***He looked around, and seeing no change in the others, took a deep breath and continued, getting more nervous in each passing moment. "You're the first people I've seen in ages, and your presence makes me gladder than my introduction probably would have had you believe. I apologise for any offence I have given you. I would appreciate the company, if you would have me."***
Balefire looked over from atop his mount and spoke. "Aye, you can join us if you like, although you may regret it later. If you are what you say, you are welcome. If you bear us ill intent, you are a singularly unlikely foe, I'll admit, and you can always be dealt with later. Twilight, if you'll be so good as to rearrange the loads on the packhorses, we can offer him a mount, although we have no extra saddle. Best free one for Mea, as well; I have no doubt she's managed to lose her horse somehow. Meanwhile, Torgath, you can tell us all about this Asmoneas. Forgive our ill-mannered response...if you are what and who you say. Things have not been going well for us."
Torgath sighed. "So, you wish to hear of Asmoneas. Well, I don't have much to tell you. Asmoneas is a great dragon, like those in the legends. I seek his head to make a potion that I need. I had heard that he likes to prey on lost and hungry travellers through the desert, so I was pretending to be just that."
"Thank you," he said, as the horse was offered to him. He climbed on the back, and whispered something in its ear. The horse whinnied, and they were on their way. "Wherever we're going," he thought.
As the sun began her slow ascent to the heavens, Neetar left his perch on top of the large building and slipped into some convenient shadows to think. He hadn't seen the elf, Tabanallis, leave the tavern, so it seemed he'd have to go in. Not a problem. Loosening his weapons, he flitted across the open space to the rear wall of the Porcupine. A jump and a strong grip had him on a window ledge. He surveyed the room inside, and finding it empty, went to work on the lock. A few seconds later, he was inside.
He went carefully out into the corridor, Reaper in hand. The tavern was still dark at this juncture, so he continued on to the next door. Opening it a crack, he peered in. A small form lay in the bed, snoring heavily. It was not his quarry. He left and went to the next door. Again it was not Tabanallis. He checked all the rooms in this fashion. He had had a couple of close shaves, with people nearly waking up, but a quick blow to the back of the head had sorted them out. One resource exhausted, he decided check the common room.
Stopping near the top of the steps, so that he could just see into the busy-looking common room, Neetar spotted his prey. The elf seemed to be joining hands with a group of other impressive-looking people. Neetar realised just too late that this is what is done before a teleportation spell is cast. There was a bright flash as the group disappeared. Neetar cursed under his breath and headed down the stairs.
Drawing his katana, Nemesis, he strolled up to the barman, grabbed him, spun him around and held the blade to his throat. "Where were they going?" he demanded.
"I.. I.. don't know!" stuttered the portly barman, as his wild eyes looked around the room for help. One swarthy looking Nord approached, saying, "Now, look here, sir..." Neetar threw the barman against the wall and sent the Nord flying with a spinning roundhouse. He crashed into a table and lay still. Neetar went back to the barman and picked him up.
"This is not a game. Where did they go?" The barman looked into Neetar's coldly burning eyes and answered "I honestly do not know, sir. All they said was that they were on some quest against the Dark Brotherhood!"
Neetar dropped the barman and turned around to survey the room. "Who is the most powerful mage here?" he asked. A middle-aged man in blue and green robes stood up. "I believe I am, sir, why?"
"You will teleport me to the destination of the group that just left. I presume you can replicate the spell?" The mage nodded and began moving his hands. Neetar looked on in jealousy. It came so easily to some, and not at all to others. He thought it lucky he had asked the magician-smith in the school of Julianos to make him an item so that teleport and levitate spells would work on him. He wore the bracelet now, as always. The mage finished his spell and pointed both hands at Neetar. A bolt of bluish-white lightning streaked from his fingertips towards Neetar. Neetar watched calmly as the bolt impacted on his chest. He felt a slight tingle spreading around his body. The mage stood there, still with his hands out, stunned at the failure of his most powerful destruction spell. He then clutched his neck as a dagger thrown by Neetar sprouted out of his throat.
