Going Elsweyr: Chapter 3: Blood Price

• Posted by The Long-Chapper January 18, 2016 - Filed in TSC: Classics - #TSC:Classic  #Going Elsweyr  - 1,724 views

  

   

  5^th of Sun’s Dawn, 4e 26, somewhere in the Ne-Quin-Al Desert

   

  A weary nod from a dust-covered Vingalmo, his face sporting a fresh cut on his cheek, the right sleeve of his robes torn and bloodied, let Lillandril know through the growing swirls of the ominous dust storm that the cave was now safe. They could escape these howling winds, the choking dust.

   

  Ronnie didn’t let him fight and Lillandril understood. He didn’t have much faith in his own abilities. His presence in their escape from Dune reduced to a series of failed spells and carrying Dar’Kalaa. He followed Galmo into the cave, Elenwen close behind, still nursing her arm. Broken in a fall while they escaped, the dust storm covering a small ledge from her line of sight when they battled a group of strange rat-like creatures that walked on two legs on their way, on their way… to anywhere really. Ronnie would have to fix that too, but not until they were safe and he could focus his magicks. He struggled too. They only knew they needed shelter, Ronnie had warned them.

   

  “If the winds shift, we will be pummeled to death by the dust.” 

   

  The smell of blood greeted Lillandril immediately when they entered, making his stomach turn. He gagged and Dar’Kalaa shifted against him, her eyes finding his. He must look as green as her eyes.

   

  “Fight it.” Elenwen said softly through gritted teeth while she stepped over a dead Khajiit, its head missing.  Lillandril swallowed hard and they cleared the small corridor, walking into a larger cavern. Lillandril let Dar’Kalaa go and vomited near the wall. Elenwen was much tougher than he was.

   

  A pile of Khajiit corpses, some stripped of their gear, the blade work clearly a combination of Vingalmo and Äelberon. Vingalmo stooped, patting Lillandril on the back while he dry-heaved for several more moments.

   

  “We had to.” Vingalmo explained, his voice a tired whisper, “they…” he seemed revolted by what he had to say next and hesitated, swallowing and releasing a gust of air, “they collected heads, Landril. The second cavern is full of heads, full. Severed heads. Some skulls, some far more recent. All kinds, Khajiit too.” Vingalmo gave Lillandril a reassuring pat on the back and managed a smile, “We like you enough to spare you from that fate, you spoiled brat.”

   

  Äelberon was in the process of carrying a corpse towards the entrance, J’Fassaa bearing another on his back. Vingalmo looked up. “The last ones?”

   

  “Aye.” Ronnie sounded exhausted when he paused in front of the other knight, his eyes bloodshot from fatigue, dust and more blood than Lillandril wanted to see coated his armor. His face had dried blood on it and his braids were beginning to come undone.

   

  “Did you salvage anything?” Vingalmo asked.

   

  “Aye. A cloak, some better-suited clothes for Landril, water, and some food, the same that we have been eating, though, which I am not pleased about. Galmo, help us take these bodies outside. There is a small outcropping, hidden. We will let the shifting sands bury them. Before the winds turn against us.”

  Vingalmo nodded and the three set about their gruesome task while Lillandril and Elenwen sat upon several stone slabs inside the cave, near a still-burning campfire. Skulls decorated the cavern, skulls and bones, their shadows flickering on the walls. Elenwen’s face was as stone to Lillandril.

   

  

   

  Lillandril started, flailing his arms a little when he felt a hand on his shoulder, his eyes snapping awake, his mouth making a funny, surprised whimper only to immediately relax when he realized whose hand it was. Hands like bear paws. Great arms that held his sobbing sister after her nightmares. Comforting.

   

  “You fell asleep. Not for too long, maybe an hour. Hard to tell in here.” Äelberon said quietly, helping the young Mer to a sitting position on the stone. Sleeping had been a mistake, Lillandril was sore and his head throbbed. He hadn’t drunk enough to warrant such pain. He bet he reeked too, his robes, his beautiful satin robes were utterly filthy.

