Dragon War Encore: Prelude

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    Warning! Proceed with caution, for this prelude contains the following:

    • gore

     

    Ruunen’s life was a frantic dance of gauze, blood pools and rainbows painted beneath his feet. From the waking of day to low noon, he was surrounded by mortality in a hundred forms – sick patients, dying patients, dead patients. Everywhere, at every turn, insides were becoming outsides. Spewing wounds and spewing mouths were his responsibility. After all, he was a hand to the healers in the Chapel of the Eight; it was his duty to seal the holes.

     

    Heartbeat boomed like an army marching through the dark elf’s head, step after step throbbing in his temples. A sheen of sweat shone upon his face despite the winter chill. His palm was soaked as he pressed a cloth against the wound. Shrieks were ringing off the walls, piercing, pounding painfully on his eardrums – the illusionist-healers had run dry of magicka and withdrew their touch from the patient’s brain. Ruunen could not allow panic to penetrate the barrier of focus or he would make a mistake, a heart-stopping slip, and all would be lost to an expanding crimson chasm.

     

    ‘More,’ prompted Master Healer Asclepius.

     

    Ruunen squeezed the cloth as he pressed, his expression trapped in a taut grimace. Streamlets of red set their courses down the stone slab. Trembling and straining under eyes that burdened so heavily, Ruunen wrung herbal juices from the cloth as if his own life depended on it, though he could not even tell the blood from the medicine.

     

    ‘Enough. It is time for magick.’

     

    Relief washed over him. He stepped back, plopping the dribbling cloth into a bowl while the restorationist-healers took his place. Rays of amber swirled around them like sunlight bending to their will. The patient screamed yet louder as the restorationists dipped their fingers into his wound. Asclepius waved Ruunen away; his part was done for now.

     

    But the chapel still swam with sharp colour filtering through stained glass and the giddying scent of innards. Ruunen took a moment to breathe, scrubbing the blood off his hand and stretching the tension out of his back. It was only a matter of time before someone else started dying.

     

    Soon, Master Healer Asclepius gave a quick call that made Ruunen startle. A hand was needed again. Ruunen glanced around wearily and found that all of the hands were occupied except for three: himself, Elia, skulking in the shadows of the blessing wells, and Ambra, who was already hurrying toward the master healer. Ruunen nodded to Elia. The Imperial scowled.

     

    The three hands approached Asclepius at another slab and found a small dusky-skinned girl sitting on it, slick with tears, sweat and mud, face twisted into a knot of pain. Her filthy kirtle was pulled up to the thighs, exposing a bone that jutted out of a bulging red mass on one shin. Blood dripped off her heel and a gross yellowness was beginning to swell inside the mass. Ruunen winced.

     

    Standing next to her, a man with just as dusky skin and the same hooked nose explained that his daughter had fallen from the roof of their cottage. He demanded to know how serious the wound was.

     

    Ruunen tried to swallow but could not, so he said hoarsely, ‘S—sir, it is a compound fracture, therefore it—it… Well, there’s an infection in it now and that is dangerous. I wish for your permission to—to amputate her leg just above the knee.’

     

    The man said nothing. He drew back a fist and, in the rush of a second, rammed it into Ruunen’s eye socket. The little girl, now utterly overwhelmed, sobbed so hard that she gagged. Asclepius caught Ruunen as he stumbled. Elia could barely restrain his smile.

     

    ‘It is necessary,’ said the master healer calmly, helping Ruunen find his feet. ‘If you do not consent, infection will kill her with great swiftness. Arkay has decreed that everything may bring death to a mortal, but Akatosh has decreed that a mortal can only be broken by himself. Do not let the child die because you are afraid she will be broken by life.’

     

    This time the fist found Asclepius’ mouth and it was Ruunen’s turn to catch. He did not quite blame the dark man for this one.

     

    ‘Maybe we can try to set it, Master Healer,’ pleaded Ruunen quietly as he used his tunic to wipe the blood from Asclepius’ teeth.

     

    But the answer was negative. They did not have the time to risk it.

     

    Upon further persuasion and reminders of the pain his daughter was enduring, the dark man agreed to let them perform the amputation. Ruunen could see the fear behind his anger, quivering in his fingers as he stroked the little girl’s hair. Two illusionist-healers closed in and laid the girl to sleep, using the probes of Illusion magick to quieten her waking mind.

     

    Someone passed Ruunen a knife. Ambra held the girl’s leg straight over a metal pail and Elia tightened his hands around the thigh. Then Ruunen made a quick but deep slice just above her knee.

     

    Elia looped a tourniquet around the thigh and spun its wooden stick until the bandages had twisted into a tight plat. An alterationist-healer put her hand on the girl’s leg and began to cast. The tourniquet and alterationist would cut off the blood supply, but they had to work fast or the tissues would die.

     

    There was no time to breathe. Asclepius handed Ruunen the saw.