As he fell over, Neetar asked "Who is the next most powerful mage in the room?" A younger man stood up. "Good," said Neetar, "You will teleport me, or you will die. If you teleport me to the wrong place, I will find you, and then you will die." The young mage nodded mutely and waved his hands a few times. There was another bright flash, and then the harsh sunlight hit Neetar's sensitive eyes. He was in a desert somewhere. He swore, and cursed the young mage. Then he saw the tracks. Recently made. A large group.
Neetar set off to follow the tracks.
They had not travelled far when the ever vigilant Twilight reigned in her horse and cast a watchful eye behind them for signs of pursuit; not that she expected to see anything, but more than once her caution had paid off handsomely. She noticed J'layah and Tabanallis had also stopped a short distance back, and the troublesome elf was squirming uncomfortably in her saddle. She trotted over to investigate. "Is there a problem J'layah?"
"No....well not really," replied the young elf. "I fancied I felt Balefire's cursed ring writhing in my stomach, but I must have been my.....ooh! There it goes again!" She winced and clutched at her midriff. For a moment Twilight wondered if J'layah was being overly dramatic, but judging by her expression she was obviously experiencing some discomfort. Without pause for thought Twilight intoned the words of a mild healing spell, and was genuinely surprised when J'layah's body became suffused with the familiar blue glow as the spell took effect. Tabanallis and J'layah were no less amazed. After all, this entire battlefield was supposed to be an anti-magic zone.
"Hmmm...." she pondered, "it would seem there are places in this sandy wasteland where one may use magic after all, though I would wager they are few and far between. That would explain why you felt the ring pulsing so, for in 'normal' surroundings that is what it usually does." J'layah's eyes lit up. "Does that mean we can remove it from my innards without having to wait for it too.....I mean, can we bypass the er, natural course of events?"
"I can but try." Twilight's face wore a thoughtful expression. "A localised teleport may do the trick. Of course Balefire would be best suited to the task, since he is attuned to the ring, but given the circumstances I think we should leave him well alone for the time being."
J'layah looked at the rapidly retreating cloud of dust and billowing red cloak that was Balefire and shuddered. The last thing she wanted was to make him angrier still. She swallowed anxiously. "Please, let us waste no time!"
Twilight sent Tabanallis ahead to catch Balefire before he'd ridden too far ahead, and set to work. First she had J'layah remove her dented cuirass and lie down, then she placed both hands above the young woman's midsection and closed her eyes, concentrating on locating the pulsating ring. There! She murmured the words to the spell as her fingers wove arcane symbols in the air, and in the blinking of an eye the ring popped into existence and tumbled to the sandy ground, looking none the worse for wear. Twilight allowed herself a small but satisfied smile. "It is done." J'layah sighed in relief and sat up. Her gaze lit upon the object that had caused her so much misery, glinting in the sand. "I have eaten some strange meals in the past, but none so unpalatable as that. How did I manage to swallow it without gagging, I wonder?"
Twilight picked the ring up between thumb and forefinger and offered it to J'layah. "Methinks you should be the one to return it," she said, dropping it into the young woman's upturned palm. J'layah looked at the heavy band of gold and bloodstone as though it might bite her, then nodded reluctantly and closed her fist tightly around it.
Both women looked up at the sound of approaching hoof beats. Balefire had returned, the rest of the party in tow. By the look on his rage-darkened face he was ill pleased at having to retrace his steps, so J'layah took a deep breath and turned towards him, with what she hoped was her most winning smile. It was time to face the music........
Balefire reined in his mount and slid from the saddle, heedless of the cloud of dust he'd raised to swirl about his comrades. Brows drawn together in a fierce scowl, he snarled, "What is it *now*? By the gods, you try my patience...oh...my ring! How...?" The big Warmage sniffed suspiciously, and peered at the pulsing signet ring J'layah held out to him. "You didn't...ah...wait!...I can feel magic, and the ring pulses and glows!"