   

  “Why does my head hurt?” He moaned. He saw a golden glow out of the corner of his eye and the hand that supported his back now found his forehead, resting on it, the warmth of it incredibly soothing. The tension left Lillandril’s body like a wave and he felt Äelberon’s other hand steady him. “Thought you didn’t have a cure for hangovers…” he mumbled. Gods, that felt so good. He felt almost weightless.

   

  “This is not a hangover. It is something else. We all have it to varying degrees.  It is why our magicks are failing, why our tempers have been short. In the morning we will need to find something to eat. Preferably meat. We have been eating Khajiit food for too long and I think we are suffering for it.” Äelberon removed his hand from Lillandril’s forehead. “Better?”

   

  Lillandril nodded and Äelberon sunk down to the cavern floor, shrugging off his pack before his back found the slab that Lillandril was sitting on. Lillandril then felt light paws next to him and felt a form nuzzle his ribs before Dar’Kalaa took her place on Äelberon’s shoulder. The older Mer tilted his head to the side to give the Alfiq a welcoming squeeze while he searched through his pack. Close to them, their backs against another slab sat Vingalmo and Elenwen. J’Fassaa was curled against Elenwen, allowing her to use him as a makeshift pillow. Vingalmo’s cut was gone and Elenwen’s head was resting on the arm that had been broken before. Pissed as Oblivion and Ronnie still healed them. Äelberon removed a map from his pack, letting it rest folded on his lap while he released a great sigh.

   

  “I want to laugh again,” he started, his weary eyes finding Elenwen. “Laugh as we did when we first set upon this journey, but…” She looked away. “Lenni, look at me.”

   

  “Ronnie.” Vingalmo interrupted. “Not now” was written all over his face.

   

  “Yes, now” was written all over Ronnie’s and Lillandril saw the Mer’s nostrils flare, though his voice was not cruel, only serious. “I need to know, Galmo.” Äelberon argued. “I cannot keep putting Landril at risk.  Lenni, why were we diverted to Dune?”

   

  “Does it matter?” She asked, looking to Lillandril as if she were attempting to hide by burying her face into J’Fassaa’s fur. The Khajiit were watching them closely and Lillandril could see Dar’Kalaa’s tail twitching, her eyes intense, as if she knew a secret. The Moon-cats of Elsweyr with their little secrets, he thought quietly.

   

  “I think it does.” Äelberon retorted. His eyes wandered to Vingalmo, “do you know why?”

   

  The Agent turned briefly to Elenwen, and to Lillandril it looked as if he wanted to offer some measure of comfort, to brush her tangled blonde hair from her dirty face. “I only know what you know, Ronnie. Justiciar Cyrenar sent me away for part of the meeting, while you were loading S’Kuz.”

   

  “Why were the Ohmes-raht trying to kill Master Lillandril?” Äelberon asked, his tone darkening.

   

  “I don’t know, Ronnie.” Insisted Vingalmo, “but I swear on Auri-El and your covenant with him that I intended no harm.  I honestly did not know. Lenni?” Elenwen groaned and sat up, facing the fire.

   

  “My mission was to ensure that the outcome of the civil unrest at Dune was favorable to Thalmor interests.” She blurted out. The Alfiq narrowed her glittering eyes, processing everything that was being said. All three Mer exchanged troubled glances, but it was Äelberon who spoke first.

   

  “Elenwen, did you start this?” His brow was furrowing, the lips turned downwards, forming a frown, and Lillandril knew by now that that was not a good sign.  The She-Elf wasn’t easily intimidated, however, her eyes meeting Ronnie’s directly as her arms crossed over her chest.

   

  “What I did was for the glory of Alinor. It would have started eventually, I merely swayed the outcome so that Alinor would benefit. The Thalmor favored a twin.”

   

  Dar’Kalaa head-butted Äelberon’s neck several times in an attempt to get his attention. After eight days in their company, they knew it was her way of letting Äelberon know that she wished to “speak”. He brought the Alfiq from his shoulder to rest on his lap, untying from her necklace a crude leather pouch. The alphabet. It was far easier to store it on her person than to keep rewriting it whenever they required it. He removed from it a worn piece of parchment and proceeded to unfold it with his dust-covered fingers. He laid the paper flat on his lap in front of the Khajiit and waited for her to point to the letters. Äelberon then reached for his pack to retrieve a journal and charcoal to write her words only for her to place a paw on his forearm, a strange, clipped meow coming from her mouth. The sound made him pause his action and turn to her. The Alfiq shook her head, a clear “no”.  Äelberon dropped the journal back into his pack and reclined against the rock, waiting, his eyes on her paw while she moved it over the letters.

