Gareth awoke to a beam of sunlight hitting him in the face. He moaned and rolled to his right to get out of its way, to not much use: the window was too wide for that. He took a deep breath and slid out from under the sheets. Not bothering to put anything on, he walked to the basin in the corner and splashed a handful of cold water in his face. A rude awakening, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.
He turned back to the bed: Helena was still sleeping, sprawled across the bed in a pose that a contortionist would envy her for, one arm hung over the edge, silently snoring, a faint smile playing on her face. He chuckled silently, taking care not to wake her up. All the considerable dignity she held when awake, especially in groups of people, evaporated when she slept. It only made him love her more; he hated the uptight disposition she reserved for any even remotely formal occasion, instead preferring her childlike excitement and playfulness that only seemed to appear when they were together. His smile widened: his last few hunts brought him a hefty sum that stayed such even after paying his communal dues. Combined with what he saved up over the year, he wouldn’t have to venture out until the spring. He looked forward to all the time they’d spend together.
A gust of freezing wind that blew through the window reminded him to get dressed. He hastily put on his clothes, and then went to strap his armour on. The four long lacerations in his cuirass, as well as several deep dents in his left bracer reminded him of his last hunt. He put his cuirass down, and reaching into a cupboard, he pulled out a large burlap sack. Carefully, he placed all pieces of his armour in it, and flung it over his shoulder. His next hunt would be a long while off, but getting repairs out of the way early couldn’t hurt; after all, he had plenty of time. Casting one last glance towards Helena, he strapped his sword onto his belt, then carefully unlocked the door and stepped out.
As he walked down the spiral staircase, he could hear the castle awakening; the creaking of old bed frames, groans of disapproval, splashing of water, the beat of myriad footfalls, and of course, the clanking of armour. He smiled as he reminisced about the first lesson his mother, the founder of the Order, gave him, as well as the handful of recruits who made up the first generation of hunters: never allow yourself a dull moment; always be prepared. And it just so happened that this constant vigilance meant the constant bearing of arms, unless it was wildly inappropriate. His class was adamant about the rule, but the newer recruits often thought it to be overzealous, paranoid or just plain ludicrous. Gareth smiled at their misconception: all it really took to set them straight was him and a few other older members jumping them and beating them with training swords until they were black and blue all over. They would seldom complain after that.
Arriving at the bottom of the staircase, he pushed open the door that lead into the great hall. It was empty save for the few early birds who came to get the porridge while it was still warm. Not paying them much attention, he turned into a side chamber and stopped in front of a small, reinforced door. Truth be told, he wasn’t too eager to walk inside: even from behind the thick oak wood and numerous straps of blackened iron bolted around the edges, he could hear the sound of metal striking metal, and feel the monstrous heat emanating from within. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door.
As on all his previous visits, he wasn’t prepared, and loudly exhaled as the wave of heat struck him on every exposed piece of skin. The large rectangular room was hot as if he stood in a massive foundry. The red brick walls were bleached to almost orange from the near constant heat and light coming from the circular forge that dominated the central portion of the room. It was surrounded by three anvils of varying sizes and massive bellows that looked as if they needed a giant to operate them, but thanks to the complex system of ropes, pulleys and weights, a single man was enough. The northernmost angle of the room was occupied by a large smelter, next to which stood a massive teakwood table, covered with hammers, whetstones, knives, bolts, various scraps of metal and leather, several half finished blades, and a dozen boxes and bottles whose content Gareth could only guess. And next to the table, a surprisingly ascetic and mundane bed. The room had only one window, which was little less than a mostly square hole in the wall, just wide enough that a child could crawl through it.
Just seconds in, Gareth wished he could leave. The forge made the Deadlands feel pleasant in comparison. No man could survive here for an extended amount of time.
Of course, that didn’t matter to Taldryn Arobar, who wasn’t a man at all.
“Close the door, ya pile of guarshit!” bellowed the voice. “Ya’re lettin’ all the heat out!”