His gauntleted hand flashed out and snatched the ring, and he had his other gauntlet off and the ring back on his finger almost too quickly for the eye to follow. He stared at the ring and muttered a cantrip, and the glow subsided. His scowl turned to a look of wonder and pleasure, he looked from Twilight to J'layah and back. "This is your work, I gather, Twilight. Well done. Doubly well done to have noticed that the Art can be used here, when I had -- in my unthinking rage -- failed to sense it. I salute you, swordsister. As for *you*, J'layah..." He turned to face her, and strode closer, his mailed fist raised at the height of her still-smiling face. A rose appeared in his fist, a perfect rose the exact colour of his crimson eyes, glowing slightly, drops of dew on its petals and leaves glinting in the desert sun. Inclining his head and sweeping his cloak behind him in a courtly bow, he handed her the rose and stepped back.
"Please accept the rose as a token of apology, though it cannot compare with your beauty, both of your face and of your heart. I failed in letting my temper get the better of my manners, M'lady. I have imbued that rose with some of my life force while I created it through the Art, and it will not wilt while I live. I will make no excuses for my ill-temper; mayhap Twilight can explain it to you. I only ask your forgiveness."
Turning, he strode to his horse and mounted again. "I shall go and bring Mea back, for I sense that it is indeed her behind yon bone pile. Stay here in this pocket of normality, and when I return we can plan our assault on the citadel." Wheeling his mount, he galloped off.
J'layah, bemused, turned speechless to Twilight, her eyes questioning when they strayed from contemplating the flower in her hand. Twilight laughed softly as she put her arm around J'layah's shoulders. "Lord Balefire is a fierce and strange man, J'layah, and he has been called many things, each with a grain of truth. Grim, relentless, ruthless, brutal, cruel, bloodthirsty...all true, at times. He is an absolutely implacable foe, and merciless in the main. He has, however, a kinder, gentler side, though it be buried deep and though he strives to show it not, thinking it unbecoming a mercenary. I know him well, for we have ridden long together and fought -- aye, and slept -- side by side for years. He does no harm to innocents, look you, nor will he suffer harm to come to them if he can help it. His rage was fuelled by worry that having the ring would make of you the prime target for our enemies...a place he prefers to have for himself. Keep his rose, J'layah, and withhold your judgement of him until you know him better. He is a very complicated man, our Balefire."
Wistfully, she murmured, "He never gave *me* such a rose..."
Alduin had grown accustomed to travelling. Indeed, he was the most worldly of his brothers of Kineschel unu Lammoth, the Pearl Tower over Deep Lake. As such, he had perfected the technique of writing while on horseback. The older scholars shook their heads, but there was no denying that Alduin dor Lammoth was the most prolific writer among them. His attention to detail was due to his ability to write under any and all conditions.
He was finding it hard to write now.
The sun beat relentlessly down on his bare head. He could feel his pink dome turning pinker, but the hood on his cloak kept getting yanked back by flurries of sand and dust. He had given up trying to keep the hood up. Alduin was almost caught up with events when he glanced up to see why everyone had stopped.
He saw J'layah hand the ring back to Balefire, and not until after the impossible rose sprang from the dark elf's fist did it sink in. Spells had just been performed! Magicka in this place of all places! With feverish hand, the scribe flashed his pen over the stiff parchment, recording this most unexpected event.
Impossible! J'layah held up the rose. Impossible! She smelled its sweet scent. Alduin stopped himself from thinking 'Impossible!' again and kept scribbling. He was so caught up in his writing, he didn't notice K'tarin.
The Werre looked at the ring, then the rose with amazement. "Balefire, you truly are great. First you bring me here through magic, something I would have thought impossible. Now, you bring a flower I've never seen before into a lifeless desert. You have a great will."
Even with the Redguard's impassive countenance, it was obvious to the Warmage that the compliment did not come easily to the man. K'tarin turned to Twilight.
"Not to follow praise with rudeness, but I find it strange that you can cast spells here as well. I have not seen your magic skills, so I cannot really say, but I must doubt them in this place."
Alduin peered over his pen at the Werre, trying to divine his thoughts. It was rare for the dark man to be civil. He was the gruffest man Alduin had ever met: one reason why the old man had chosen him as his escort to The Angry Porcupine. Most people were put out by the Redguard's rough manner and would thereby leave Alduin alone. The scribe went back to his writing, but was now keeping an ear open to the conversation and recording it word for word. No way he was going to let a story like this pass by.
