun zugra!”

     

    The girl couldn’t understand what it meant, but she clearly understood it was a curse and she slapped his shoulder with serious expression on her face, a clear rebuke if he ever saw one and he chuckled. She smiled too, but then suddenly her eyes misted again, as if she recalled something and the smile vanished from her face with nothing but a faint memory of it left behind. She absent-mindedly gave him back his bracer, losing all interest in it, and he frowned.

     

    And then they pushed through the low branches of the pine trees and found themselves on the shore of a massive lake. Yaman could barely see the other side, mostly seeing the mountains towering in the distance.

     

    “Somewhere here…” he could hear the High Priestess murmuring.

     

    The Altmer girl lightly tapped his shoulder, so lightly he barely noticed it and she pointed at something at the shore. He frowned and took a step closer and recognized the water, where it was meeting the mud, was strangely coloured. It was a tiny stripe of brown or… crimson.

     

    “High Priestess!” he raised his voice, pointing at the blood in the water.

     

    She bared her tusks and quickly began following it to the north, running alongside the shore. Yaman and the Third were right behind her and for a second they lost her from their sight, and then they heard her surprised scream.

     

    They increased their pace, following through the branches, Yaman shielding the girl on his arm and he abruptly stopped, because the shore was a bit higher than the water here. Merely a step below them was the High Priestess, standing in a shallow water and she was dragging something from the water.

     

    Something? Someone.

     

    An Orc in grey leather armor, pale as death, with handles of scissors protruding from his side.

     

    “Quickly! Start a fire and prepare bandages!” she growled as she kept dragging him through the mud, towards the dry ground. “He’s hypothermic and lost too much blood,” he heard her murmuring as he and the Third quickly started working on fire. He put the girl down on the ground and motioned for her to stay there.

     

    “One wound is shallow but the scissors… he’s lucky he didn’t pull them out but it might have poisoned his blood.” She then cursed and Yaman raised his eyebrows. “Idiot! He cast a healing spell on himself with the scissors still in his body.”

     

    The fire was now burning and Yaman hurried to help the High Priestess carry the Orsimer towards the flames. He put him on the ground and helped High Priestess unstrap the leather armor, but the scissors made it a bit more difficult and they had to eventually cut the sleeveless jacket.

     

    The wound around the scissors played with all colours from blue to black and the veins on his whole side were blackened.

     

    “Can you save him, High Priestess?” the Third asked with a dull voice, almost as if he was afraid of her answer. But which answer?

     

    “Let’s hope so,” she murmured and set out to work.

    He didn’t sleep. He didn’t eat. He didn’t even stop, not even for a moment. At first he was running but very soon he slowed into a walk. The last night’s run exhausted him far too much apparently. His feet felt as if they were on fire but still he walked. His flask was nearly empty and so he was saving his water, taking one or two sips then and now while still walking.

     

    The land here was treacherous and difficult to navigate, thus even more difficult to track someone in it. The grit everywhere was making things quite difficult and so he had to keep an eye out for spots where the dirt wasn’t covered by it, to look for footprints there. And he managed to keep on track, guessing they weren’t too far away now. He was slowly closing on them.

     

    He reached the pine trees forest and that’s where the things got much easier, and the tracks also told him that those three survivors - or whoever they were - were walking at an impressive pace. Yes, walking, they weren’t running, but he managed to recognize they were in some sort of a hurry. Saving their strength, but also trying to get somewhere as fast as possible.

     

    His mind kept racing back towards the burning town, back towards his family. Part of him still hoped, but part of him just couldn’t. His mind was split into two halves, one clinging to the hope they could still be alive, they could be the survivors he was following, but the other one just kept repeating they weren’t, that sooner he accepted the sooner he could finish this.

     

    Yes, the other part taunted him. Telling him to lie down and just finish what he wanted to do back at Azra’s Crossing. Just lie down, take out the knife and end this, end the curse, and be with his family in the afterlife. It would be so easy.

     

    But he had to be sure.

     

    The land around him only reminded him how he had missed the mighty desert. Of course his bloodline was not of Hammerfell, but he grew up among the tribes of the Alik’r. His mother had told him that after they had been stripped of the titles and privileges they scattered into all corners of Tamriel, as far away from the Empire as they could, and his ancestors found a sanctuary in Hammerfell.

     

    The first refugee of their family became a caravan guard on the western coast, travelling between Chasetown, Sunkeep, Abibon-Gora and Kelps Yat. Of course, his ancestor still tried to cling to his heritage, too prideful to let it go, and so his wife was an Imperial too. Their son then became a sailor or a pirate - he didn’t remember precisely - who sailed on the ship roaming the Illiac Bay. He vaguely remembered he ended up in High Rock somewhere.