   

  “No, noble Pelin, Khajiit wishes these words to be private.” Äelberon transcribed aloud.  The Alfiq’s eyes then gazed at Elenwen before resuming her pointing. “Justiciar?” Äelberon paused before continuing, “Which twin was favored by the Thalmor?”

   

  “I don’t have to tell you anything. This is—“ Elenwen snapped, only to be cut off by Dar’Kalaa’s sharp hiss and then her hurried pointing, Äelberon’s eyes darting quickly to make out the words, his mouth moving to form Dar’Kalaa’s sentences, to be her voice.

   

  “Do not think yourself so clever.  Khajiit knew—knew?—of the Thalmor plans many days prior to your arrival. It was why this one… was sent to be a member of your party—Dar’Kalaa?” The Alfiq’s eyes closed briefly before she continued pointing. This one hated that she had to hurt him. “Pelin, your kindness to Khajiit makes this one regret very much that you have been used by both. Please, do not be angry. It will be made right, but this one must know which twin was preferred—“ “Why?” interrupted Äelberon again. Dar’Kalaa sighed, her paw moving over the letters for Äelberon to read. “Because the Six Pashas of Corinthe also favored a twin, and this one, as daughter of the Third, was sent to learn Thalmor intentions.” Her eyes turned to Elenwen again and she resumed her pointing, while Äelberon resumed his oral transcription. “Now, Justiciar, which twin was favored? Your life and the lives of those in your party will depend on your answer, though this one has her suspicions already.”

   

  “I don’t understand. Ronnie, is this some kind of trick?”

   

  Äelberon motioned for Dar’Kalaa to pause. “No, Lenni, Dar’Kalaa is asking and please, I implore you to answer. Not for me, I can take care of myself, but for Lillandril, whom you have dragged into this mess.”

   

  Vingalmo put a hand on Elenwen’s shoulder. “Lenni, please. Just tell her. Perhaps she can help us?”

   

  Elenwen shot Vingalmo a hard look, the beast-folk help the Thalmor? It was the other way around in her eyes, or so she had hoped, realizing her folly while she leaned against the rock, feeling J’Fassaa next to her, the tension in his muscled flank. He was watching her with his amber eyes, curious. Did he understand as well? Did S’Kuz? Were the Khajiit aware the entire time? If so, then the Thalmor still had a lot to learn before the Beast-folk of Elsweyr could be brought once again under the banner of the Third Aldmeri Dominion. The Moon-folk… “It would serve Thalmor interests if Ri’Felor became Pasha of Dune.” Elenwen admitted.

   

  No Alinor, just Thalmor, thought Äelberon glumly. Äelberon felt Dar’Karlaa’s purr against his thigh. The Alfiq narrowed her eyes, nodded and pointed to more letters on the parchment. “It seems the Thalmor play Baan Dar’s game better than this one thought, Justiciar Elenwen.  The Six of Corinthe will be pleased, for they also wish Ri’Felor for Dune.” She paused and tilted her head to the side in thought before pointing again, “if it is indeed Ri’Felor who has become Pasha. We bolted like Sheggorath’s children before we could learn for certain, yes?”

   

  “It was unsafe.” Äelberon interjected. He felt her paw on his forearm again. “I did not want—“She interrupted him with a flurry of pointing, catching him off-guard. “This one knows and respects… your sense of duty, Pelin. Rest assured, if the Thalmor had favored Ri’Nuruj, you and your young charge would have been given safe passage from Elsweyr for your honorable conduct and your kindness to Khajiit.” She eyed Elenwen and Vingalmo, her tail twitching aggressively. “The others not so much, and you saw this on display when one of Ri’Nuruj’s men attacked you, Justiciar, no?”