K'tarin looked long at Twilight. For her part, she grew angry at first, but cooled when she saw no malice or mockery in the Redguard's eyes. He was simply stating his mind as politely as he could. Nerves were on edge, and he was trying not to step on toes. He had failed, of course.
K'tarin had until now been at Alduin's side, but slowly approached the two women. Twilight did not move, unwilling to show she had forgiven him his transgression. He gave her a wide berth, eyes planted on the ground. As he neared J'layah, he paused, as if unsure whether a trap lay hid in the ground before him.
He set his foot down.
His face twitched and up shot his foot as if bitten by a desert snake. He got himself under control and carefully set down his foot again. Everyone was looking at him as if he had just asked them to take a sand bath. Balefire was taut in the saddle and Twilight was ready to pounce as well. This Werre may be a friend of the scribe, but he was acting strangely.
Alduin was cursing. He had let the ink in his crystal inkwell dry up, and was busily searching for a fresh one in his pack. No way he was going to let this go unscribed!
K'tarin stood there a moment more, seemingly lost in an inner struggle. He squared his shoulders and withdrew to Alduin's side. His eyes never left the sand.
Alduin had finally found a good ink bottle and quickly scribbled a last paragraph onto the parchment. He was intensely curious about K'tarin. A dozen questions were fighting for his tongue, but he knew it better to wait before asking. The last time he saw K'tarin in such a state was three years ago when he had lost a sparring match against a younger Werre. The lad had little training, and so K'tarin had lost face. Alduin was not afraid of catching the Werre's ire, but he knew that questions now would only deepen the Redguard's foul mood.
The wizened man deftly rolled up his scroll and packed his pen and ink. He shielded his eyes from the sun and peered at the great black Citadel, rising above the desert like a monstrous beetle.
"I judge it to be a good day's journey. Maybe more. We will surely spend the night under stars. We'd best get moving." Alduin glanced at the others. "That is if we are finished dallying about mysterious mounds of sand."
Alduin wanted to get his friend away from the disturbing site quickly. In this place, if K'tarin was disturbed, then he was disturbed, which was not a state in which he enjoyed being.
A hand clasped tightly around his ankle, Skeetr shrieked and cried out. The hand was hot. The mage was either THAT angry or was already casting some torturous spells of fire.
Skeetr felt slumber overcoming him, quickly forgetting all of his perils and how close he was to escape, he simply fell asleep. The mage pulled him from the hole. Holding back his rage and appetite for destruction, the mage had cast a sleep spell. He wanted to question this boy. Contrary to his earlier statement that Skeetr was harmless - he concluded that Skeetr was a spy sent to infiltrate his master's palace. Skeetr's mere survival of two days in this place told the mage that this -boy- must have been casting invisibility and other spells to keep himself hidden and unharmed. -How else could he have avoided detection and possibly 'tamed' the rats that infest the halls-, the mage thought to himself.
The man brought Skeetr to a room nearby and shackled him to the wall. He then returned to his portal-mirror and resumed his duties. The boy would waken in a few minutes and then he'd learn who had sent this boy and why.
When Skeetr awoke, the mage looked over, cursed at him and left the room. The man had gone to relieve himself, thinking that interrogating the boy may possibly take a long time. On his way back to the room that held Skeetr, he retrieved a fire prod. -This might just come in handy-, the mage said to himself with a laugh.
Skeetr was somewhat disoriented. He didn't understand what had just happened. He remembered the hand on his ankle, then things went blank.
The shackles hurt his hands the way he was hanging from them on the wall. Twisting his hands around to make them more comfortable, Skeetr could feel that they were not very tight. The bonds of this dungeon were created for holding humans and other creatures, all of which were typically much larger than Skeetr. Twisting and flexing his wrists, with a slight dislocation of his thumb (he could always do this on command - grossing out his sisters whenever he made a demonstration), he freed his hands. They slipped through the iron clasps as if they were greased and he fell to the floor.