     

    With Elia using his free hand to pull the skin and muscle away from the bone, Ruunen brought the saw down into the welling gash and ran it backward and forward. The femur was tougher than a log. For what felt like an age, he sawed the bone with an arm that was soon aching, and hot sweat ran down his face. His wince stung his punched eye. The girl’s father was whimpering.

     

    ‘Do hurry, my boy, do hurry,’ urged Asclepius behind him, nervously tapping his fingers against the back of the other hand.

     

    ‘Yes,’ said Ruunen, hardly hearing his own voice.

     

    Suddenly there was a snap. The bone was broken. He hacked through the rest of the muscle and flesh.

     

    ‘Restorationists?’ he asked.

     

    The master healer shook his head slowly. ‘Preoccupied elsewhere.’

     

    While Ambra left to dispose of the leg, Ruunen drew closer with a needle and catgut between his five shuddering fingers to ligate the femoral artery. His eye was now weeping unceasingly, but he worked through the tears. He became aware that the silence of the illusionist-healers had given way to a loud and strained chant of ‘magicka’ – a sign that their magicka would run out at any moment.

     

    It did not matter. Ruunen was already suturing the stump. It was almost done. Elia gradually loosened the tourniquet.

     

    ‘Magicka, magicka, magicka, magicka,’ panted the illusionists, and all at once they fell back, and the child sprang awake. Ruunen cut the catgut and tied a knot.

     

    ‘Oh, no,’ puled the child in a thin voice. ‘It hurts a lot. It hurts a lot!’

     

    As the healers and hands collapsed in exhaustion, gasping for air, the little girl began to scream. Ruunen dabbed his forehead with the back of his bloodied hand.

     

    ‘Well, Elia? Don’t dawdle!’ he snapped. ‘Get the gauze and thick it on.’

    The moorlands gleamed silver under midday fog. Calm wind winnowed the brittle stubs of grass and the thatch of scattered hovels. Winter prowled the countryside, laying crystal carpets on the hills. Beneath the sun and cloaking clouds, a flat cart marched through the Manilius fief, carrying the high voices of children.

     

    The cart belonged to the prominent family Inventius, a household of villeins that had settled in Naskavinch seventy years ago. They were hectic most of the time – Ahenobarbus and Iovita had six boys and two girls, a boisterous bunch, all of whom bore brown skin, brown hair and brown eyes. Albus and Valens, the drivers of the cart, were inching into puberty. The grins on their faces betrayed a penchant for mayhem, but their eyes were kind and warm.

     

    Perched atop stacks of timber, another child was behind them. She belonged to a different villein name, Farvuli. There were three in this kindred – the girl, her father and a bitter, one-armed son. The Farvulis had lived in Cyrodiil for more than two generations and knew the Dasek Moor well, but they were restless in this land for reasons they did not really know. This showed on the girl’s queer, foreign face as she rode along the road.

     

    She was young, small and wore a mop of red hair. Weather had marred her youthful features and large front teeth poked below her lip. That was the ordinary part, but here is what made her abnormal: her large ears tapered to points. The irises of her eyes were the deep red of pomegranate arils and almost entirely covered her sclerae. Glinting above grey cheeks, these eyes probed the land for something interesting. The girl never saw a new sight or intriguing stranger in these barren, endless hills and life was getting boring.

     

    ‘I heard that Drusus is coming home for the first planting,’ she said, her gaze burning with frustration. Drusus was the oldest Inventius son and was at the ripe adult age of eighteen. ‘That is for ever away. It en’t fair that they won’t let him home for Jester’s Day. I just rhymed!’

     

    Albus tossed back his hair and squinted disapprovingly.

     

    ‘Ethdal, Drusus is a legionary now.’ He added special emphasis on the title, as though it was of great significance. ‘He spends all day and night defending the emperor and Cyrodiil. If it weren’t for the Legions, the elves would have burned us all to the ground, all of the humans, and taken the children as slaves. They would be so mighty, even Akatosh wouldn’t be a god in their eyes.’

     

    ‘Papa told us so,’ added Valens sagely. ‘Except for that last part.’

     

    ‘No, Giustino told me that,’ admitted Albus.

     

    Ethdal arched her brows. ‘My papa says Giustino is a very dishonest young man. In fact, my brother says all of the Frithunantuses are as “fraudulent as scamps”, which means liars. But if you know everything, what would the elves do to the elves that live here?’

     

    Valens shrugged, but Albus replied with great conviction, ‘Why, they would slaughter them for their gods. Really, they would. They want only pure elves on Tamriel, so they wouldn’t risk having impure blood running around. They believe they are related to gods.’

     

    The two boys let out nervous chuckles, unsure whether or not it was appropriate to mock elven blasphemy.