   

  Elenwen’s eyes widened and Dar’Kalaa released a seductive meow and narrowed her eyes before her paws moved over the letters again. “Yes, this one recognized the yellow slash over the guard’s left eye. Ri’Nuruj knew of your plan. The two at the brothel were also Ri’Nuruj’s, from his harem no doubt. He will be disappointed, he enjoys the company of Ohmes-raht very much. But Pelin’s actions were understood.”

   

  “How did they know?” Elenwen managed, exchanging confused glances with Vingalmo. The Alfiq’s paw indicated letters for Äelberon to transcribe again. She then started using both paws and Äelberon struggled to keep pace with her thinking.

   

  “You must think Khajiit just stupid cats, eh? Tell me, Justiciar—Dar, slow down—how many Khajiit like this one did you see roaming the halls of the twins’ palace?”

   

  “I didn’t see any.”

   

  “Precisely. Khajiit have been dancing—wait, wait—the two moons dance far longer than you have, Thalmor. Khajiit are cleverness. Both Pasha employ many such as Dar’Kalaa, Clever Art, who can sneak along doors and hide in the shadows, their ears understanding everything. They cannot speak, but they can nod ‘yes’ or ‘no’ like any other, though Dar’Kalaa is now special among them, for Pelin.” She paused and regarded him fondly, “has given her a voice. A voice she will use for your benefit, because yes, you have selected the correct pasha and if successful, have done the Khajiit of Elsweyr an unintended service.”

   

  “How do we know which one is Pasha?” asked Vingalmo. “We can’t go back there, especially if Lenni is being targeted. Damn, we are all targets now.”

   

  Äelberon stroked Dar’Kalaa’s back, more in an attempt to gather his own thoughts than to offer her comfort. They needed to know for certain who now ruled Dune. Going alone would put Lillandril at risk in the Ne-Quin-Al; taking him back would put the boy at risk at Dune. She stirred and turned to face him, her eyes expectant. Waiting. His hand left her back and unfolded the map to study it. All watched him crack a tired smile, which morphed into a full-blown laugh before he whacked Lillandril on the head with the map, making the young Mer grin, knowing full-well what the older Mer was seeing. “You mucked up my map. Could you have written any larger? ‘Khajiit girls are very pretty…’ Bah!”

   

  Dar’Kalaa swatted him with her paw taking offense and his hand squashed her head in jest, giving it a shake before letting it go.

   

  “Well, look at what the sneak did to my map, Dar.” He replied, shoving the map in her face. She snorted, her slender shoulders quivering with laughter, and Äelberon then shot a glance towards Lillandril.  “Boy, verily I am going to shove a tomato up your arse if you so much as touch my map again.” He smirked, wiping tears from his eyes.  “Though, aye, I am laughing again and for that I thank you, you fool.” Another sigh left his lips while he studied the map carefully for a few moments, the worry creeping back to his features.

   

  “The lot of you are going to drive this Mer to skooma, you know that? Vingalmo is correct, we cannot go back to either Dune or Riverhold. Elenwen, are they expecting us, or rather you at Corinthe?”

   

  Elenwen’s face grew long and she caught herself stroking the Senche’s coat, drawing comfort from the action in much the same way Ronnie drew comfort from Dar’Kalaa. The implied accusation had been awful. He no longer trusted her. 

   

  “The truth.” Äelberon warned.

   

  “There should be a contact waiting in Corinthe. According to Justiciar Cyrenar, he left Riverhold a bit before we did. His mission was to head first to Rimmen and then Corinthe.  We are expected, Ronnie, we. Please believe me.”

   

  He dismissed her with a wave of his hand and his eyes lingered on the map. “I cannot think on that now. Only on getting Lillandril and these Khajiit to Corinthe safely. S’Kuz’s death weighs on me and I will not lose another of our party.  Unfortunately, we do not have the supplies to reach Corinthe, but if we can survive the Ne-Quin-Al, we can reach Orcrest. Perhaps learn some news… Bloody Oblivion, Auri-El guide our steps.”

   

  

   

   

  10^th of Sun’s Dawn, 4e 26, somewhere in the Ne-Quin-Al Desert.

