Chapter 7
The great moonstone gates of Tsukikage never creaked. Spells woven into the hinges kept them smooth and ready to swing open in a second.
The gates had barely parted before Jorra flitted through, impatient. He nodded briefly to Kenshiki and Gingaki, not breaking his stride. The wind ruffled his fur as he sped into the village.
‘Jorra-jo, welcome back,’ Kenshiki called.
‘My, he’s in a hurry,’ his companion remarked dryly. ‘Dying for a proper meal after a year away from home, I’d wager.’
‘The eatery is the other way. Off to check on his plant, more likely. It should be budding soon.’
Jorra slowed as he approached the nursery and he kicked himself. Harrow and Ambarro were no longer younglings under Dejira’s care. The kits of Year 182 were being trained seriously now. How time flies. Jorra shook his head, turning south.
A drop melted off an icicle and landed on his whiskers as he paused outside the paper doors of the dojo, wondering how much the two had grown. They were six now, Ambarro almost seven. In another five years they would have to take on their first official assignments.
Jorra brushed the icy water off his cheek and went inside. The distinctive thumps and swishes of martial arts practice reached him then, and he winced in sympathy as he heard a familiar voice bark out instructions. Master Mokko was one of the finest hand-to-hand combatants in the village, and no one was better suited to train new generations of shinobi in close quarters combat. He was also an unforgiving taskmaster who believed that the only thing better than beating your lessons into your students was letting your students beat them into each other.
‘Rinka, get your nose seen to. Try not to bleed so much on my floor. Very impressive, Diia. Next – Shiyo and Io. Take your places… and begin!’
He opened the sliding screen to the training hall, just in time to see a flurry of fists, kicks and elbow strikes erupt in the middle of a circle of young Po’ Tun in white tunics. A shinobi with steel-grey fur stood over them. His face is as stern as ever. Mokko nodded at Jorra without smiling, then motioned for him to sit in the corner.
A crème-furred kit made the mistake of looking at him, and a split second later a fist crashed into his jaw. His head rocked backwards as he flailed, trying to recover his balance, and his black-spotted opponent followed his uppercut with an elbow to the chest. There was a crack, and the kit tumbled to the floor, clutching at his ribcage.
‘Never allow yourself to be distracted, Shiyo. A mistake like that could mean your death in battle,’ Mokko admonished as the spotted youngling helped his partner to his feet. ‘Take him to the infirmary. And well-fought, Io, though your form leaves much to be desired.’
Io bowed, slinging Shiyo’s arm over his shoulder, who nodded as best he could with a broken rib. They limped out of the dojo, Io patting Shiyo lightly on the back and murmuring words of encouragement.
Well, I see they’re getting along well, Jorra thought. I wonder if those other two are doing any better…
Then he noted Ambarro’s flinty glare and sighed to himself.
Mokko seemed to read his mind. ‘Next – Harrow and Ambarro.’
Ambarro leapt to his feet, grinning and cracking his knuckles. He pointed at Harrow and then drew a claw across his throat. ‘I practiced for three straight days after our last match. You won’t beat me this time.’
Harrow stood slowly, his eyes cold, a hint of a sneer around his lips. ‘If you say so, dunce.’
Jorra shook his head. The boys were practically nothing like their parents. Kodi and Verra had both been quiet and studious. Their son was the exact opposite, a loud and boastful prankster. Much like Arngrimur, he mused. Harrow had inherited his mother's intelligence, at least, but little else other than her hair. Certainly not her genial nature.
He turned his attention back to the centre of the group. Ambarro was bouncing on the balls of his feet, the very picture of confidence. Harrow stood a hop from him, straightening the belt on his tunic. They stared at each other until Mokko snapped, ‘Boys! Manners!’
Harrow bowed, tilting his head mockingly. Ambarro crossed his arms, his lips drawn tight.
‘Begin.’
Ambarro started his leap even before the last syllable dropped, his foot whipping through the air as he brought it in a semicircle over his head.
Jorra nodded appreciatively. He’s grown faster.
Harrow sidestepped almost lazily, and the crescent kick brushed past his sleeve. Ambarro spun as he landed, his leg an arcing hook. Harrow simply leant backwards, and the blow tousled his hair.
Ambarro didn’t let his momentum go to waste, however. Completing his spin, he lashed out with his fists, aiming for the sternum and the collarbone.
Harrow’s eyes narrowed. He contorted his body forwards, his left arm outstretched. Ambarro’s first punch met empty air and a snag on Harrow’s tunic. His second connected with Harrow’s arm at an angle. Shifting, Harrow grabbed Ambarro’s wrist, twisting it.