His feet were simply tied with rope. His legs were not long enough to reach the shackles that were in place to hold someone's feet - the mage had to improvise. The knots were not easily undone because they were tied with some force. Skeetr was not sure how long he had slept, but was surprised that he felt very alert and refreshed - it must have been a deep sleep. His fingers ached less than before, this gave him a little more strength in his hands and he was able to free his feet.
Skeetr ran over to the table that stood in the middle of the room. He stuffed a cooked foul leg in his mouth and tried to grab a small green dagger off the table. The knife was far too heavy for Skeetr to lift so he left it. The door to the room was open and Skeetr dashed into the hallway, quickly spinning his head, looking left and right, the foul leg still dangling from his mouth. He had no idea where the mage had brought him. Hearing a door opening to his right made up his mind for him - he ran to the left. In a second or two he came to the elevator shaft where he was so near escape before. This time Skeetr intended to cash in on this little bit of good luck, knowing - from experience - his luck would turn bad in a moment. He would get out that hole as quickly as possible. A loud curse reverberated through the hall, emanating from the room Skeetr had just escaped.
The mage hadn't noticed Skeetr running around the slight turn in the hall because he was admiring his new torturing tool, the fire prod. Thinking how he could make the tip glow white hot and what effect it would have on flesh. Not being an elder mage, he had not seen nor experienced any form of torturing, but after being embarrassed by a small boy, his anger had built to the point where he could hardly wait to start. He would also find out what this little spy was doing in his master's palace. He stepped into the room and saw the blank wall where Skeetr had been. He yelled out, cursing the boy and himself at the same time. In a burst of frustration, he flashed a fireball at the wall where it exploded leaving nicks and chars on the wall between the hanging shackles.
The mage ran from the room and, because he had come from the right, figured the boy to have gone left. He bolted down the hall, casting a levitate spell on his way and readied another fireball. As he came to the shaft opening he saw the boy struggling at the hole. Skeetr's pack had caught again. A grin came to the man's lips as he saw his quarry struggling.
Skeetr freed his pack with a simple wiggle and pulled himself through the hole. He fell six feet, somewhat sliding on the vertical surface of the wall, before landing on a cone shaped protrusion. Skeetr gasped and - conscious of his balance - buckled over. The cone sticking out of the wall had caught Skeetr right between the legs.
Skeetr could hear a loud roar from inside the hole. The man sounded to be going quite mad. The mage threw a fireball just as Skeetr had dropped out of site. It exploded against the ceiling and blasted rock and debris all over. Being pelted with more stone did nothing to improve the mage's mood. He would have his vengeance on this boy. Seeing that the hole in the wall had grown quite large from the fireball blast, the mage thrust himself up the shaft and through the hole. His obsession with killing Skeetr now at it's peak.
***The Werre looked at the ring, then the rose with amazement. "Balefire, you truly are great. First you bring me here through magic, something I would have thought impossible. Now, you bring a flower I've never seen before into a lifeless desert. You have a great will."***
Having reined in his mount at the Redguard Werre's call, Balefire considered the implications of the statement. The dark elf's will was something to which he gave little thought, usually, but it wasn't really something to be taken for granted. The effectiveness of his spell casting, and of his resistance to spells cast upon him, was largely dependent on the iron will he had developed and honed on battlefields and lesser frays all across Tamriel.
***Even with the Redguard's impassive countenance, it was obvious to the Warmage that the compliment did not come easily to the man. K'tarin turned to Twilight.***
Not wanting to say anything to hurt the warrior's pride or to offend him, the Warmage contented himself with a murmured, "Thank you, K'tarin. I have worked as much on my will as I have on my weapon skill or spell casting. It has often meant the difference to me between life and death."
***"Not to follow praise with rudeness, but I find it strange that you can cast spells here as well. I have not seen your magic skills, so I cannot really say, but I must doubt them in this place."
Alduin peered over his pen at the Werre, trying to divine his thoughts. It was rare for the dark man to be civil. He was the gruffest man Alduin had ever met: one reason why the old man had chosen him as his escort to The Angry Porcupine. Most people were put out by the Redguard's rough manner and would thereby leave Alduin alone. The scribe went back to his writing, but was now keeping an ear open to the conversation and recording it word for word. No way he was going to let a story like this pass by.