   

  Krogonk gro-Nolonag laughed heartily when Oghba’s axe found the siligonder’s ant-like head, the blade cutting deep into the dark purple-brown chitin, the green blood splattering from the beast’s wound directly onto Oglok, who wrinkled his nose in disgust, wiping the ooze from his chitin-plated armor. She laughed as well, tearing the axe from the beast and then leaping from its still-twitching mass of quivering legs and clenching pincers, its shine catching the moonlight. A full Orc-hunting party circled the downed beast, the length of at least four of them and covered with enough chitin to suit two Orcs in full armor and repair weapons. Still, eh, a small one, frowned Krogonk, disappointed, but the larger ones were in the deep desert and their Chief only wanted them gone for a few days. The refugees from Dune were beginning to pour in and with them came increased head hunter activity. They needed to keep their hunting and their patrolling close. Tight. They had seen the tracks the other day.

   

  “Grow some tusks, Oglok.” Snarled Oghba, her blue eyes blazing with the thrill of a successful hunt as she sheathed her axe. She strode towards her brother and body-slammed him roughly in the shoulder, making the younger Orc stumble backwards. She groaned in disgust and then body-slammed Krogonk. He was better prepared and stood his ground, earning her sneer of approval.

   

  She was going to make the new Chief of tribe Mogrish a beast of a Shield-Wife, Krogonk thought with a satisfied smile, his tusks flashing, not really caring that sweat was dripping into his eye. She was a good head taller than Oglok, who didn’t match up, but if they lost Oglok to the city Orcs, Tribe Nolonag still had three siblings to carry the Tribe with honor. Their other brother, even younger than Oglok, still a boy, was already hunting sandcrawlers with another party for food. Krogonk was the eldest and close to challenging his Chief. He had grown up with the new Chief of tribe Mogrish, their fathers part of a group of mercenaries from eight different strongholds. Eight mercenaries who did what an entire division of Legion troops couldn’t. Defeat the Daedra from the Oblivion gate at Orcrest. And close it.

   

  Orcrest, the Orsinium of Elsweyr, only without the milk-drinking political baggage, eight strongholds adhering strictly to Malacath’s Code. United originally to defeat Daedra, staying united for water. No slaves, no intrigue.  No bullshit. Everyone, even the fucking Minotaurs, knew their proper place. Working. And it served them, and the non-Orcs under their protection very well for the past twenty-six years, the new batch of Chiefs emerging to continue what their predecessors had started. 

   

  It was their first hunt without him, and he could tell Oghba felt it a little.  He was being fitted for his Chief’s Orichalcum. An honor well-earned. She’d snap out of it. He’d be back on the hunt as soon as his armor was ready. He was probably crazier than they were, having to wait by the forge all day instead of spending it slipping in siligonder blood.

   

  “Alright, we’ve basked in our glory long enough. Let’s strip this bitch of her chitin and cut her open for eggs. She looks like a gravid female to me.” Ordered Krogonk, raising his axe to wedge the blade in between two chitin plates. He gave a strong yank and felt the chitin tear from the flesh, releasing the beast’s funk into the desert air.  

   

  The Orc party worked through the part of the night, efficiently, quietly. Krogonk put himself on sentry first, watching the desert for any signs of activity, his dark grey eyes scanning, his hand twitching over his axe. Another siligonder would be nice, but a lion or a glyptodon would be ideal. One for its fur, the other for its bumpy, armored skin, used to make a light armor, their tail, a formidable mace. He could use a glyptodon mace, though he preferred axes.

   

  A flicker of purplish light and Krogonk tensed up. He knew that light. The lights of Oblivion. Something was appearing? Did that happen still?

   

  Oghba knew when her brother sensed something and paused from her work to walk towards him. “Krogonk, what is it?” Her eyes widened when they saw the purple flame appear a second time and then flashes of bluish-white. Then figures emerged from the settling dust.

   

  Even worse than Daedra, magicks. And head hunters. Looked like a party was being ambushed by head hunters. A mixed party, Khajiit and… Elves? Damn, Krogonk cursed to himself, head hunters would be beating down Orcrest’s doors soon.