Ambarro whirled sideways along with his hand, pulling Harrow into a headbutt. Harrow used his free hand to push his head back, exposing his throat.
As Harrow formed a spear with four fingers, Ambarro ducked his head into his chest and tried to knee him in the stomach. The spearhand became an open palm as Harrow intercepted the attack. Releasing Ambarro’s wrist, he followed his block with a knuckle strike to the crook of his arm. Ambarro flinched as his right arm went numb.
Harrow weaved between three more clumsy blows and finished his open-palm strike on Ambarro’s sternum, lifting the black Po’ Tun into the air and sending him skidding to Mokko’s feet.
‘Harrow wins as usua-’
‘Not just yet!’ Ambarro leapt to his feet straight into an uppercut, his eyes fixed on Harrow’s chin.
Jorra shook his head again. The kit was telegraphing more and more as he lost control of his temper. Harrow skipped backwards to avoid the uppercut, dodged a sidekick, somersaulted over a vicious hook and chopped him once in the side of the neck. Ambarro stiffened and collapsed.
Mokko had just opened his mouth to speak when Ambarro pushed himself upright, swaying slightly.
‘We’re… not done here…’ He panted as he sprinted towards Harrow.
The black-haired child snorted in derision. Then he swept out his leg, tripping him, and lifted it over his abdomen. Ambarro rolled to the side at the last moment, and Harrow’s foot thudded into the wooden floor. He tried a chop of his own to the knee, but Harrow simply drew his leg upwards and the blow passed under him. Ambarro’s breath whooshed out as Harrow fell on him with an elbow, and he curled into a foetal position, his head resting against the cold wood.
There was a brief moment of silence, then Master Mokko spoke.
‘And to Harrow goes the victor –’
He stopped in astonishment. Ambarro had clambered to his feet. Even from the other end of the dojo Jorra could see him shaking.
‘Not… if… I… have… anything… to say about it.’ His voice was ragged. He staggered forward, assuming a rough combat stance. Then he coughed and dropped to one knee.
Harrow rolled his eyes, and that was when Ambarro struck.
His fist landed just above Harrow’s waist. The elf grunted, and another fist dug into his cheek.
He wasn’t half as hurt as he looked, Jorra realised. Or as stupid.
Anger flashed in Harrow’s sharp features for the first time. He ducked under a third blow, jabbed Ambarro in his deadened right arm, formed a fist himself and backhanded him across the temple. Then he grabbed Ambarro by the back of the head and kneed him thrice in the face.
Harrow released his grip on his last strike, and Ambarro cartwheeled a hundred and eighty degrees backwards. He landed headfirst and crumpled into a heap, unconscious.
Mokko knew serious injuries when he saw it. Frowning, he bent over the immobile kit and pressed a hand against his forehead, Regeneration magic flowing from his fingertips. Torn skin and fractured bones knitted together, and Ambarro’s body relaxed.
‘That was quite excessive, Harrow,’ Mokko’s voice was dispassionate. ‘Did you mean to kill Ambarro?’
‘Tch.’
The martial arts master studied his only unfurred student for a while, his face expressionless. Then Ambarro stirred and rose again.
‘Alright,’ he slurred. ‘Let’s go –’
‘Sit down,’ Mokko said wearily. ‘The match is over.’
‘But –’
‘Sit.’
‘Yes master.’ Subdued, Ambarro sat, refusing to meet Harrow’s eyes.
‘I think that’s enough for the day. Practice your kata and pay extra attention to footwork. Train with your dummy if you have free time. Dismissed.’
The shinobi-in-training stood as one and bowed, then exited the dojo one by one. Harrow glanced at Jorra for a moment, then looked away just as quickly in distaste as Ambarro ran towards him, shouting, ‘Uncle Jorra, welcome back!’
Chuckling, Jorra rubbed Ambarro’s head affectionately. ‘It’s good to be back, young one. You’re a few inches taller than I remember. Quite a bit faster, too.’
‘I run three laps around the village every morning,’ the kit said proudly. ‘And I trained so hard I broke six of my dummies. I’ll be able to pound that Harrow into the dirt next time.’
‘Good luck with that,’ Jorra said, scratching his head awkwardly. ‘I’m sorry, Ambarro, but would you mind letting me and Mokko-do talk in private?’
Ambarro pouted, but did as he asked.
‘How you manage to juggle the two of them I’ll never know.’ Master Mokko massaged the bridge of his nose. ‘Oil and water doesn’t begin to describe their relationship.’
‘They have more in common than you might think.’
‘Most rivals do. On the surface, however, they might as well be sun and moon.’