     

    Ethdal groaned. ‘But why doesn’t anyone do something bold for a change? It en’t impressive at all to join the Legions. Every man does it! Why doesn’t someone go off exploring the world or hunting mythistical beasts—’

     

    ‘We leave the fools’ errands to the fools, Dally,’ said Albus. ‘Colovians are brave, but they aren’t bold. You wouldn’t know, being an elf and all.’

     

    As the children rode onward, Ethdal tried not to think about Albus’ words. In every aspect, she was not in the least bit Colovian. As if her pointy ears and unusual colours were not enough, her disposition could not be straightened to the stiff Colovian norm. While the Inventiuses kept their hearts firm and their feet trod the paths that were familiar, Ethdal was always looking up for something far away and her feet were uncertain, as if there was another realm to which she belonged. She hated feeling like a foreigner in the only place she knew.

     

    Albus turned the ox off the main way and onto a thin, worn path cutting through the fallow fields. He cursed as the cart jumped over a rock. The ox growled angrily at the sharp stones attacking its hooves.

     

    The roads were terrible in this part of the Manilius fief, affectionately referred to as ‘the bane of carts’. This was because the fief layout was, quite frankly, dreadful. It rested south of the Gold Road, about five hours’ hike below the base of Mount Kvatch and four hours’ hike above the River Strid, which slithered along the border between Cyrodiil and Valenwood.

     

    At the top of the fief was Naskavinch Village, the home of Lord Manilius’ tenants. It had all the bare essentials of any Cyrodilic village – a tavern, a water well, the obligatory Chapel of the Divines and market stalls that were set up each day just after dawn broke. Over a hundred huts and cottages clustered in Naskavinch, but many more were sprinkled on the outskirts of the crop fields, following no particular pattern. The paths were narrow here, and unpaved.

     

    Albus’ cart was approaching one such randomly situated hut, slouched in the nook of a hill. It seemed that the younger occupants had set off to work, for the windows were no longer draped in linen and firelight flickered from within. Albus climbed from the cart and knocked at the door.

     

    It was a very cranky voice that answered.

     

    ‘Who is there?’ demanded the voice. ‘If it’s the publicans again, so help me Mara…’

     

    Valens giggled.

     

    ‘No, Mister,’ returned Albus, ‘we are only the sons of Ahenobarbus. We have a week’s lumber for you.’

     

    ‘But if you’d like to give us your taxes, we can pass them on,’ added Valens. ‘But I’m only joking, of course. We wouldn’t pass them on at all. Ai!’

     

    Albus had smacked him on the head.

     

    There was a short pause. Finally, the door opened and an elderly man emerged. Like most of the cottagers, he was so lanky his bones were outlined beneath tight skin and there was little vigour in his beckon. Obligingly, the boys bundled several logs, sticks and twigs and lugged them into his hut.

     

    Wood was a hard resource to scavenge from the Dasek Moor, which spread itself wide across many miles of the Gold Coast region. It was believed that farmers in older eras tried to grow trees here, but the dirt refused to nourish such captious creatures. Because of this, the lumber traders from the Great Forest made quite a profit when they took their business southward.

     

    As the boys threw down their loads, the old man muttered, ‘Lord Manilius still pays for our firewood, does he? I keep saying it and still believe it: he’ll lose interest in us some day, of that I’m sure.’

     

    ‘Why, Mister?’

     

    The old man looked up at Ethdal, who still sat upon the flat cart.

     

    ‘Lord Manilius must pay for our wood,’ she said, puzzled. ‘How else would we get it?’

     

    With a touch of pity in his eyes, the old man waved to the children as they rattled away. Ethdal thought him rather rude for giving her no answer, but in truth he was only protecting her blissful ignorance, for she was lucky; she did not know that the past few years’ crop yield was poorer than it had ever been before. Twelve of the unlanded labourers had starved to death, foodless and unnoticed. Livestock were suffering on every inch of farmland. The villagers could hardly afford to sell anything at all.

     

    They were coming to realise that Silvio Manilius was earning less and less money from his produce. His position as the Lord of the Manor of Naskavinch was at stake, and the fate of his people was looking very grim indeed.

     

    Thus, as the children drove on obliviously, the village crier relayed some very, very bad news.

     

    ‘People of Naskavinch! Lord Silvio Manilius shall no longer offer donations to the chapel,’ he reported, ‘and will provide no more free lumber! You are asked to remain faithful and put your trust in the Great Divines!’

     

    ‘Do you mean to say Manilius has run out of money?’ yelled Ahenobarbus Inventius in the crier’s face, vessels bulging on his forehead.

     

    ‘I mean nothing of the sort,’ returned the crier. ‘Please, remain faithful! Please, stop!’

     

    People began to scream like savages, lunging at the poor lacquey. He would have been ripped to pieces if the Imperial guards had not intervened – and even still, by the time he was safely away, his clothes were in tatters, his face battered and bruised.

