Chapter 7 - Domestic Politics and Foreign Policy

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The ruins of Fort Farragut had loomed over Cheydinhal for centuries, but in spite of this one would have great difficulty finding someone in the city able to give a good description of what lay inside…not even the local boys on a dare, ventured towards the brooding wreck.

Strangely enough, it seemed that Fort Farragut had been erased from the collective memory of the inhabitants of Cheydinhal. They would hardly even acknowledge its existence, and if they ever did it was exclusively to mention the strange disappearances of all the nosey individuals who showed too much interest in the subject.

This reputation did not concern the silhouette bustling in the Fort’s inner courtyard, by the light of the torches flickering and smoking all over the place.

“Now, this is what I call ‘clean’…!” Arius exclaimed happily as he proudly considered his work. “What do you think, Shadowmere?” he asked, turning to the horse.

An unenthusiastic neigh answered him. The assassin frowned and turned around. The mare was standing a few feet behind him, looking absolutely mournful, as if she was already en route the slaughterhouse.

“Come on, don’t you think cleaning is fun?”

Shadowmere considered Arius’ radiantly joyous expression with depressed annoyance. Then she gave the equine equivalent of a shrug before resolutely presenting the Silencer with her hindquarters.

“Hmmm, I take this as a ‘no’,” Arius sighed as he dropped to the ground the brush and the bucket with which he had painstakingly cleaned the whole of Fort Farragut’s stonework, inside and out.

Despite everything the Silencer had undertaken, Shadowmere staunchly refused to be cheered up. Regardless of his attempts to entertain – or placate – the mare, nothing dented her palpable displeasure. Arius’ best efforts simply went unappreciated, and unaccepted.

First, he had suggested taking her to trample mudcrabs on the shores of Lake Rumare. Or, go into the local wilds chasing rabbits(1). Or, finally and best, to attack innocent travellers who passed too close to the ruins – in short, all the things she liked to do with Lucien. Except that, this time, her beloved master was not there, and this was certainly where the problem lay…

Arius was starting to seriously worry. He checked her manger regularly, but she had not touched her oats, enriched with rat proteins, today nor yesterday. But there was worse…

While brushing her, that very morning, the assassin had noticed small hairless patches on her underbelly…

“I know you miss Lucien, Shadowmere. But he will be back soon, you know, and I am sure he will be quite displeased to see you in such a sad state,” Arius wheedled, patting her affectionately. “In the meantime, don’t you want to give me a hand with the Dark Guardians? I need you to corner them while I will try to brush the dust from their armour…”

“I don’t think Speaker Lachance would be pleased with that, Arius…” someone said. “For some reason, I believe, he considers dusty Dark Guardians as an inherent part of his ‘creepy-and-evil-assassin’ image – as well as the ruined old fort, if you see what I mean…”

The assassin stiffened at the sound of the voice. Ocheeva’s voice he corrected himself mentally… Arius swore under his breath. He had not heard her coming… By Sithis, he was the one supposed to sneak behind people like that…! What if people started to steal his well-honed tactics?

Trying to relax, Arius slowly turned in the direction of the voice while determining the right attitude to adopt toward the Mistress of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary. He had done nothing wrong and had every right to be here, but there was something in Ocheeva’s voice which made him feel like a kid caught with his fingers in the jam jar.

“Oh, er… hello, Ocheeva! What a pleasure, ahahah…!” His friendly laugh died in his throat.

Ocheeva was standing a few feet from him, her arms crossed over her chest. She had exchanged her Shrouded Armour for a more casual outfit consisting in a lovely white and green dress that enhanced the golden glints of her scales and eyes. Sadly, her new attractive look was somewhat spoiled by the annoyance on her face. And the look she was shooting Arius was so cold he could have gone ice-skating on it.

“What are you doing here, Arius? You were supposed to have a look round your next contract’s place and come back immediately afterwards…”

The assassin sighed inwardly with relief. If that was the only reason she was angry at him, there was nothing to fear…or was there…?

“Well, this is what I did, O Ocheeva.” the Imperial tried to justify himself, carefully not mentioning that his mission only took him two hours that morning. “But when I came back, I decided to drop by to Fort Farragut to see how Shadowmere was…” Arius reached up and tried to pet Shadowmere, but the horse whickered warningly at him and stomped a foot, aggrievedly. It was obvious that Shadowmere would willingly exchange Arius’ company for the usual must and dust of the fort.

At these words, the Argonian examined the mare carefully and Arius turned brilliantly crimson when he saw Ocheeva’s eyes widen in surprise.

“You… You plaited her mere?” she asked in disbelief.

Arius gulped. “Er… Yes?”

“Shadowmere’s…? And you still have all your fingers on?!”

Arius could not help but check his hands quickly. “I think I will still be able to count to ten,” he replied, expecting his attempt at humour to force a smile out of the Argonian.

But Ocheeva’s face remained completely closed. “Glad to see you have managed to tame this monster. Only Lucien can approach her without being kicked to death. Congratulations, really.”

Arius was about to respond but finally decided to keep his mouth shut, being unable to determine if he should take Ocheeva’s last remark as a compliment or as a reproach. The Mistress of the Sanctuary remained a complete mystery to Arius, and this unsettled him greatly...

Arius had always felt at ease anywhere he decided to stay, thanks to his ability to decipher and understand people’s character. Even his Speaker’s, Lucien Lachance, whom Arius considered the epitome of cold, creepy and secretive, had revealed an almost pleasant aspect of his personality in J’Ghasta’s company.

Ocheeva was another story…

Oh, she was always extremely polite with him, although at the same time, she remained so distant, so cold, so “in-control”, even with the members of the Sanctuary she had known for years… But this would have not shocked Arius if he had not had sneaking suspicion that her cordial demeanour turned into glacial over-politeness when she had to deal with him. After all, wasn’t he the only assassin in Cheydinhal she called by his surname and not by his first name…?