‘Even the sun and moons are more alike than rhetoric would imply… but I’m not here to debate philosophy. I see Harrow’s training proceeds well.’
‘The boy learns extremely quickly when he puts his mind to it. He spends most of his time reading instead of training, but yet still manages to execute moves almost instinctively. Quite a natural, our young elf.’
Jorra raised an eyebrow. Mokko did not often gave praise so freely.
‘And Ambarro?’ He allowed a slight chill to creep into his voice. ‘Do you still find him as slow on the uptake now that you’re actually teaching him?’
‘Still angry about my remarks, I see. That was quite a while ago, Jorra-jo.’
‘No child is completely useless or without some form of talent,’ Jorra said, looking hard at Mokko. ‘Let alone one who improved as quickly as Ambarro.’
‘I won’t deny it; the boy has potential… but his obsession with Harrow clouds his focus. He has no control over his emotions at all, and often acts without forethought. A brash Shadeclaw is a dead one.’
‘He’s only six,’ Jorra said defensively. ‘He has plenty of time to mature.’
‘I would not bet on it,’ the instructor muttered. ‘I have Year 180 coming for a session in a quarter-hour. If you’ll excuse me, I must meditate.’
‘A pleasure as always, Mokko-do.’ Jorra bowed and left.
The Jade Iris was a plant only found in a single part of Hammerfell, so named for its distinctive green hue. It was a rare flower, and difficult to find, as it grew in patches of long grass and even among the leaves of tall trees. The Iris was one of the plants in Tamriel most infused with magic. It fed only on Magicka, and required a staggering amount of it to grow.
The Iris had no signature scent and did not draw insects, and Jorra had only managed to find it with a spell that he devised himself… which also seemed to attract lightning bolts, for some reason. He smiled ruefully, and smelled the healer’s bed, the roast boar, and the Belkarth dungeons as if it were yesterday.
Jorra hadn’t known exactly how much magic it needed the first time he tried planting the Jade Iris, and after a year of malnourishment, the flower had wilted. Luckily, it had seeded before it died, and he had taken no chances this time.
A glowing still fed a steady drip of potion into the soil around the seed. The brew was Jorra’s own. He originally invented it to grow special varieties of Nirnroot, but realised that it worked just as well for the Iris.
Squinting, he could see that a green shoot had begun pushing its way out of the earth. Jorra smiled, pleased. It had taken the seed almost a decade, but it was finally budding.
There was a knock at the door. ‘Come in,’ he called. He could guess who it was.
Harrow raised a hand to shield his eyes as he stepped into the indoor garden. The glass ceiling was enchanted, amplifying the sunrays that shone through.
‘I made you some tea, Jorra,’ he said quietly, setting down a platter and a steaming cup on a nearby table. ‘I hope you like it.’
Jorra blinked. He never failed to be surprised by how polite Harrow could be, a sharp contrast to how he treated Ambarro.
‘Why, thank you.’ He strode over to the child and took a sip. The tea was rich and fruity, though a little too bitter for his liking.
‘You promised to tell me more of my father and mother when you returned,’ Harrow said, looking slightly annoyed. ‘You did not tell me, however, that you’d be gone for a year.’
Jorra grinned sheepishly. ‘Sorry about that. But I’m here now… and where were we last time?’
‘How my father was left orphaned after his house burned down. He refused to beg and made his living selling sundry goods.’
A six-year-old using the word ‘sundry’.
‘Ah, yes. By the time he was thirteen, your father had been all across Skyrim peddling his wares, and he’d developed quite a glib tongue and a taste for adventure. He had almost no sense in his head, however, and for some reason one day he decided to go tomb raiding.
‘He ran almost instantly into a roving group of bandits, who beat him half to death and tried to sell him as a slave. I say “tried” because they came across an old man who killed them all with a single word.’
‘And this old man taught him the ways of the Thu’um?’
‘That he did. The old man’s name was Raeg Nar’ook, a wandering hermit. Apparently he was once a Greybeard, but he disagreed with their pacifist code and developed his own Way of the Voice.’
Jorra didn’t need to ask if Harrow understood. He’d seen the stacks of books in the boy’s quarters.
‘Raeg had left the Greybeards and began a long crusade of righting perceived wrongs and standing up for the smallfolk, much like a xia out of Akaviri legend. The eccentric old Tongue took a liking to the bloodied and bruised Arngrimur, and accepted the awed young man’s request to become his apprentice.
‘For almost twenty years, your father learned all he could of the art of the Thu’um as he and his master travelled all across Tamriel. Raeg also taught him his letters, swordsmanship, and even a little of military strategy in the form of chess and history. Then the Great War broke out, and Arngrimur decided to join the war effort. That was the last he ever saw of Raeg Nar’ook.’