K'tarin looked long at Twilight. For her part, she grew angry at first, but cooled when she saw no malice or mockery in the Redguard's eyes. He was simply stating his mind as politely as he could. Nerves were on edge, and he was trying not to step on toes. He had failed, of course.***
Twilight strove to master her temper as she saw that K'tarin, while bluntly outspoken, was not really impolite by his own standards. Having fought both with and against many varied mercenaries, including Khajit and Argonians -- whose ways were wholly different from those of humans or elves, she considered his words for themselves only, trying to judge the information without emotional or social distractions, as she might a tactical battlefield report.
***K'tarin had until now been at Alduin's side, but slowly approached the two women. Twilight did not move, unwilling to show she had forgiven him his transgression. He gave her a wide berth, eyes planted on the ground. As he neared J'layah, he paused, as if unsure whether a trap lay hid in the ground before him.
He set his foot down.
His face twitched and up shot his foot as if bitten by a desert snake. He got himself under control and carefully set down his foot again. Everyone was looking at him as if he had just asked them to take a sand bath. Balefire was taught in the saddle and Twilight was ready to pounce as well. This Werre may be a friend of the scribe, but he was acting strangely.
Alduin was cursing. He had let the ink in his crystal inkwell dry up, and was busily searching for a fresh one in his pack. No way he was going to let this go unscribed!
K'tarin stood there a moment more, seemingly lost in an inner struggle. He squared his shoulders and withdrew to Alduin's side. His eyes never left the sand.***
A look of sympathetic comprehension slowly suffused Balefire's countenance. He realised what must be troubling the Werre, but for now he kept his own counsel, waiting to see what, if anything, the Redguard would say.
***Alduin had finally found a good ink bottle and quickly scribbled a last paragraph onto the parchment. He was intensely curious about K'tarin. A dozen questions were fighting for his tongue, but he knew it better to wait before asking. The last time he saw K'tarin in such a state was three years ago when he had lost a sparring match against a younger Werre. The lad had little training, and so K'tarin had lost face. Alduin was not afraid of catching the Werre's ire, but he knew that questions now would only deepen the Redguard's foul mood.
The wizened man deftly rolled up his scroll and packed his pen and ink. He shielded his eyes from the sun and peered at the great black Citadel, rising above the desert like a monstrous beetle.
"I judge it to be a good day's journey. Maybe more. We will surely spend the night under stars. We'd best get moving." Alduin glanced at the others. "That is if we are finished dallying about mysterious mounds of sand."
Alduin wanted to get his friend away from the disturbing site quickly. In this place, if K'tarin was disturbed, then he was disturbed, which was not a state in which he enjoyed being.***
"Nay, good Alduin, let us abide here for a bit longer. I believe that Mea is at last approaching us, and for some of us, at least, this particular spot is preferable to most of the rest of this ancient battlefield. I strongly suggest, however, that you let K'tarin choose where he would rest. 'Tis early yet to camp for the night, but methinks this spot is an anomaly, a small area where the Art works." The big dark elf's saddle creaked as he shifted his weight, and he made a sweeping gesture that covered the wasteland around them. "This is the site of an ancient battle of the Werres, is it not? And one in which they at least contained, if not completely destroyed, a cabal of foul misusers of the Art? Little wonder, then, that magic us weakened almost to nothing over much of its expanse. The Werre abjure the Art, is it not so? Or at least, they forswear it. Not so their foes in this great slaying that took place here. It may be that this small area where magic can be used is the site of some fell sorcerer's dying, imbued with the great outpouring of magic at his demise. Or, mayhap, it was the site of some wizards' last stand, and their efforts to maintain their power in the area have remained against the onslaught of Time when they did not stand against the ferocity of their Werre foes."
The grizzled Warmage's visage turned bleak as he addressed the scribe, his deep voice deadly serious as he said, "I know of a spell of scrying that can penetrate the mists of Time, Scribe. It was taught to me by a Patriarch of Akatosh, in payment for a service I did for the followers of the Dragon God of Time. I could show you what took place here, I believe, but I would greatly prefer not to do so. I am sure K'tarin would prefer that even the images of fallen heroes -- and their foes -- be left at peace. What's more, yon citadel is too close, and its dwellers, if any, too much an unknown quantity, for me to wish to weave that sort of spell. I respect your desire for knowledge, Alduin; I am a scholar myself, albeit a somewhat warlike one. I deem it best to leave these environs uninvestigated, at least for now.