“Ah, anyway, I have not come here to dissert on your abilities to get on with magic psychopathic horses,” the Argonian carried on, dragging Arius from his ruminations on her personality and peculiarities. “I have news…”

The Silencer remained quiet but his eyes narrowed a bit. News…Given the Argonian’s tone, it was certainly not good…

“Arquen is organising a meeting,” she continued slowly, glaring at Arius to see his reaction. “A… Synod, to be more precise.”

Knowing he was carefully assessed, Arius did his best to keep his composure neutral, even if he was inwardly absolutely flabbergasted.

By Sithis, now wonder why Ocheeva was so edgy! A Synod… The supreme Unholy Congregation of the Dark Brotherhood…

A shiver of both excitement and fear ran along Arius’ spine while a series of pictures formed in his head: dozens and dozens of hooded silhouettes gathered in an immense cave. Torchlight dancing on frescos painted there at the dawn of time while, on a platform in the centre of the room, a red flame burned, symbolising the presence of the Dread Father…

Of course, such a meeting had not taken place in at least century, and the Silencer’s fertile imagination was fed on and strongly influenced by the stories he had heard and read on the subject. The Brotherhood had always been extremely wary of organised meetings which included all its members for obvious reasons. Indeed, if they were discovered, the repercussions would be terrible…

In addition, it demanded quite a lot of time to organise – you could not contact all the assassins in all corners of the Empire by just snapping your fingers – and this made Arius think Arquen had been planning her dirty trick for quite a while. Probably even before J’Ghasta appointed her interim Listener…

“A rather interesting piece of news, if I may say.” Arius finally replied in a neutral and soft voice. “Do the others know already about it…?”

“The others? If you mean the other Sanctuary Masters, yes, they know…But if you are talking about our comrades in Cheydinhal, they don’t. I will tell them in time. I…wanted to discuss the matter with you first. I know it is rather unexpected but…”

“I have to admit I am indeed surprised, Ocheeva,” Arius interrupted her. “Why did you choose to talk to me first? Why not asking M’raaj-Dar, Teinaava, Gogron or even Antoinetta? You know them better than me.”

“And you certainly trust them more…” he added to himself and was surprised by the bitterness of the thought. Arius knew his own merits and abilities, so other people’s opinions had never mattered to him before. But before what exactly…?

“I indeed know them better than you, and it is exactly why I did not talk to them, Arius.” Ocheeva replied with a heavy sigh. “M’raaj-Dar would end up hurling abuse at Arquen, Teinaava would talk about finding a way to stab her in the back, Antoinetta would not understand anything while Gogron would be... well… gogronesque. This is not what I am looking for at the moment… I need someone able to offer me support, someone who can a cool head.” She paused, during which she carefully studied the palms of her hands before turning her attention back on Arius again. “And you are that person, Arius. Your encyclopaedic knowledge of the history of the Brotherhood is legendary. Lucien trusts you, which, in my opinion, is worth all credentials in the worl…why are you laughing?” she demanded, offended, as the Silencer chuckled uncontrollably.

“Ocheeva…” Arius managed to articulate in between hiccups. “Do you realise you are actually paying me compliments?”

The Mistress of the Sanctuary looked at the Silencer with an expression of complete non-comprehension on her face. “I beg your pardon, Arius…?”

The Imperial finally managed to calm down, and considered the Argonian carefully. Was she truly surprised or did she pretend not to understand in order to...

“Would you mind letting me know what’s wrong with you?” she continued in a very dry tone. Her nostrils flared, a clear sign she was rapidly becoming irritated. The last time Arius saw her do that...ugh. He shuddered. It just didn’t bear thinking about...

“I was about to ask you the same question, O Ocheeva.”

“What?”

All right, apparently, she was not faking, so Arius decided to speak frankly. After all, there might never be any other occasion to broach the subject.

“Since I arrived in Cheydinhal a few months ago, I’ve done everything possible to settle in well. And I think I have managed to integrate fairly well with my fellow assassins. They now consider me part of the family...” Arius explained patiently. “Except you…Whatever I do or say or suggest, you are never satisfied. What have I done to irk you, Ocheeva? Why do you despise me so much?” Arius asked quietly, disheartened even.

The Argonian made a little disconcerted noise with her throat. “But…It’s not...I don’t despise you…!” she protested. “It’s just…”

“Yes?” The Silencer expected Ocheeva to yell at him or to otherwise show her temper. Instead, she buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders slouched, as if weighted down by a burden almost beyond her strength to bear.

“It is just...I feel so...lost.” she said in a hoarse whisper. “So lost…”

It was the Imperial’s turn to look dumfounded. He was certainly not expecting that kind of reaction, and he was not sure how to react in turn. All this smelled like “confession time”. The only ones Arius felt at ease with, or entitled to receive were the confessions of his victims, just before he offered them the ultimate redemption in blood and Sithis’ embrace…

“Arquen is right, you know. Everything has seemed to go downhill for months…” The Argonian raised her head and her exotic golden eyes looked deeply into Arius’, her expression bleak and hopeless. “It started with Bellamont trying to destroy the Brotherhood, it continued with the curse of the Ankou and Merhunes Dagon’s invasion, both leading to Telaendril’s, Vicente’s and Sigrid’s deaths.” Ocheeva declared in one breath, the words flowing out of her mouth at an impressive speed.

Arius did not try to interrupt her. Apparently, she needed to get those things off her chest.