   

  “Tell them to stop what they’re doing.” Krogonk commanded. He heard weapons being unsheathed behind him. They were ready.

   

  “They already have, brother.” Oghba replied. Her eyes then narrowed. “Is that a Nord?”

   

  His eyes regarded the source of Oghba’s question. “That’s heavy armor if I’ve ever seen it, nice set too. It’s either an Orc or a Nord, and Orcs aren’t colored like that. A white Orc my arse.” He smirked, patting Oghba on the shoulder. “Let’s go rescue some girls from head hunters.” She grinned, her chipped tusk all the more prominent. A desert lion took part of it. She then took the lion’s, with her bare hands, the teeth now around her neck. “It was pretty.” She had said.

   

  

   

  All of them stood with their weapons drawn or spells charged, not quite sure what to do. Krogonk felt rage. There was Oglok lying on the sand, his body burned. Struck dead by one of the mages they were now facing, a pile of head hunters very dead around them, body parts everywhere, and blood-stained sand under a moonlit sky. If Oglok had not fallen, circumstances would have been different. Oghba wanted to kill them immediately, her outcries loud in the desert winds. Krogonk had pointed his finger, at the youngest of them, a slip of a High Elf with black hair, his green eyes wide. He was the one who had killed Oglok, the proof was in his singed clothes.

   

  “You killed this Orc.” Growled Krogonk, though as he spoke, he was eyeing the other. Neither a Nord nor an Orc, but the biggest High Elf he had ever seen, wielding a bastard sword that was as heavy as their own weapons, the armor on his back denser than their chitin, the shield and bow an added burden. High Elves were not supposed to be able to carry heavy armor. He had fought like a desert lion against the head hunters, easily pulling his weight, despite the strong case of the sugar-shakes that was clearly affecting all of them. For Oghba to stare and regard the fighting, he had been impressive to watch. Almost a shame to kill—

   

  “Liar.”

   

  The hissed word brought Krogonk out of his admiration of the giant Altmer. The boy was an idiot. He was going to die, the rest of their party too. Nobody called an Orc a liar. And then another word was spoken by one of the others. A hushed whisper, from the slender female, but High Elves forget that Orcs are Mer too.  With damn good hearing, you stupid bitch. "Goblin-ken…Thy nar goblin-ken.”

   

  That did it and before any of them could react, Orcs, Khajiit, and High Elves alike, Krogonk grabbed the young Altmer by the scruff of the neck and began to drag him struggling across the sand, his axe ready to shed blood for a fallen brother. Only for a black gauntlet to lay a grip like a vice on his forearm. Krogonk’s eyes met an intense pair of red-orange eyes, like a forge fire. He was quick, Krogonk had not seen him approach. “Orsimer, follow you the Code of Mauloch?”

   

  Not snide, whiny, or worse, begging, simply asked, the voice low and unwavering. Krogonk never relinquished his hold on the young Elf. He could feel the worm trembling, squirming beneath his grasp. Weak, but the hand that grasped his forearm wasn’t and, he knew of Mauloch. It was a name for Malacath from the Velothi Mountains or Orsinium. An old name. And he had called him… Orsimer.

   

  “I am Krogonk gro-Nolonag, what do you think, Outsider?”

   

  The slightest of exhales from the Altmer. He was thinking on his feet, as if reading what to do next. “Then how much is the blood-price for this boy’s crime?”

   

  Krogonk’s eyes narrowed. “He was my brother.” He could hear a faint “Xarxes’ arse” on the exhale of the Altmer’s breath, but the eyes stayed locked on his. Krogonk looked at Oghba and she nodded. “3,000 septims or… all blood.”

   

  “Captain, what are you doing?” called out one of the other Elves, another male. He was the one who toyed with Oblivion, wielding two Daedric swords. The bitch female was holding an Alfiq and bristling nearby was a Senche.

   

  “And if,” The Altmer paused, and Krogonk could see his lips move, his eyes scanning something in front of him, only there was nothing, fucking nothing. It was like he was fucking reading a book or something. “If it was an accident?”

   

  Krogonk dropped the boy. “You calling me a liar?”