"Twilight looked at K'tarin with a calculating yet sympathetic gaze as she absorbed Balefire's words. At last, a friendly smile spread across her face as she spoke to the Redguard warrior. "I have no reason to be offended by your words, K'tarin. Indeed, albeit I am well-versed and well-practised in the Art, I have not the experience of my swordbrother, nor yet the half of his power of will, having neither his years of study nor his decades of practice. It is no tribute to my power that I can use the Art here, but as Balefire has said, 'tis due to some peculiarity of this area. I admit that I am reluctant to leave the area, much as you might be reluctant to leave behind a well-forged weapon or shield when going into battle..."
"Aye," Balefire interrupted, "you have the truth of it. But as soon as we see to it that all of our company -- including Mea, if indeed that be her I can see approaching in the distance -- are at their best, needing no health or stamina spells from us, we had best be on our way to retrieve J'layah's sister's soul, and deal with whoever or whatever it is that wants my ring so badly. We have been warned about not 'feeding the heart', whatever that may mean. It has a vile and sorcerous sound to it, and it reminds me vaguely of something I once read, but I cannot call it to mind. No matter; if it be a foe's heart, I'll more likely cleave than feed it."
The scarred Warmage paused and stretched out his hand. He concentrated for a moment, and an apple appeared. Leaning precariously far forward, he proceeded to feed it to his horse. "Do you remember, Twilight, one of the first things I taught you when we first started to campaign together? The story of the Thief and the Archmage's Dagger?"
Startling in the heat and wind-driven sand, Twilight's delighted laugh rang out like a spring breeze rustling wildflowers. "Aye, Milord Balefire, I remember It well."
Grinning a -- for him -- rare boyish grin, Balefire chuckled pleasantly. "While we wait for our last party member, then, swordsister, be so good as to tell the tale to our companions. I warrant Alduin already knows it, and Elfiran has likely heard it told by storytellers in the Porcupine or in some other tavern, but mayhap not all know it, and K'tarin, especially, should appreciate it."
The Thief And The Archmage's Dagger
Twilight looked around at the circle of adventurers, smiled, and began her tale.
"Know, then, that long ago in a land whose name has long been forgotten, there dwelt a famous Archmage, said by many at the time to be the most powerful wizard in the world. As his power grew, he became arrogant and heartless at first, no longer willing to use his skill in the Art to help those in need. As time went by, his arrogance turned to tyranny, and his heartlessness to greed and arrant lust. His vile deeds grew more and more oppressive, and the ruler of the land sent at first heroes, then parties of heroes, and finally armies against him, to no avail. The evil Archmage was too powerful, too steeped in the foul lore of unspeakable grimoires, and all who strove against him perished in the most hideous agonies imaginable. The ruler himself was turned to stone when he rode against the evil mage, along with his entire household guard. The realm became a blighted, fearful place, and the neighbouring rulers, though they banded together to attack the fell Archmage, perished with their armies before the sheer power of his overwhelmingly potent spells.
The other mages of the day watched these proceedings with horror, but they feared to attack him singly or as a group, having heard of many of their number who, even in the days when the evil mage was much less powerful, had gone forth bravely to attack him, but returned -- when they returned at all -- as blasted corpses, or as frogs or insects, or as ashes in intricately carved boxes no bigger than a child's fist.
Then, one day when the mages were in council, wringing their hands in despair at new tales of the evil Archmage's excesses, a slim young woman, lithe and quick, dropped from the rafters into the centre of the great table in their chamber of deliberations.
Astonished, the assembled mages demanded at once the reason for this outrageous display of lack of respect. One of the cleverer of the mages (and they were all rather clever, but these things are, of course, relative), asked the young woman who she was and how she had entered the room past all of their magical wards and alarms.