     

    As the sun drooped to low noon, Albus, Valens and Ethdal were driving their cart toward Naskavinch when they heard a peculiar and persistent thundering like a waterfall. Getting closer, they found the village in an uproar. Every road was lined with cottagers and villeins stampeding along the east road. They were all headed for the Manilius Manor, and spilled into an ocean around it, protesting with tools in their hands and rage on their tongues. Not even the lord’s provost and Imperial guards could subdue their cries of betrayal.

     

    ‘This is an injustice! Will you doom us, Manilius? Will you doom us for your lack of foresight?’

     

    Ethdal let out a laugh. ‘Now this is new!’ she cried. ‘Let’s follow and see what will happen to them!’

     

    ‘Are you mad?’ hollered Albus above the rowdy mob. ‘This is terrible! I want to stay out of it! Besides, we need to take the cart home.’

     

    ‘Fine, well, I suppose I can go on my own.’

     

    ‘Don’t you dare! Ethdal!’

     

    But she had already leapt off the cart and was running eastward with the rioters. Albus turned to Valens.

     

    ‘All right boy, do you think you can take the reins?’ he asked urgently.

     

    ‘I—I might,’ replied Valens in a tremor, ‘but, egads, they’re terribly unhappy Albus. Are you really sure you want to get—’

     

    ‘I’ll only be a minute,’ said Albus sternly, thrusting the reins into his brother’s hands. ‘I don’t want Old Farvuli to break off in tears because I let something happen to his stupid daughter.’

     

    He slipped from the cart and sped after Ethdal, past the water well and cottages and trampled vegetable gardens. There were over three hundred serfs swarming in the streets like locusts after drought. They stuffed themselves so densely into every crack of road that Albus could barely breathe as he squeezed between bodies. Far beyond his sight, Ethdal was faring much better, being the height of an eleven-year-old human and excitedly pushy.

     

    ‘Where are we going, Mister Diodato?’ she inquired to a middle-aged man against whom she was squished. ‘Are we going to kill Lord Manilius?’

     

    ‘Gods, I’d like to do just that!’ he muttered, but a serf behind him shook his head.

     

    ‘No, we should rather like to settle this with killing none,’ he said to Ethdal. ‘He’s done us many wrongs today and we want him to do right again. It would not do to commit wrongs ourselves, yea?’

     

    ‘What did he do?’ she asked.

     

    Diodato answered loudly, ‘He’s gone broke and doesn’t care for our wellbeing anymore. He expects us to buy our own wood! He put out a notice and all!’

     

    An angry chorus of insults and oaths against the lord sprang from the nearest villagers.

     

    ‘But no!’ exclaimed Ethdal.

     

    ‘What do you mean “but no”?’ shouted Diodato. ‘He’s already done it!’

     

    Suddenly a claw curled around the girl’s arm and she let out a shriek. Before thinking, she spun about with the ferocity of a stray animal and slapped the kidnapper, who turned out to be an annoyed Albus.

     

    ‘Thank you,’ he said impassively.

     

    ‘Oh, Albus! En’t this horrible? This is exactly what the old man said. I wonder what shall happen to Lord Manilius!’

     

    ‘I don’t care! We must go home!’

     

    ‘But I must find Ruu! They might trap him in the chapel!’

     

    Ethdal twisted her arm around until Albus could not hold on and hastily released her. Ploughing ahead, the girl was soon buried once more in a jungle of towering pitchforks and raised hoes, and Albus’ voice was lost in the din.

    The Chapel of the Eight was pacifistic and weak-willed without Talos, its mighty God of War, and ill-prepared to defend itself. As soon as the catastrophe reached their ears, the priests and healers slunk to the very back of the chapel below the stained glass Divines while the hands ran around in bewilderment. The smart ones (like Ambra) took up knives and saws, charging out the doors to stand guard, and were soon followed by the less-than-smart ones (like Ruunen).

     

    But none of them were brave. None of them were prepared. Their limbs shook at the prospect of a skirmish.

     

    Of course, they soon found that the villagers were completely ignoring them.

     

    ‘Will they hurt the lord?’ asked one of the hands as the crowd thickened around the manor.

     

    ‘The legionaries will shove them back into their holes,’ hissed Elia.

     

    ‘They had better do it soon or someone will get hurt,’ said Ruunen.

     

    A ball of dirt sailed through the air and narrowly missed the provost’s clean blue waistcoat, and a stunned exclamation of ‘ooh!’ went up. With shouts and shoves, a small band of guards attempted to ward the peasants away from the threshold.

     

    ‘The Custumal of the Manor of Naskavinch holds severe punishment for this unruly dissidence!’ shrilled the provost, leaping backward as several more missiles flew at him. ‘The court baron will be held tomorrow and we will hear your concerns, but please, this cannot go on thus!’

     

    Ruunen snorted. ‘Do they expect to beat money into Manilius? What are they doing?’