‘What became of the old man?’
‘He’d taken on another apprentice by then. A young Redguard, dressed all in black. Arngrimur never caught his name. All he remembers is that the child was enormous. At twelve years of age he stood a head higher than your father.
‘Arngrimur enlisted in the Imperial Legion, quickly rising through the ranks with his command of the Voice. He met and even befriended a few notable figures in Tamriel’s politics. Ulfric Stormcloak, the current Jarl of Windhelm, for one. He also met me on a mission to Hammerfell… which is a story for another time. Suffice it to say that we met several more times and became the best of friends. He even had the honour of visiting the village.’
I sincerely hope I never have to tell that particular story. Jorra shuddered inwardly, then continued.
‘Your father enjoyed the action at first, but soon grew sick of the mindless violence and slaughter. It was during the War that he met your mother.
‘Valesse-ko was thirty years your father’s elder, but with the elves’ great longevity, this did not mean much. Your mother had trained all her life to become a battlemage in the Aldmeri Dominion. She learned her craft first from books, then from a Morrowind Master Wizard. She found, however, that she did not at all enjoy torturing prisoners and setting innocent villages on fire, and deserted after just three months of service.
‘Your father came across your mother in the smoking ruins of a temple of Talos, and naturally assumed that she was the one who burned it down. The two duelled with word, sword and spell for three days until they were both too exhausted to even lift a finger. It was then that a squad of Dominion soldiers arrived and carried Valesse-ko off to be executed as a traitor, leaving Arngrimur for dead.
‘Wracked with guilt, your father followed them and rescued her. He also spontaneously decided to keep your mother hidden away for the remainder of the war, which did not last very long. Their feelings for each other must have blossomed during this time, and they got married a year after the White-Gold Concordat was signed.
‘Your father was honourably discharged from the Legion, and he returned to his old adventuring ways with his new wife. Six years ago, for some obscure reason, creatures called Dragon Priests began attacking him.
‘You father decided to take your heavily pregnant mother to the safest place he knew – Tsukikage no Sato. It was here that you were born. Valesse-ko rushed off after your father, who’d gone to confront the Priests, leaving you here… and you know the rest.’
Harrow was silent for a long while, tapping his chin. Jorra knew that once he left, he would be heading straight for the library for anything related to Dragon Priests. ‘Thank you,’ he said at long last. ‘For the story… and for everything else, Master Jorra.’
He’d never called him ‘Master’ before. Jorra wasn’t sure he liked it.
‘Think nothing of it,’ he waved it off. ‘Very impressive match today, by the way.’
‘Thank you,’ Harrow said again, but in drastically different tones. His lip curled disdainfully. ‘But the competition was not exactly a challenge.’
Jorra sighed. ‘A word of advice, Harrow. Treat Ambarro with some more respect if you want him to do the same.’
‘I treat everyone with the respect due their station.’
He’s still a child, Jorra reminded himself. A little more well-spoken, perhaps, but still a child.
‘Let me tell you another story,’ Jorra said softly, draining his now lukewarm tea. ‘Once there was a boy. He was the grandson of the Grandmaster of the Village Under the Shadow of the Moons, one of the greatest shinobi to ever live. His mother and father were heroes who perished in the line of duty, giving their lives for the sake of the village.
‘The boy was left with shoes impossible to fill, and expectations so heavy he could barely stand. His accomplishments went unnoticed in the shadow of his forebears. Worst of all, he had little talent, and needed to work twice as hard as anyone else to get the same results. Wanting to stand out, he turned to pranks and crude jokes, often being the loudest among his peers.’
‘Ambarro –’ Harrow begun.
‘The boy’s name,’ Jorra continued. ‘Was Puriyo, grandson of Furiya-ri, and Second Grandmaster of Tsukikage. He was known for his defence of the village against the warlords of the Jerall Mountains for thirty years on end, and is largely the reason that Tsukikage is still seen as haunted by the warlord’s descendants still residing around us. He built on his grandmother’s legacy, doubling all the enchantments around the mountain and laying the moonstone gates himself, brick by brick. Today he is seen as an exemplar of the Shadeclaws… and like many others, I hold him in the highest regard.’
To that, Harrow had no answer. Five full minutes passed.
‘I will… think on what you’ve said, Jorra,’ he said at last, some of the arrogance draining from his eyes. A flurry of snowflakes swirled into the garden as he slipped out into the late afternoon.
Jorra turned his attention back to the Jade Iris. Maybe it was his imagination, but he could’ve sworn that the shoot had grown a little more, by just the tiniest of fractions.
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