“And for the rest, well, you are perfectly aware of it.” she continued, but a bit more slowly this time. “You had already joined us in the Sanctuary, you know about Lucien and Sigrid’s extremely tense relationship. It tainted the atmosphere of the Family up until she ran away. And now, Lucien and J’Ghasta are gone, leaving Arquen free rein over the Brotherhood’s future…”

“She hasn’t got free rein,” Arius cut her off firmly. “The Dark Brotherhood does not consist only of the Speakers and the Listener. Whatever Arquen may think the rest of our Brothers and Sisters will have their say!”

Ocheeva a feeble smile. “If you say so… But she is invoking a Synod, Arius. It is far from being meaningless.” The Argonian gave another deep sigh. “You know, it is the first time I’ve never felt so alone…Before, when Lucien was away, Vicente was there to offer his support and advice on how to manage the Sanctuary. He was a great comfort…I don’t know if you had the pleasure to meet him, but he was a great…” Ocheeva did not finish her sentence and Arius felt a wave of panic rise in his throat when he saw her eyes glitter with misty with tears.

Arius had only been serving as Lucien Silencer’s - and thus staying in the Cheydinhal Sanctuary - for a bit more than six months. However, even that short period of time had been enough to see how the death of Vicente Valtieri had affected his Sanctuary-mates.

This did not surprise Arius at first. After all, Valtieri was quite a legend in his own way. The vampire had served the Brotherhood for two hundred years, and had occupied all the positions offered, from Murderer to Listener, as well as Master of a Sanctuary and it was obvious his loss had had disastrous effects on the organisation.

But more and more it was most visible not in the infrastructure, but on those whom the vampire had left behind. Valtieri had indubitably marked his companions, and there was not a day that passed without one of them remembering what a great companion he was or, as Gogron simply put it, how “he rocked hard, damnit!”.

The Silencer suddenly wished he had the occasion to know Valtieri better. But this was not the time for regrets, and Arius refocused his attention on Ocheeva. Tears were rolling down her cheeks now and that was certainly the most terrifying thing he had seen in a while. The very calm and rational Ocheeva, crying…

By Sithis and the Night Mother together, what was he supposed to do in this sort of situation…? It wasn’t something assassin training prepared him for – crying women. Well, not ones he didn’t have to kill, in the end.

“It’s all right, er…” He hesitated, and then finally started patting the Argonian awkwardly on the shoulder. But the latter gave a start at the contact as if she had been stung, and the Silencer withdrew his hand immediately. “I do apologise Ocheeva, I…”

The Mistress of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary sniffled. She then retrieved a small handkerchief from one of her sleeves and blew her nose loudly. “It is all right Arius…You must think I am a complete imbecile, unworthy to assume the responsibility of leading one of the Dark Brotherhood’s Sanctuaries…” Ocheeva commented with a sad smile as she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. She seemed to have gotten a grip on herself, and her voice was perfectly calm again.

“No, I don’t,” Arius replied honestly. “I truly admire the work you do in Cheydinhal. Very impressive for such a young person!”

“You mean, ‘very impressive despite the fact I’m just a kid’?”

“Nonono! That’s not what I meant!” Arius denied, shaking his two forefingers frenetically in front of him in sign of negation. But he stopped, and a very shyly earnest, embarrassed smile crept across his features, when he realised the Argonian was beaming at him. “Oh. You were joking… Very funny. Ahahah…!”

“Yes, I was. Ahahah…!”

Conversation lulled, and silence settled as the two assassins stood and fidgeted. Neither noticed that Shadowmere had wandered off, in search of grass, grazing, and less stress.

“Well, thanks a lot for the vote of confidence, Belisarius,” Ocheeva said, getting up and smoothing the fabric of her skirt. “Now, would you mind if we talk about the Synod on our way back to the Sanctuary? I am tired and I would like to go get back home…”

Strangely, Arius felt suddenly jovial. She had called him by his first name as if it was the most natural thing in the world…! “Er, of course, but can I finish to washing the…?” He stopped and had a resigned sigh when he caught the Argonian’s eyes. “All right. For the sake of the Brotherhood, the cleaning can wait…”

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“I told you it was weird that there were no guards at all!” Sigrid shouted as she neatly decapitated a Khajiit warrior who was trying to run her though with a spear.

“All right, I was wrong!” Clairvoix admitted as it pierced thought the chest of another of their attackers. “But how could have I known the smugglers would betray us - Duck!”

Sigrid obeyed, avoiding another spear which embedded itself right behind her.

The fighter who had thrown it hissed in rage and jumped at the young woman, his teeth and claws bared, ready to tear her apart. But his victorious roar as he was about to land on her back turned into a scream of horror and pain as he found himself stabbed by hundreds of sharp icicles, coming from the spell Sigrid had just cast at him.

“Nice one!” Clairvoix cheered while the Khajiit on the ground doubled up with pain. “Now he looks like a whining pincushion!”

Not bothering to answer, Sigrid immediately came back to guard, checking around her for another opponent, but it seemed she had won a little rest she took advantage of to assess the situation – which was far from brilliant…

It was chaos. Sigrid’s travelling companions were either fighting desperately, or screaming helplessly, trying to find a way to escape, an option appearing more and more impossible…

Their assailants were professionals who had carefully coordinated the attack – probably thanks to the information the smugglers had provided. Thus, to make sure no one could escape them, they had divided their group into two smaller units, one unit attacking while the other kept the camp cordoned off. And all those who were fleeing were either captured or killed for resisting capture…

“We have to get out of here!” Sigrid yelled to Clairvoix, over the clash of the battle. The smell of blood and of fear all around her was making her sick.

“Oh, but after you, my dear!” the sword exclaimed sardonically.

Not to waiting for another aggressor to come at her, Sigrid ran in the direction she deemed safest, as it was darker, quieter and had more tree-cover in which to hide.

But Clairvoix was right: getting out of this trap was easier said than done…The sides represented were too unbalanced, and the weight of numbers – and therefore the advantage - was clearly in favour of the soldiers.