     

    The truth was that even the villagers were not sure what they were doing. Naskavinch had been a quiet community for over thirty years – protesting was not an act they exercised often, and they amazed themselves with their lawless belief in justice. Unfortunately, it seemed Lord Silvio Manilius was as unaccustomed to disagreement as they were; he did not appear before his people and reassert his position of power. The guards and provost were left to deal with matters themselves. Noise was endless and it seemed that the rage would never falter.

     

    When the clouds became fire-lined and the sky glowed as if with searing heat, the manor was under full assault. Now the villagers had brought torches and the Imperial guards were even more nervous.

     

    ‘Provost!’ the villagers screamed. ‘Look what your lord’s arrogance has cost us!’

     

    Starved animals were led forward by their harnesses. Dying human victims of the famine were flaunted before the provost, who was beginning to look pale and weary. Ruunen believed the guards would be unable to keep the threshold clear for much longer.

     

    Some of the hands were summoned back into the chapel to continue their work, but Ruunen was not amongst them. He stayed outside with a few others to keep an eye on the riot and maintain the sanctity of the chapel. This was no easier for him than one-handed ligation. His frustration mounted with every empty threat shot at the guards – and by the guards – as the serfs waved their weapons. They were absolutely drunk with aggression. The air felt full to bursting, and Ruunen only wanted to go home.

     

    Either to go home, or to murder someone.

     

    ‘Manilius! Why would you cast us into ruin for your own failures?’

     

    ‘Who builds a village in the Dasek Moor? That’s what I should like to know! Mighty insightful of you, Manilius!’

     

    ‘The moor was rich and fecund when his grandfather, Lord Achilleus Manilius, settled here!’ yelled the provost. ‘The Great War has drained this land. One and thirty years later, lack of circumspection on the part of the serfs has led to a decrease in the soil’s arability, which caused a drop in crop yield. Lord Manilius now receives—’

     

    The booming voice of Ahenobarbus Inventius usurped the provost’s authority. ‘This is not our fault! We served the lord with faith and diligence! It is not fair that we are condemned for a trial we all should suffer together, with the lord, as a community. Tell him that he is a coward and a fool for inviting this wrath by hiding in his Gods-damned home while we stand here shouting. ‘Tis so improper when all we want is to talk to the man, yet he makes us look like barbarians by ignoring us so!’

     

    Ruunen sighed. Even Old Barbus was getting involved in this nonsense.

     

    ‘I will bring your concerns to Lord Manilius,’ said the provost sternly, ‘but there is nothing to be gained from storming the manor, acting the barbarians as well as looking them. He has refused to see you, and that is that. Go to your homes!’

     

    So abruptly that he started, Ruunen found himself being elbowed in the ribs.

     

    ‘Farvuli, is that your sister?’ asked Elia, pointing to a small grey figure jostling the rioters aside and bursting out of the crowd. She was running right toward them. Then young Albus Inventius stumbled out as well, huffing and puffing.

     

    ‘Ruu!’ called Ethdal in delight. ‘Ruu, what a show! En’t it awful? Lord Manilius en’t going to buy lumber for us anymore!’

     

    ‘I know that,’ snapped Ruunen, a little embarrassed at being greeted like this in front of his comrades. ‘I have been standing here for longer than you know, girl.’

     

    She squinted at him. ‘What on Nirn happened to your eye? You look like a horror!’

     

    ‘Ethdal, you left me in a state for sure,’ interrupted Albus, who was still recovering his breath. ‘I swear, my father and your father – and your brother – would – would have my head for letting you run off.’

     

    ‘But you followed after me, so you can keep your head on,’ retorted Ethdal. ‘Come on, Ruu, I can take you through this awful mess. I’m quite good at moving people out of the way. ‘Tis high time you came home anyway – look at the sky. There en’t the sun to be seen.’

     

    Ethdal waved him over. Though Master Healer Asclepius had not granted him leave, the offer was too relieving to decline. Ruunen glanced at the other hands, but many of them were watching the ‘show’ in great eagerness while others, weary and blood-stained after nine hours of hovering between wounds, had fallen asleep against the chapel wall. He knew they would not miss him. He dropped his knife and bolted after Albus and Ethdal as they charged at the rioters again.

     

    The three of them threaded through the nooks with Ethdal pushing in the lead, and they noticed that the tools were beginning to undulate to a rhythmic chant. Rise and stamp went farmers’ boots and the shafts of pitchforks and shovels.

     

    ‘Speak to us, Lord Manilius!’ roared one voice from hundreds of throats. ‘Speak to us, Lord Manilius!’

     

    ‘It seems they have lost their heads,’ said Ethdal.

     

    They finally broke through the rear of the mob and sprinted along the main road toward Naskavinch.

     

    As the dark heavens were slowly soaked in soot-smeared clouds, a great easterly howled and the moorlands took up a gallop under their feet, rolling in drowsy waves. At last, the sounds of unrest quietened to mumbles on the wind.