   

  “No,” answered the Altmer, releasing his grip on Krogonk. “I am not, but did you actually see the boy strike down your brother? We were all fighting head hunters. I have fought battles where you do not  know if you are striking friend or foe, there is so much going on, bodies upon bodies piled on a sea of blood. We passed the Oblivion gates in the desert, we know what happened here. We saw the remnant Scamps.” The voice then grew very dark, “and we slaughtered them. I say it was an accident. An ill-done move, done when the heat of battle boils your blood.” The Altmer’s voice lowered to nearly a growl. “And if you tell me that you have never felt your own blood boil in battle, Orsimer, then you are no Child of Mauloch’s—“

   

  “There is no question what I feel in battle, Outsider.” Krogonk snarled, his teeth baring in a threatening sneer. The High Elf definitely had a set of tusks on him, Krogonk gave him that. An insult, yes, but a fair point was made, logical, and definitely not spoken like a mage. He smirked, that one’s blood probably boiled too and Krogonk couldn’t lie to himself, he was intrigued. “So, we have a dispute then?” Krogonk challenged, licking one of his tusks in anticipation.

   

  “Krogonk, what are you doing? Kill them! They have killed Oglok and insulted us!” growled Oghba, her axe drawn.

   

  “Shut up, female.” Krogonk barked back. She seethed, but was silent, kicking up sand like a pissed-off Minotaur. He turned to face this creature that was an Altmer who wore heavy armor, fought like a warrior, and knew Orc ways. “Do you know how Orcs solve disputes?”

   

  They looked at him with such strange faces and Äelberon could only imagine what they were thinking. Then they looked at the Orc he was speaking with and he could see Lilandril’s face go pale. Five days in the Ne-Quin-Al Desert had not done Äelberon’s body any good. He was tired, thinner, and dehydrated, his magicka useless for all but the most basic spells. He was taller than the Orc by about a head, but the Orc had greater bulk. Äelberon knew his style of martial combat was very different and he would be faster. Would it be an advantage? He did not know. His eyes met Lillandril’s one more time, the boy looked terrified. It will be alright, youngling, he mouthed with an assuring nod. He then faced Krogonk. “Yes, I do. Do we just remove the helm and gauntlets or do you want all armor removed?” Äelberon asked.

   

  If he missed and struck that plating, thought Krogonk, he’d break his hand. Probably the Mer was thinking the exact same thing, for Krogonk caught him eyeing the chitin armor. He was an archer, and that unstrung bow looked like a beast of a weapon, probably needed to keep those hands in shape.

   

  “We will remove our armor.” The Orc stated. “First one who doesn’t get up after a count of ten, loses. In your case, all of you lose and I can demand blood-price and believe me, you’ll pay it. If you win, then it was an accident, as you said and you are free to go where you please. Deal, Outsider?”  

   

  Aurri-El, help me, thought Äelberon as he extended his hand towards the Orc. “Your terms are acceptable.”

   

  

   

  “One…”

   

  Äelberon lay on the desert ground coughing blood, the pain in his ribs intense, the grit of sand in his mouth. Through the ringing in his ears, he could vaguely make out the counting.

   

  “Two… three…”

   

  The She-Orc, delivered with a satisfied glee that was slowly angering him. He opened his eyes and he wasn’t trusting them much, the vision blurred. Bodies hovered over him against the moonlit sky, the drool from tusks fell on him, the smell of sweat and armor. His cotton shirt was torn, stained in spots with blood and sweat. He gave the Orc credit for being an honorable fighter, he did not once go for his hair. He had not really needed to. It was far better to pummel flesh than it was to pummel hair, he thought with a tiny smirk. They had stripped to their clothes and he remembered smirking a little then too when he saw the Orc’s jaw subtly clench when Äelberon’s cuirass struck the ground with a heavy, heavy thud.

   

  Aye, my armor is heavier than yours, Äelberon had thought smugly.  They then rushed at each other, blinding fast now that they were both unhindered, Äelberon preparing “Striking Eagle”, one of his signature moves when he did this sort of fighting in Summerset. It was a grand, flying side kick, elegant, and it always knocked any Altmer to the ground, ending the spar.  It would be over. One strike, for he was the Eagle of Auri-El. When he vaulted into the air, his long leg extended, he could see Vingalmo smile and nod out of the corner of his eye. He had been knocked down by that move once or twice before. We would teach these Orcs how to fight.