Sigrid’s stomach knotted distastefully at the thought. Soldiers, yeah…Mercenaries, more like! Indeed, if she had no doubt about the fact they were professional warriors, she had serious doubts on the legality of the fighters she was confronting…

First, they were not wearing uniforms, strictly speaking, even if their shields were sporting a coat of arms, a coat of arms that even Sigrid Trencavel had never seen before. The coat of arms consisted of a shield with a green background and ornamented with what looked like a contorted mask, like the ones High Elven actors wore during their tragedies on stage.

Second, their forces were a mix of all Tamrielic races, from Imperial to Orc – the trademark of any self-respecting group of mercenaries.

Third, they seemed more interested in pillaging and massacring than in arresting any offenders.

But there was something else about their behaviour that worried her a lot more…

Sigrid stopped behind a tree and observed a gaggle of mercenaries searching methodically through a tent and checking carefully, with the light of many torches, the faces of their victims and prisoners.

“They’re looking for something...” Clairvoix whispered as they watched the mercenaries, now ripping open a mattress to check its contents.

“I know…” Sigrid replied, her heart sinking as the sword confirmed her worst fear. “Something - or someone... Do you think they’re after us?” Sigrid asked nervously, instinctively wrapping an arm around herself.

“No. I can’t see the Dark Brotherhood using those kinds of methods… I don’t know who those dudes are looking for, but I don’t want to find out. So let’s go!”

Sigrid nodded and resumed her progress away from the mercenaries, doing her best not to draw attention.

Here and there were little groups of travellers still struggling, literally fighting for their lives. Among those resisting was the young female Sigrid had met earlier.

All the Khajiiti Sigrid had met so far, despised traditional weapons, preferring to use, as they said, the ones their goddess Fadomai had given them – claws and teeth. They rarely needed anything more efficient than those... However, what Sigrid could see at the very moment convinced her it was far from being a set-in-stone rule…

Roaring gutturally, the Khajiit was mercilessly mauling and otherwise decimating her attackers with her wickedly sharp claws, but also with an odd, razor-shaped sword with a haft made out of horn. The blade was so sharp it cut through even coats of mail and shields as easily as a warm knife through butter.

“Maybe we should give her a hand?” Clairvoix offered.

“What for? She looks like she’s doing just fine,” Sigrid retorted, turning her back to the fighters and continuing her escape. “And need I remind you that five minutes ago, it was us she wanted to cut up into tiny little bits?” Sigrid asked, disgruntled, her lip curling slightly.

“That’s no reason to just abandon her to her fate!” the sword protested.

“We have more urgent matters to attend, Clairvoix.”

“Come on, Sigrid! You’re the Champion of Cyrodiil! Let’s go kick some baddies’ asses and save the world again!” Clairvoix wheedled.

The answer Sigrid gave her sword was not the answer it was looking for. “The world could crumble to dust, Clairvoix, I wouldn’t make a single move to prevent it from happening! The Gods, Destiny or whatever can find themselves another toy!” Sigrid snarled softly, her voice shaking with repressed emotion.

Clairvoix was about to reply: something along the lines of immortal entities certainly not giving a shit about her opinion on the matter, but at that moment a mercenary Orc choose to pop out of a bush behind them.

“Hey, there’s another one here!” he yelled, charging Sigrid.

“Oi! Bunch of bloodthirsty warriors right on our back!” Clairvoix warned.

“Thanks for the warning, Commander Obvious!” Sigrid thought as she turned just in time to face the first of her five new assailants.

The Orc raised his axe and tried to split Sigrid’s skull, but the battle-hardened bard parried with a grunt and released a shock spell which struck her attacker in the knees, sending him to the ground.

However, Clairvoix had other ideas, and twisting in Sigrid’s hand, it gored the next warrior sinking midway through his torso.

“Stop that!” Sigrid protested, wrenching Clairvoix free of the orc and flinching as blood spattered her face, before throwing a fire spell which caught in the hair of the mercenary Imperial woman turning her into a grotesque, bizarre parody of a torch. “How many times I told you not to play the swordsman?” Sigrid snarled angrily, slashing out with Clairvoix at the Imperial, saving her from prolonged torture from hair afire.

“But it’s fun!” Clairvoix carolled, in something akin to being blood-drunk.

“Yeah, and we’ll see if you’ll still find it fun when my head lands in the dust because of your stupid little tricks!”

“Aww, right, I am sor - Behind you…!”

Sigrid gasped, dropping Clairvoix as violent pain exploded in the small of her back. She managed to fall on one side, avoiding landing on her belly, but the shock of hitting the ground bruised her ribs. Groaning, she wrapped her arms across her belly and turned on her back, to see who or what had hit her.

A Dunmer was towering over her, his narrow face split into an evil leer, a chain ending in a heavy metal ball slowly ceasing its whirling motion, guided expertly by his right hand. “Not showing off anymore with your big swords and spells now, are you?” he asked softly, as the chain creaked slightly under the weight of the ball.

Behind her, Sigrid heard the two other soldiers sniggering. She twisted around to look for Clairvoix. The sword was lay less than meter from her but it might as well have been back in Cyrodiil. It was too far for her to reach…

“You know, I don’t know what kind of sound your skull is going to make when I crush it.” the Dunmer said in a conversational tone, walking toward Sigrid and forcing her to scoot and scramble clumsily backward to avoid the deadly spinning ball. “But,” he added in a lower tone, teasingly caressing and soft, at odds with the actual words, “it’ll be more fun to hear it crack your baby’s...once I’ve ripped it out of your gut...” he bared his teeth in a wolf-like grin, eyes glittering.

Sigrid watched with sickening, rising horror as the metallic ball lashed in a silver arc through the air and…

“Woooooo!”