     

    ‘Will you – come home – with us – Albus?’ asked Ethdal, coughing at the sting of the cold in her throat.

     

    ‘All right, for a while,’ huffed Albus.

     

    It was not long before the group, shivering and panting white mist, entered the deserted alleys of the village and stopped before the Farvuli cottage. An eerie stillness greeted them. The windows were shut and the chimney was not breathing – the house seemed to be in a grim, silent slumber. Ruunen rapped on the door and stood back to wait, but it soon became clear that nobody was inside. With a nervous spark in her eyes, Ethdal looked between her brother and Albus.

     

    ‘Well, where is Papa?’ she quavered. ‘Go inside, Ruu.’

     

    Ruunen left Ethdal and Albus in the street and crept into the cottage. As he adjusted to the darkness, his heart faltered a step. What he saw was ruin. The table had been overturned and two stools had collapsed on broken legs. Checking the hearth, he found the coal still warm, but it had certainly been dim for an hour or more. He peeked into the bedchamber and saw only goats and chickens huddled in the corners, softly bleating and clucking.

     

    When he came out the door, he said, ‘The cottage is a perfect mess. Papa was not there, but he may be with your mama, Albus. Maybe he was afraid of being alone with half the village out.’

     

    And so the trio set off once again through the streets of Naskavinch, this time at a slower pace. The Farvulis felt wretched and forsaken. The cobbles were frosting over, lanterns hanging dark on their poles. All three companions were hungry and prickling with horripilation when they found the cottage belonging to Ahenobarbus Inventius, which hid near the centre of the village. Its garden was dishevelled and some vegetables were flat and broken.

     

    Ruunen pounded on the door until a man cracked it open. Nervous, stone grey eyes peered at him from an ashen face. Red and silver hair rolled down thin shoulders. The man eased when he saw the youngsters waiting, and he smiled at them.

     

    ‘Good evening, young’uns,’ he whispered.

     

    ‘By the Gods, Papa,’ snapped Ruunen, hustling his father out of the way and throwing the door back. Wood-scented warmth blasted into his face. Albus and Ethdal came inside and closed the door.

     

    The parlour of the Inventius cottage was homely at best, decorated with indelicate streams of wool strewn across reed mats as if loosened by a child. Pots and dried herbs hung from hooks on the white-washed walls. Set into the bricks was a lighted hearth crackling merrily beneath a cauldron that was beginning to bubble. A table stood in the middle of the floor, laden with rush candles in metal holders.

     

    Iovita Inventius and her two daughters were laying the table with clay bowls and cups, but stopped to usher in the newcomers. Valens, Thracius and Martialis immediately hovered around Albus and pressed him to recount the day’s many un-Colovian-like adventures. In front of the fire, quietly, Iovita’s parents Marcella and Regulus Bellomi knitted and talked while three-year-old Nerva threw bits of reed into the flames.

     

    ‘What a day!’ cried Ethdal. She skipped up to the hearth and kissed the elderly Bellomis’ hands. ‘Good evening, Mister and Missus Bellomi. I think that was the most fun I have had in a year or more. Did you see it, Papa?’

     

    Felanyl Farvuli looked miserable. ‘Did I see it? I saw them all marching out, even our Old Barbus, and it was indeed a shock. Something of an expected shock, really, until they barged into my house and started snatching all my tools! At least twenty of the brutes! They broke everything. And I think they took a chicken as well.’

     

    ‘You really aren’t hard enough on them, Uncle,’ said Iovita crossly. Though the elf looked in his forties like her, he was really almost eighty and had been raised by her maternal grandparents.

     

    He waved his hand dismissively. ‘You know I can’t be any harder than I am, Iovita,’ he sighed. ‘Besides, something did need to be done. I have seen enough riots in my life by far, but something needed to be done. I suppose they have already said all there is to say, but the Lords Manilius really were foolish for claiming the Dasek Moor of all places. It is notoriously the worst moor for farming in Kvatch County. Oh dear, Ruunen? Whatever is the matter, my boy?’

     

    Felanyl now noticed that Ruunen had thrown himself onto a stool and planted his head upon the table. He was pointedly ignoring the cup of tea that Iulia, the youngest Inventius girl, set in front of him.

     

    ‘Are you all right?’ asked Felanyl gently.

     

    Ruunen did not answer.

     

    ‘How many people did you save today?’

     

    ‘Everybody, nobody,’ grunted Ruunen, lifting his head slightly, ‘it doesn’t matter. I got blood on my tunic.’

     

    ‘What happened to your eye?’ gasped his father, seeing him properly for the first time.

     

    ‘Yes, please do tell!’ cried Ethdal with glee.

     

    ‘I was punched,’ snapped Ruunen, glaring at her. One vibrant strawberry eye was submerged in a bulging blob of red and purple. ‘Don’t annoy me, girl. I have killed men today.’

     

    ‘Ruunen!’ flared Ethdal angrily.