In moves too quick for the eye to follow, she snatched a wine-filled goblet from in front of one mage, and then a sweetmeat from the plate of another. Chewing and sipping, she said, "My name is my own, and ye shall not have it. Neither shall I give thee lessons in *my* art, when ye are not sufficiently versed in thine own to curb the depredations of one of thine own brethren. Ye only need know that I am the greatest thief in the world. That ye have not heard of me is a tribute to my skill. For a fee of my asking, I will undertake to rid the world of this evil mage. Ye need pay nothing 'til the deed be done. After, ye will pay without complaint. What say ye?"
The mages -- being mages and by their natures contentious and argumentative --debated long. At last, however, they agreed to the thief's proposal, and with a leap and a bound she disappeared from their chamber.
A week went by, and then another, and the mages met once again in council, having decided that the thief had failed as had so many before her. They were astonished, upon entering their locked chamber, to find her sitting at the council table, drinking wine from their own cellar.
Laughing at their bemused expressions, she said, "To save ye the trouble of asking, let me assure you that I have succeeded. With no fear of retribution, any one of ye may scry the late evil mage's keep and verify that 'tis true."
Somewhat timidly, the most powerful among the mages did just that, and his oath of amazement testified to the truth of the thief's statement. "But how," asked the stunned mage, "could you succeed where puissant mages and stolid heroes, even mailed armies, failed?"
The thief shrewdly spoke. "First ye will affirm that I shall receive what payment I ask, and that ye shall let me be after this, unhindered, unharmed, and unsought. And ye will all swear to it on thy lives and on thy Art."
"Yes, yes," said the mages one and all, and they each so swore."
Very well," smiled the thief. "I entered thy enemy's keep by stealth, but I did not immediately attack him, for such would be suicidal. I knocked politely at his study door, and he let me in..."
"Preposterous," bellowed one of the assembled mages, "he would have burned you down without warning, or turned you into something loathsome, knowing that you had evaded his wards."
"Not so," quoth the thief, "for I had sent him a message, a very polite message, informing him that I would be visiting, that I would be verifiably unarmed, and suggesting that he would be well advised to hear me out should I succeed in entering his keep by stealth, lest the details of how I'd done it be made public, as I'd arranged for in advance in the event of my untimely demise." The thief shrugged, grinning at the circle of astonished, unbelieving faces. "Black Arts or White, he was a mage. A scholar. Like all of ye are. Curious. And more than usually arrogant, as ye all have cause to know. He felt that he had nothing much to lose by listening to me, and perhaps some knowledge of his defences' weaknesses to gain. He let me in."
"And then?" asked one of the assembled wizards, wonder in his voice.
"And then I told him how I had gained access to his keep, in exchange for being allowed to choose how I would die. I told him in detail, and wrote it all down for him with the quill he gave me for the purpose."
"What?!" bellowed one of the mages.
"Surely ye can see that he would never let me leave his keep alive? From his point of view, I was dead meat already. His curiosity caused him to hear me out; his arrogance caused him to let me choose the way of my dying. I told him I wished to be turned to stone, since as ye all know, that is a particularly difficult spell, which only the most learned and adept mages can hope to cast correctly. I told him I wished to be killed in a manner worthy of his command of the Art."
"And then?" "And then?" "What then?" The mages clamoured.
"Then," the thief laughed, "While he was barely started muttering and gesturing, I drove the writing quill through his eye into his brain. He was a mage. A powerful and arrogant mage. He relied on his skill at magic, and forgot that in the hands of someone resourceful, just about anything can be a weapon. To him, that quill was a writing implement, no more. To me, it was the Archmage's dagger, and he gave it to me himself. There are no deadly weapons, gentlemen, only deadly people. Whether blasted by magic or stabbed by a quill, dead is dead. And now, about my payment. I will have of ye a pardon, attested to by each and all of ye, and binding on thy liege lords. I have already looted the late Archmage's keep, and I would have no unseemly claims hereafter."
Twilight smiled as she ended her story, and, unstopping a wineskin, drank a long draught. She looked around at the assembled companions, her gaze lingering with amusement on Alduin as he eyed his writing quill suspiciously. "I think Balefire wanted to remind me, and you, that magic or no magic, we can be deadly as long as we all keep our heads and our nerve."