     

    Rhavhyn’s mother told him that it was her grandfather that moved back to Hammerfell, the blood already too diluted for anyone to know who he really was and he became a trader in Sentinel. His daughter then married a tribesman of the Kotu tribe which roamed the northern edge of Alik’r and since Rhavhyn was born into the same tribe they must have lived a happy a life. At least for a time.

     

    But the curse always came to collect its toll. Eventually, everyone brought some kind of disaster on themselves and those around them. Rhavhyn always thought it was nonsense, but now…

     

    The Dominion had come when he was young and he remembered that his mother kept saying it was the curse coming for them, that they had again brought chaos to Tamriel, but Rhavhyn didn’t believe her. It was too far fetched. How could they be the cause of the Aldmeri Dominion invading Hammerfell? Dominion…

     

    His feet shuffling on the sand, his hands sweaty and the pommel of his sword slipping in his hand. Drops of sweat running down his forehead, stinging his eyes, the scorching light of the sun blinding him.

     

    Her blonde hair waving in the wind, her hands on her sword firm. They both breathed heavily. His pants were soaked with blood, filling his right boot, as he struggled to even stand. Her armor dented and falling off, the leather straps cracking in the heat.

     

    She was better than him, much better. He knew he would die. He tried to summon the winds of Alik’r to his help, but he was too exhausted for that and when he managed to squeeze a bit of magicka into her own magicks managed to easily counter his.

     

    She charged and he muttered a silent prayer to Tava and Tu’whacca, ready to meet them both very soon. He raised his sword, and she swung hers-

     

    He blocked-

     

    And her sword broke.

     

    He was lucky. In more ways than one-

     

    He shook his head, not wanting to remember such things right now.

     

    There was still light, he had at least few hours before the sun set completely, but the forest around was slowly going dark, the shadows lengthening. And from between the trees he could see the light of a campfire, and soon he could even smell the smoke. A delightful scent of something roasting reached him and he could feel himself salivating, his stomach rumbling, just now finally realizing how hungry he really was.

     

    And he could hear humming.

     

    His knees nearly gave up in the moment as he stumbled into a clearing between the trees, stumbled towards the campfire.

     

    First thing he noticed was there were three Orcs - no, four, the Orc he had seen in the town, was lying on the ground, his eyes closed and skin pale, his chest bandaged. A female Orc was leaning over him, but she sharply turned around when Rhavhyn stumbled out from under the branches. He sensed magicka awakening around her, her eyes blazing with golden light-

     

    To her right was an Orc in heavy golden armor, and Rhavhyn didn’t even see him draw out his single edged sword, so fast he was.

     

    A twig snapped to Rhavhyn’s right and the biggest Orc he had ever seen in his life walked from under the shadows of the branches, a mace as big as Rhavhyn in his hands.

     

    “You can’t have him,” the Orc in the armor spoke and Rhavhyn blinked, confused. “We can’t let you take him, he’s too important for us.” The Redguard realized he was talking about the injured Orc, and he shook his head.

     

    His heart sank. These weren’t survivors of Azra’s Crossing. This wasn’t his family. It must have been just wishful thinking, his mind playing tricks on him-

     

    A small form stepped into the light and his heart stopped as he glanced at the Altmer girl. “I’m not here for him,” he said, his voice hoarse. His next words weren’t completely true because he couldn’t know, but part of him had always hoped.

     

    “I came for my daughter.”

     

     

    Author's Note: The song used in this chapter is called Lay of the Bridgeburners by Toc the Younger from Steven Erikson's Malazan Book of the Fallen. 

Comments

3 Comments   |   Caladran and 3 others like this.
  • The Long-Chapper
    The Long-Chapper   ·  August 16, 2018
    I was so enthralled by this chapter that I totally chatted with Karver on steam with all my praise instead of saying something here. Let me rectify. I want Yaman and Albee to have lunch together. I believe they are secret twins. Also, good call on the pri...  more
  • Justiciar Thorien
    Justiciar Thorien   ·  August 16, 2018
    Yaman and the girl are so sweet. And it's nice to see the perspective of the High Priestess, it appears like she does have some heart after all. Cool that this Redguard guy is the girl's father, they both still have family. But what in Oblivion happened i...  more
  • Caladran
    Caladran   ·  August 16, 2018
    Interesting, now that they caught up with Grulmar. Yaman and the Altmer girl are so endearing to read.