An extremely thin silhouette, composed mainly of legs and arms only landed nimbly between Sigrid and the Dunmer. Armed with a staff, the shadow swept the weapon forward, catching the Dunmer’s weapon near the hilt, destroying the arc of the ball, and causing the ball to wrap itself around the staff, like a snake about a tree limb, blocking the lethal attack. The shadow flicked the staff back in a practiced motion and with surprising strength for someone so frail, and sent the whole heavy affair flying out of the Dunmer’s hand.

“Whoohoooh!” he cackled.

“What the..?!” the Dunmer exclaimed, staring at his empty hand.

None of the shocked onlookers had opportunity to hear the Dark Elf developing his thoughts further, as the newcomer rewarded him with a good knock with his staff - right between the eyes.

The Dunmer blinked and squinted. Then his eyes rolled, showing white and he fell clumsily backward.

“Woooo!”

Sigrid took advantage of the lapse of attention in her direction and lunged for Clairvoix, her fingers its hilt and drawing it to her, as motion returned to the dumbstruck mercenaries. Sigrid pivoted on her hip to look back, sword back in hand...

The silhouette jumped in the air and turned around, allowing Sigrid to see its face. Her jaw dropped in amazement when she recognised him, and she nearly dropped Clairvoix as well, as she scrambled to her feet.

“That old crazy Khajiit!” she exclaimed as he rushed toward the two other mercenaries who had, to their cost, failed to recover from their surprise in time.

“By Sithis! Gramps rocks! Look at him go!” Clairvoix crowed as the old cat struck his enemies with diabolical accuracy, nimbly avoiding the blows of his adversaries with a grace surprising for one so old, and after a rather short struggle, the mercenaries still conscious found themselves on the ground, moaning and clutching various and many aching body parts.

“Woo! Woo! Woooooo!” the Khajiit screamed jubilantly, making a series of victorious poses with his staff.

“Right, right, whoa, granddad,” Sigrid said, grabbing him by the arm while carefully avoiding the staff he was still shaking around. “Thanks a lot for the help but now let’s go before they pull themselves together!”

“Wooo?”

“Ah, bravo!” laughed a voice behind them, accompanied by the clapping of hands. “Very entertaining, really!”

Sigrid and the old Khajiit turned around to find themselves facing two more mercenaries, one Redguard and one Bosmer mounted on Senches, the fearsome big cats used by Khajiits as mounts. The size of bulls, with jaws sporting a double pair of sharp canines, the snarling Senches would have made braver men back away.

“Well done, miss,” the Redguard continued, still clapping his hands. “You managed to amuse me, but now, you are going to surrender and no harm will be done to you.”

Sigrid was about to reply, but another sound made her turned again. She swore under her breath. Two other mounted warriors were coming from the other direction, encircling them.

“Oh great… More big cats full of teeth and claws…” Clairvoix groaned sparks of apprehension glittering.

“Do you know if Senches have a particular weak point?” Sigrid asked, turning on the spot as she tried to keep an eye on all four mercenaries, unwilling to present any of them with her back for more than a few moments.

“Well, they are cats, so maybe if you throw them a ball of wool…” Clairvoix offered, his tone full of helplessness, as well as the sarcasm.

“Don’t know why, but I think they would probably prefer playing with my head instead…” Sigrid replied sarcastically, with a bitter exhale of a laugh, scanning her surroundings, desperately searching for any means to get herself out of this fix quickly.

Options were running low, and getting lower as the Senches continued to prowl forward, one massive paw at a time, seeking to herd the Khajiit and Sigrid closer and closer together, until they ran out of room to fight… Sigrid’s eyes flashed as the met the eyes of the applauding Redguard, the apparent chief of the group of mercenaries. His shaved head shone in the moons’ light, his small goatee, his impressive muscles and the red scar running ragged over his left eye socket – a socket filled by a gold-ringed ruby, a parody of a real eye long lost – everything about his looks and demeanour screamed “beware, evil ruthless bastard!”. No, there was really just one option left, and once more she found she didn’t like that ‘one option left’ at all…

“Obey us! Drop your weapons!” the Redguard barked. He no longer sounded even remotely amused by their attempts at courage, bravery or resistance.

“Wooo!” replied the Khajiit, falling on guard and making little circular moves with the tip of his staff.

“Our hairless friend doesn’t look very patient…” Clairvoix observed. “Maybe we should obey him…?”

“To end up on a slave market?” Sigrid snapped between gritted teeth. Images of her own mistreatment at the hands of Foulques Monfort swam before her eyes, making her grimace.“Never!” Never again.

She took several deep breaths and slowly let the magical energy rising in her body, stopping the process when she felt pins and needles in the tips of her fingers. She pointed Clairvoix straight at the Redguard, her eyes glittering with cold resolve.

“Let us go! Or I swear, you will regret it!” And she punctuated her sentence by triggering her magical aura, provoking a luminous flash.

The Senches roared in rage but did not move.

“Sigrid, no! You still haven’t recovered from the last one!” Clairvoix protested in her head, sounding close to panic. “And neither have I, I can’t guarantee the effectiveness of the spell – that we won’t blow ourselves up!”

“I know, but they don’t, do they…? And as long as it looks impressive…!” Sigrid’s tone held cold anger and something close to desperation.

The Redguard considered Sigrid with a nasty gleam in his eye.

“I was only interested in your companion, witch!” he spat, pointing at the old Khajiit. “But as you seem so eager to share his fate…” There was a clear and almost musical sound as he pulled his sabre out of its sheath.

“Leave us alone, I said!” Sigrid barked. “Or else…!” she added through her teeth.

A wall of fiercely whirling dust and wind kicked up around the Khajiit and the Breton, protecting them from their enemies’ sight and attacks.