   

  “Four… five…”

   

  In a move that shocked the Oblivion out of Äelberon, the Orc somehow grabbed his leg before it was supposed to make contact with the Orc’s chest and then turned rapidly, using the momentum of his spinning form to swing the flabbergasted Elf like a ball and chain, throwing off his balance and sending him flying through the air in another trajectory, his body crashing to the ground a little aways, hard, ribs cracking, leaving him dazed. He had grossly underestimated the brute strength of an Orc. An Altmer was simply not strong enough to make that counter-move, their only option to dodge, which if he was faster, did not happen. And even if they did manage a dodge, he would land on his feet again to continue, graceful, not like the tangled heap of flesh he was now. He heard the laughter from the other Orcs, the deep chuckle from his opponent, and the gasps of terror from his party and he was humiliated. Blood-price would be paid. Before he could react, the Orc then fell upon him, punching, striking, kicking and he struggled, not quite understanding this way of fighting, so much body contact, but at the same time learning while he was being beaten nearly senseless.

   

  Nearly… I am no weakling. He now understood what he needed to do to survive this. It was only a matter of actually willing his body up. He tried to push up with his hand and it faltered. Damn it. Mind was willing, body was not doing so well. Damn sugar, damn lack of water, of real food, damn all the fighting and struggle of five days. They were so close to Orcrest, if this hunting party was any indication of their location. He was weak. He could not afford weakness. They could not afford his weakness. He would get them to Orcrest.

   

  “Six… seven…”

   

  The She-Orc was so sure of the outcome; Äelberon could hear it in her tone while she counted. She was powerful in her own right. He had noticed her and Krogonk’s fighting. It was impressive. Together, they had made short work of the head hunters.

   

  His swollen eyes found Lillandril. The boy was pale, being held in place by a beast of an Orc, a giant, chitin-covered hand squeezing his thin shoulder. Hurting him. He would be the first to pay for his failure. Their eyes met for a moment and Äelberon clenched his jaw when the boy looked away, ashamed? Was he ashamed? Did he feel sorry for Äelberon? No, no pity, Äelberon thought, fighting a wave of intense emotion, anger mostly, some grief, and some of his own shame. He would not fail the boy. He had sworn on Lilandtar’s deathbed that he would not fail this boy.  A Knight’s Honor.

   

  “I am a Knight of the Crystal Tower. My word is honor.” He mumbled, feeling the strength return to his hand and he growled. The Orc looked puzzled, had he heard? Aye, I growl too. 

   

  “Eight…” the She-Orc continued, though now with a frown or snarl, Äelberon really could not tell in the haze that was his vision. He turned to Lillandril again and reassured the boy, just as he did earlier. It will be alright, youngling, Äelberon mouthed and he started to push himself up.

   

  “Ni—huh!?” Stammered the She-Orc when she saw him rise quickly and tackle a surprised Krogonk to the ground, his white fist slamming into the Orc's face. 

   

  

   

  Author's Note: Again, huge thanks to Karver for playing through the Deserts of Anequina mod for Oblivion, for his huge recent delving into Orc culture, and for showing me some fight moves that make sense.

  Ta’agra:

  Pelin – knight

  Felor – right

  Nuruj – left

  Ri – as a prefix denotes someone of high status. The twins of Dune are distinguished by the position of their yellow eye. Ri’Felor has it on his right eye, Ri’Nuruj has it on his left.

  Dar’Kalaa – Clever art

  J’Fassaa – literally bachelor hiss

  S’Kuz – literally adult tooth

  Khajiit Pantheon - Baan Dar: the Pariah and the personification of Khajiit cleverness.

  Altmeris:  

  Thy nar goblin-ken -  They are goblin-ken.

  Orsimer, for much of their history, were lumped with the other beast races, including goblins and ogres. While other races acknowledge that they are now a Mer, the Altmer enslaved goblins, so it makes sense that some of them would continue to associate Orsimer with goblins.

   

  Chapter 2 

  

  Chapter 4