     

    ‘Ruunen…’ murmured Felanyl. ‘Was it the rioters?’

     

    ‘No, it was a stupid Redguard,’ growled Ruunen. ‘I hate—I hate—Don’t start me up on it; I’m mad enough as it is. I want no noise – just silence.’

     

    Felanyl obeyed and spoke no more to his son. A meagre supper – more water than anything else – was soon ready, but Iovita insisted that they wait for her husband to return from the riot.

     

    Half an hour passed. Iovita tossed more coal into the hearth and it sputtered up embers like a shower of burning rain. Felanyl held a slow, oft-repeated conversation about the weather with his doddering foster sister Marcella. Albus roistered dramatically, telling how he rescued the young Farvulis from a thick and furious mob who were about to bring a battering ram to the lord’s manor.

     

    Finally, Ahenobarbus Inventius strode through the door without knocking. He was a lean man but quite muscular, with a head of long brown hair and a full beard. As soon as he saw Felanyl kneeling beside the Bellomis, he shook the cottage from the very earth, booming, ‘Farvuli, what are you doing in my house, without invitation, at seven of the clock?’

     

    Poor Felanyl jumped up at once, frightened to a tremble, but the Imperial forgave him with a smothering hug. This was far from the first time Ahenobarbus had nearly given him a heart attack, yet Felanyl’s skittish nature prevented him the sense to expect it.

     

    The adults and elderly sat themselves around the table. The children were shooed into a corner with their meals, complaining that this must be the latest winter supper they ever had. Ahenobarbus was tempted to send Ruunen off with them, as his blood-caked chapel tunic and rainbow eye were quite off-putting, but Felanyl gave him such a desperately dismal look that he gave in.

     

    Through mouthfuls of beer and pottage, the man of the house relayed the riot’s current status.

     

    ‘I daresay the villagers are planning to stand there all night,’ he said. ‘When I left, they had not let up in fervour one bit.’

     

    ‘What a disaster,’ muttered Iovita, tutting to herself.

     

    ‘They gughk—’ Ruunen coughed violently. He got stuck in a hacking loop until Felanyl whacked him hard on the back.

     

    ‘Boy, you can’t even get eating right,’ laughed Iovita.

     

    Composing himself, Ruunen tried again: ‘What I mean to say is, they couldn’t hope to reach any real end, could they? What can Lord Manilius do if he is running out of money?’

     

    ‘He’ll likely run to the count and grovel at his feet before impecuniosity drains his worth,’ seethed Ahenobarbus sourly.

     

    ‘But that won’t save Naskavinch,’ said Ruunen.

     

    ‘No, it won’t,’ agreed Ahenobarbus. ‘Naskavinch is finished. That Achilleus Manilius thought he could be the one to tame the Dasek Moor was what sealed our fate. Ha! Tame it! As if it was a wild dog!’ He laughed humourlessly, wiping his mouth with a slice of bread. ‘But the real problem is those lumber traders, every year raising their prices. Soon coal will be cheaper than wood. Can you imagine that?’

     

    ‘The real question is what we are going to do now?’ put in Regulus Bellomi broodingly.

     

    That caused silence to descend upon the table. Even the children lowered their chatter to a murmur, sensing the consideration in the atmosphere. It was Felanyl who broke through their thoughts, and his words made everyone fall into stupor.

     

    ‘I want to run away.’

     

    His audience could not have been more amazed if he claimed to have fallen in love with a goat. Bread and cups froze in mid-air. After much gaping, Iovita managed to stutter, ‘Uncle, where—where will you get the coin?’

     

    ‘I shall sell everything I own and buy only what I need,’ responded Felanyl, ‘like a waggon, a horse and supplies for the journey.’

     

    ‘Where will you get the coin to buy yourself out of service?’ articulated Iovita.

     

    ‘I said I want to run away, sweetheart. Secretly.’

     

    ‘And where will you go?’ demanded Ahenobarbus. There was a ruddy tint spreading over his cheeks that forewarned an imminent outburst of rage.

     

    ‘Well, see here…’ Felanyl licked his lips, knowing he was treading on dangerous ground now. ‘See here, I don’t want to simply settle somewhere else in Colovia and pledge myself to another Lord of the Manor. I would like more freedom—’

     

    ‘Nibenay, then? The sodden land of namby-pambies licking the boots of magicians?’

     

    ‘No, well, I certainly don’t want to be surrounded by those pompous battlemages and rich folk. I was thinking of… well…’ He took a deep breath and prepared himself for a quick death. ‘I want to go to a—another country, see. Skyrim.’

     

    Ahenobarbus stood up. The table juddered. The children went mute and hunched into their shoulders.

     

    ‘Skyrim?’ roared the Imperial. ‘Skyrim? You want to go to Skyrim? Have you gone demented, Farvuli? Skyrim? You’ve never been out of Kvatch County! How do you expect to be prepared for immigration out of the country? To Skyrim, what’s more! The journey will take at least a damn year!