Their would-be assailants wailed in dismay, instinctively drawing their weapons.

“This is magic, O Bombassa!” one of the mercenaries yelled. “Our weapons are ineffective against such kind of evil spells!”

“I know, you moron!” the Redguard called Bombassa snapped back. He watched the cloud of dust thoughtfully for a few moments, then took a deep breath and addressed himself to Sigrid, still protected by the wall of winds. “You won’t be able to keep that spell working for days, you know, Missy!” he shouted, trying to make himself heard over the roaring winds. “So, why don’t you and your friend stop your little comedy routine and give yourself up?”

The only answer the mercenary got was an intensification of the winds, forcing Bombassa and his Senche to retreat.

“She doesn’t seem to agree...” one of the soldiers noted worryingly.

But he did not have to worry for long.

There was a very short but strange moment when everything went so silent, it seemed every sound had been sucked up into another dimension. Then, the formidable power accumulated by the whirling winds unleashed horizontally.

The squall of wind swept away the mercenaries and their mounts, either slamming into them directly or hurling them against surrounding trees and rocks. All the soldiers were out for the count. All, except one…

Anticipating the attack, Bombassa leaned hard against the neck of his mount to protect himself again the blast. But the witty mercenary also had forced his Senche to crouch and drive its claws in the ground to resist the force of the spell.

Now, he straightened, dusting his clothes nonchalantly while kicking his Senche nearer to Sigrid and the old Khajiit.

“Nice try… but… it was not enough…” Clairvoix said in a strangely out-of-breath voice. “This time… we’ve had it…”

“Don’t you have a bit of resources for one last spell…?” Sigrid asked it mentally, while trying not to faint, sweating and panting form the effort required for such an attack.

“Sorry, but… I’m using the last… resources I have to… talk… to you…”Clairvoix whispered thinly.

Sigrid closed her eyes in a defeated move. In the distance, she could hear screams… The rest of the mercenaries were running to the rescue. Nothing could save them now.

“Wooo!”

The old Khajiit leapt in front of Sigrid to stand between her and Bombassa’s Senche, menacing the latter with his staff. But the beast softly took its tip in its mouth and turned it into toothpicks.

“Don’t be jealous, you old codger, your turn will come…” the Redguard sniggered at the Khajiit who was glaring, mesmerized, at what was left of his staff. “But before that…” he slipped down off his Senche’s back and stalked forward towards Sigrid.

Bombassa grabbed Sigrid by the top of her bodice. The Breton offered no resistance, and she felt the fabric splitting as he lifted her bodily from the ground.

But what no one counted on, was Toad.

Hidden in Sigrid’s bra, he did not appreciate being disturbed and he expressed his great displeasure by biting his sharp and needle-shaped teeth into the first appropriate target: the Bombassa’s finger.

“By Azura’s underskirt!” Bombassa screamed in pain, dropping Sigrid and shaking his hand in the air to make Toad let go. But the little animal was determined not to release his grip.

“Go Toad!” Clairvoix encouraged the batrachians. “Eat his finger… up!”

“Someone get this thing off meeee!” The mercenary raised his bloodied hand over his head then slammed it violently against his boot. There was a dull thunk when Toad’s head hit the heel of Bombassa’s shoe and another one when he felt unconscious on the ground.

“Toad!” Sigrid and Clairvoix screamed together, the young woman gathering the few forces she had left to scrabble on her knees to the little creature. He looked groggy and a big bump was forming on his forehead, right in between his antennas. But apart from that, he looked fine.

Sighing in relief, she picked Toad up and put it back in her cleavage, looking up at Bombassa.

The mercenary was sucking his finger, groaning and his eyes flashing with pure loathing as they landed on Sigrid once more.

“This time, you’re done for, you and your damned...creature…!” he hissed, shaking a vengeful fist at her before turning around to greet his underlings, coming to the rescue. “Ah, here you are. Finally, you lazy bunch of morons! Now, take care of those priso…” Bombassa stopped and frowned. There was something wrong…“Are you all right, lads…?”

The first mercenary moved closer and, in the light of the moons, the Redguard realised with horror he was literally spilling his guts...right onto his saddle, to the greatest pleasure of his Senche, who was chewing a bit of intestine with gusto. The others mounted mercenaries did not seem in better shape, either, having their throats cut out, missing a limb or even their heads…

“Is there something wrong, Bombassa?” a feminine but throaty voice purred at him.

The Redguard turned around to face the only soldiers still in one piece. The speaker gave a sultry chuckle and took her helmet off, revealing abundant ginger hair and a pretty feline face. Bombassa’s eyes opened wide.

“Ashar!” he exclaimed in disgust.

“Herself!” the young female Khajiit laughed coldly, baring her sharp teeth in a smile that promised death at the least. She walked up to Bombassa, swaying slightly as she moved, as if ready to dart left or right at the smallest provocation.

Still smiling, Ashar punched Bombassa in the face, with a crackle of a broken nose. Almost simultaneously, Bombassa’s Senche tried to turn against her. Ashar moved faster, cleanly beheading the animal with the terrible razor blade she was holding in her other hand.

Not losing an instant, as if this were the usual order of business, she grabbed the old Khajiit who was making joyful “wooot!” noises and made him climb onto a remaining Senche behind her. Ashar looked down at Sigrid, hesitating on what to do about her, if anything, but the nudge she received from her old companion finally pushed her to make up her mind. She sighed and offered a clawed hand to the Breton to help her up into saddle.

“Quick!” Ashar barked. “Get up! The others don’t know what’s happened yet, but will find out…!”

Sigrid hesitated, looking first at the blood covered Khajiit, then at the Senche, foaming at the mouth with rage and fixing her with bloodshot eyes.

“No way I am getting on that …” she murmured, shaking her head slowly and backing away, eyeing the creature fearfully.

“Get a move before the others come!” Ashar snapped. “We cannot wait!”

Sigrid bit her lower lip. The shouts of the other mercenaries were getting closer.

There was no more time to play the sissy…

“All right, but… Eeek!” Sigrid squealed as Ashar with some distaste, grabbed Sigrid by the collar and dropped her unceremoniously in the saddle, giving the Senche a nonchalant kick to get it moving.

The Senche disappeared in the Elsweyrian night, leaving behind the savannah illuminated by the light of the camp’s dying fires.

7777777777777777

The torches illuminated the corridors of the kraal of Torval while Raksada strode swiftly toward his apartments, ignoring the respectful and fearful salutes the guards on sentry gave him. A close observer would have noticed the Dark Elf’s stiff gait and the ugly grimace on his face - obvious signs he was not in a good mood. But no one would dare to observe Raksada for too long anyway, fearing to have their eyes scratched out…

Once arriving in the aisle of the Kraal, reserved for the highest personalities of the Government, the Dunmer flung open the golden doors leading to his personal suite and slammed them just as violently behind him.

“The filthy rotten bitch… The filthy rotten bitch!”

The words, absolutely dripping with hatred and animosity, formed a litany running over and over again in his head, and Raksada did trouble himself to contain his temper, but let himself be overwhelmed by rage and loathing.

He passed trembling hands over his face and started pacing up and down his luxurious apartments, furiously kicking at expensive and rare pieces of furniture that had the misfortune to stand in the way of his seething progress. It was neither a very dignified nor a very mature way to behave, and Raksada knew it. But it relieved him…

How dare she…? How dare she? Humiliating him like that? Him! Raksada! The most powerful mage living on Nirn! She was nothing. Nothing! All the talent she had, every ounce of influence came from sharing Sha’ka’s bed! That was all…! How could she think of holding her own with him on political matters?! On any matters…!

The Dark Elf grabbed a silky cushion lying on the ground near him and threw it violently with a shout. The cushion struck a small, delicate cup of a fragile white material. It shattered on hitting the floor and Raksada winced...

“Oh, what a shame, Raksada! It was such a very exceptional piece of Akaviri porcelain…!”

The Dark Elf froze, breathing hard, and glared at one of the impressive full-length mirrors, standing imposing against one of the walls. He was not smiling - but his reflection was showing set of white and perfectly aligned teeth…

Some said you could judge someone by how he dressed or how he decorated the place in which he lived

Raksada’s room was almost entirely covered in mirrors of all shape and size: multifaceted Dwemer mirrors, bronze Elsweyrian mirrors, silver Cyrodiillic mirrors, Ayleid mirrors with frames set with glowing Varla stones…

Normally, one would think the Dark Elf was only a great collector.

But great collectors did not have magical mirrors able to give life to their reflection because they considered, as the top of sapient species, that only a perfect copy of themselves deserved to share their privacy. And this shifted Raksada from the “hoarder-with-aesthetic-tastes” category to the “psychotic-and-egocentric-bastard-with-a-touch-of-narcissism-and-a-deep-fear-of-death” category.

“Sorry. I had a bad day…” Raksada muttered to the Reflection as an excuse. He then pronounced an incantation and the little cup jumped back on the table in once piece. “Happy now?” he asked, acidly.

“Very,” the Reflection replied with a satisfied expression on its face.

The Dunmer shrugged and started to eye himself critically in the mirror while the Reflection imitated his movements.

Thank the Daedra he belonged to that category of people who looked good in anything they wore, because otherwise, in those rags Khajiits dared to call clothes, he would look like nothing on Nirn but...a ball of rags…

Raksada sighed and shook his head. Sometimes it was hard to be a baddy. Being evil, yes – but with style, please!

Talking about style, the Dunmer realised this blasted Elsweyrian red dust had built up on the skin of his calves… He murmured an incantation and snapped his fingers. A “swoosh!” somewhere behind the Dark Elf indicated him that a bathtub had obediently and promptly materialised in the room. It was full of hot, delicately perfumed, light purple liquid that lathered abundantly.

Raksada flashed one of his malevolent thin smiles at the nearest mirror. Obviously, being an evil sorcerer offered many advantages – and not only in taking over the world…

He dropped his tawdry Khajiit rags onto the floor and slipped into the bathtub with a voluptuous sigh.

“So, tell me more about this ‘awful day’…”

Raksada looked up.

His Reflection had left the main mirror and was now glaring at him from one fixed on the ceiling.

“Oh, basically, most of my problems stand in one word,” the Dunmer growled as he pressed a sponge against the back of his neck. “And this word is ‘Naandi’,” he said with eminent distaste.

“Sha’ka’s wife, right…?” the Reflection asked, scratching his chin thoughtfully with a finger. “Well, why don’t you simply kill her?”

Raksada gave a derisive laugh. He had obviously considered this option but the rivalry which opposed him to Naandi was common knowledge, and, is if that little tart had to die, he would naturally be the number one suspect…

“Quite tempting, but I can’t. It would create more problems than it would solve…” Raksada gave another long sigh. If only she could disappear, though… He popped one of the soap bubbles idly with a thin finger.

“Yes. Pop! Exactly like this bubble…” he thought. “Or maybe in a longer and more painful way...”

Since Naandi had appeared in Sha’ka’s life, she had turned Raksada’s into complete Oblivion, taking malicious pleasure in defending opposite points of views and patiently, exactingly eroding the Dunmer’s influence over her husband. And this worried the High Councillor to great extent…

Even if recent major events had shown that Raksada still had his say – Naandi’s tears were able to make Sha’ka change his mind – the Dark Elf feared the princess could...would supplant him as the king’s chief councillor one of these days…

The little bitch was clever, very clever and proved herself a great strategist. Plus, she possessed her own network of informants, as proved by her little sally on the rebel village in the Tenmar forest.