     

    Felanyl quivered like a leaf trying to stay on its twig in the midst of a gale.

     

    ‘I—I—I—I’ve prep—prepared f—f—for—Well, that is, I’ve—I’ve made the decision—In—in fact, I made it some time ago, actually, and I—I—I’m quite prepared to go through with it.’

     

    ‘You daft old man,’ croaked Regulus disapprovingly, ‘I have been waiting nearly forty years for you to make a decision with your life and this is it? A worm has broken free of the underground and wants to fly to the moons!’

     

    ‘What a joke!’ snapped Iovita. ‘Will you leave your children here as well, if you’re so intent on following your mad father’s path?’

     

    ‘No!’ shouted Felanyl with a scowl very hard and very sudden. ‘That was out of line, Iovita. I love my children more than you know!’

     

    Ruunen stared at his father in astonishment, raising a finger slowly. ‘But Papa, you did not consult me at all on this,’ he gasped. ‘What about my work? What am I going to do in Skyrim? Do they even have chapels in Skyrim?’

     

    ‘Of course they do. Skyrim, at least, is still a part of the Empire. The Nords worship the Eight and One just as we do.’

     

    Ahenobarbus smacked the table. ‘And One?’ he repeated. ‘Talos, too? What about the White-Gold Concordat?’

     

    ‘It doesn’t apply to Skyrim,’ said Felanyl heatedly, so angry now that he could not stop. ‘Their ancient traditions include Talos-worship – and the emperors don’t abolish the ancient traditions of other provinces. You know very well that they banned slavery in all provinces except for Morrowind because it was the dark elves’ way of life.’

     

    ‘That was hundreds of years ago! Rules have changed! If the Nords still worship Talos, they won’t for long before the Imperials – or worse, the elves – take notice and purge them!’

     

    ‘You don’t—’

     

    ‘Felanyl, this had better not be some passive way of avenging your wife, because if it is…’

     

    Ahenobarbus checked himself, but it was too late. The words had stung Felanyl’s heart and he looked like he had been slapped. Without hesitation, Ruunen sought to remedy the mistake.

     

    ‘Barbus, that was not very discreet of you,’ he said. ‘You know that wound will never fully heal. At any rate, Papa has not ever sought revenge, passive or no.’

     

    ‘Besides,’ said Felanyl in a thick voice, ‘Darseru would have been more likely to kill me than approve of ventures without logic. I have learned to make decisions without her, and they are all terrible, but they are decisions. And I am a decisive man… occasionally.’

     

    ‘Very well.’ Ahenobarbus sat back down in dejection. ‘Seeing as you are so set on this, I don’t think I could stop you even with a sword. Who would have thought it: our old Felanyl has courage after all.’

     

    ‘I don’t know about courage,’ said Marcella, who had been sitting very calmly through the whole ordeal, ‘but I know that he has not gotten any smarter in all his years. You have my vote, Nylli-Not. Shall we discuss this like adults now?’

     

    So the two close families finished their meal in peace – the children still nervously oblivious in the corner – and spent the rest of the night planning the Farvulis’ escape from Naskavinch.

     

     

                                                                                                   

Comments

49 Comments
  • Sildriel
    Sildriel   ·  June 28, 2016
    I finally read the bloody thing, and I'm quite disappointed I haven't read any of it sooner. It's brilliant, concise and coherent; a work of art, really. Everything flows like milk and honey, the vocabulary dripping with fluidity and aptness one can only ...  more
  • The Wing
    The Wing   ·  March 7, 2016
  • Idesto
    Idesto   ·  March 7, 2016
    All you need to know is "Newzild is beaut!"
  • The Wing
    The Wing   ·  March 7, 2016
    G'day! (My Australian slang is a little rusty, unfortunately. It's been eight years since I lived there. XD)
  • Idesto
    Idesto   ·  March 7, 2016
    I did not know that! G'day mate! (or should I say' sheila'?) 
  • The Wing
    The Wing   ·  March 7, 2016
    I came from Down Under too, mate. Australian citizen here! 
  • Idesto
    Idesto   ·  March 7, 2016
    Hehe - you said 'heaps'! I thought only us down-under types said that? 
  • The Wing
    The Wing   ·  March 7, 2016
    I wish! Maybe one day. 
    Thank you heaps for reading, Phil!
  • Paws
    Paws   ·  March 7, 2016
    Wow, the words you use and the tales you spin. Are you a medic in real life, Rancid?
  • The Wing
    The Wing   ·  January 15, 2016
    Eee I'm excited to have you as a reader, Exuro! I really like A Dance with Daedra, so it's an honour to have you here. 
    Wait wait, who told you I was sixteen? I'm obviously twenty-nine.  Joking aside, yes I am sixteen. Not a lot of experience under ...  more