Raksada made a sour face at the thought. Another problem to deal with – even if this one should not be too… challenging. This handful of grubby morons and their mambo witch were no match to for his powers. And if this old hag, Mama Sam, thought he would let her find the occasion to take her revenge, she was barking up the wrong tree.

But the main trouble with this, was it forced Raksada to go back in the swamps to supervise the operations… A shiver ran along his spine at the very idea.

The swamps… Try not to think of the swamps…!

But it was too late.

Raksada compulsively grabbed the edge of the bathtub as he felt the water of his bath trying to close over him. He closed his eyes and breathed slowly, trying to calm the crazy jostle of his heart.

It was in those moments he found the practice of the magical arts useful. Indeed, it helped him to overcome those pesky anxiety attacks, thanks to the control he had acquired in the philosophy of mind over matter. He tried to return his attention to the immediate problems he had to manage.

The next one on the list was the arrival of Janus Hassildor, emissary of the Empire.

Aaah, Count Janus Hassildor… What a fascinating subject!

Raksada had followed his career with great attention over the last decades, and he was truly impressed. In less than thirty years, the Count of Skingrad had managed not only to reinforce the power of his district and exercise a major influence over the affairs of the Empire, but he also had taken an active and direct part into most of the major events of the last years of the Third Era – that is to say the Falls of Mehrunes Dagon and Mannimarco.

All that while maintaining secrecy around his identity as a vampire…

Raksada lazily blew on the bubble of soaps which were flying around him, a dreamy look in the eyes. Yes, what a formidable opponent Lord Hassildor would make…! The Dark Elf would love to have a philosophical and casual discussion with the Count on life, the Multiverse and everything. Of course, this would imply to leaving the man’s head on his shoulders…

And there was also the Count’s ally and friend… Ontus Vanin, the rebel and anarchist mage kicked out of the Arcane University because of his rather unorthodox views on magic and his deep loathing of the managerial staff of the University. For many, Vanin was a troublemaker whose only interest lay in the creativity he displayed in discovering new way to piss of the authorities – that is to say in most cases High Chancellor Ocato and Raminus Polinus. Raksada still wondered why Hassildor was taking Vanin with him. But knowing the Count, he certainly had a very good reason and Hassildor’s very good reasons interested Raksada greatly…

The Dunmer blinked when he realised his Reflection was talking to him again.

“Er… Yes?”

“I was saying that someone has tried to contact you several times today and left a message...”

“Who?”

The Reflection raised an ironic eyebrow at its frowning master.

“Can’t you guess…?”

“I fear I can…” the Dunmer replied wearily, closing his eyes and massaging his arches of the eyebrows.

“So, do you want to hear them or not?”

Raksada sighed.

“Do I have the choice?” he half-whined.

“No,” the Reflection chuckled. Then, its eyes became glassy and his voice suddenly took strange intonations. “You have… one!... new… message…” he started, and Raksada rolled his eyes. “Today, at quarter past thr…”

“Could you go straight to the point, please…?” the sorcerer demanded grumpily, slapping the surface of the water.

“Sorry…” The Reflection coughed, and when it started to speak again, the tone of his voice had changed totally. It was now the one of a woman, who seemed particularly hysterical.

“Where’s the beep? I didn’t hear the beep! – Kithlan, did you hear the beep? They said I could speak after the beep, but I did not hear any…! Do you think I can speak now?”

There were some background noises, like the ones of chairs being moved around and of a male voice giving muffled and patient instructions to the woman.

“Ah, yes, so I speak right here, mustn’t I, right? Yes, yes I see now… Darn modern technology…! Thank you, Kithlan – no, no, you can withdraw, I don’t need your services anymore.”

There was another break in the woman’s speech with the sound of a shutting door in the background. Then, another long silence, only troubled by the sound of someone taking a very long breathing in… Bracing himself for what was certainly going to come next, Raksada closed his eyes, with a groan in the back of his throat, and covered his ears with his hands, screwing up his eyes against the impending verbal explosion.

“MOZENRAK! YOU SLIMY LITTLE VIPER!” the woman yelled though the Reflection’s mouth, her voice made the mirrors rattle ominously. “I HAVE BEEN TRYING TO CONTACT YOU FOR DAYS! WHERE IN OBLIVON ARE YOU?!”

The protection offered by the Dunmer’s hands over his ears being rather limited, he winced and cowered deeper in his bathtub.

Oh dear, the Duchess was having one of her crisis again… That was all he really needed at he moment…

“What do you think?! That you are on holiday?!” the Duchess continued to scream, although a bit less loudly. “His Lordship keeps asking me news about the progress of our little…project! But I am unable to provide him any information, given you have not the sense to keep me informed on a regular basis! Once we had the advantage over our enemies…There is no way – do you hear me?! – no way we are going to lose face once more!” The woman stopped, out of breath and breathing hard, but when she spoke again, it was in a whispering, almost scared voice. “They are all around me, Mozenrak…Waiting like the vultures they are for me to show any weakness and to finish me off…Yes…This is what they want…To wallow in my blood and take my position!” The Duchess’ voice died in a murmur, but she suddenly burst into an evil cackle which made Raksada jumping in his bath. “But this won’t happen – oh no, it won’t! And do you know why? Because you are going to call me back soon – and with good news! – or else I…!”

This time, the Dunmer sank completely in the bathtub so he could only hear the Duchess’ muffled litany of threats through the water.

Dear, dear, this was really a bad day… At least, he hoped his men were a bit more successful in their hunt…

(1) Normal horses eat carrots. Shadowmere, being anything but normal, eats rabbits.