Gareth swiftly obliged, and regretted it even more swiftly; the unbearable heat of the room just became slightly more unbearable, if that was even possible. But there was no disobeying the forgemaster in his own tiny kingdom - or his tiny Oblivion realm, as his brothers and sisters called it. And Arobar’s appearance only reinforced that impression. He was built like a mammoth, taller and bulkier than all other members of the Order despite his Dunmer heritage. His arms, that more resembled ashwood logs than limbs, were bulging with veins. As always, he was bare-chested and barefoot, dressed only in loose leather trousers held in place by a belt. What could be seen of his skin was covered in rows of scars of varying lengths and widths. His narrow face was of sharp features, which made even friendly expressions horrifying. And it was even worse when he was frowning. Like he was now.
“Greetings, Taldr-” started Gareth, but before he could finish a sentence, the blacksmith’s massive hands seized him by the collar, lifted him in the air like a rag doll, and slammed him to the wall. Gareth cringed in discomfort as the heat of the walls started to almost cook his back.
“You little clap-riddled cunt! How many times did I tell you not to keep the door open!?” screamed Taldryn.
“Oh come now, Taldryn.” Gareth tried to sound as friendly as possible, which likely failed over the combination of his squeaky voice, laboured breathing, and the blacksmith’s steel grip. “You barely lost any heat.”
“Hmm...” Gareth felt the grip on his shirt lessen, then disappear completely. He dropped on his feet and scampered away from the wall as Taldryn scratched his braided beard for what seemed like hours. “Be s’pposin’ you’re right, kid,” he finally added after what seemed like an eternity. “Don’t feel any less pleasant in here.”
Gareth tried to normalize his breathing: every breath of the scalding air roasted his lungs, and he preferred to breathe as little as possible here. It didn’t bother Taldryn in the slightest.
“I'm guessing you need something hammered, wuss,” croaked Taldrin over the sound of the bellows blowing. “Lucky for you, I ain’t not got much to do now, so I can look at it right away.”
“It's my armour, Taldryn,” confirmed Gareth. “Bastard got it pretty good. I’ll need a frontal leather change for the chestpiece, straightening and tarnish for the left bracer, and a checkup of all the other pieces.”
“Why the checkup?” Taldryn paused pumping just long enough to carefully place a few bars of steel in the fire. They went orange almost instantly. “Goin' off on a hunt again?”
“Not anytime soon, no.” Geralt lowered the sack onto the table. “But I’d rather have it in working condition for when I need it.”
“And what 'bout that sword of yours?” asked Taldryn. “Should I check ‘er up too?”
Instinctively, Gareth’s hand lowered on the circular pommel of the weapon.
“There won’t be any need for that.” His voice came out colder than he intended. Taldryn didn’t seem to notice.
“I know your old lady gave it to you, but any smith worth his ash salts will tell you the same as me: it’s mighty old, it is, and you never let anyone touch it. Not even me. All sorts o’ things could be wrong with it. It could fail you on the next hunt, and then you’d be royally fucked. Let me have a look at it; I’ll lend you one of my blue steel pieces in the meantime-”
“No, Taldryn.”
The smith stopped pumping the bellows. For a moment, he just stood glaring at Gareth, who returned the glare with equal intensity.
“Ah, what the fuck,” concluded Taldryn finally. “Keep it like that if you want: won't be my fucking burial when you get skinned.” He reached into the forge and grabbed one of the steel bars with his bare hand. Pulling it out, he briefly observed it, before lowering it back in its place. He picked up Gareth’s sack and placed it on table, unfastened it, and started removing pieces, carefully observing each of them and twirling them between his massive fingers as if they were pieces of parchment before setting them on the table. When he reached the left bracer, his glance briefly stopped on the indentations on the metal.
“Teeth marks,” he said matter of factly. “Big jaw too.” he added. “Can be fixed.”
He placed the bracer on the rounded end of his medium anvil and grabbed one of his smaller hammers. Gareth watched, transfixed, as the hulk of a mer struck the indentations gently, yet rapidly, moving the plate to get it from all the angles. He was surprisingly graceful: it looked like he was weaving a tapestry, rather than fixing a scraped plate. He was done soon enough, and other than the shine on the hammered part, the bracer looked as good as new.
“Hand me that yellow bottle there, lad,” demanded Taldryn. Gareth’s eyes shot to the side, and he instantly found what he looked for: a narrow glass bottle, half filled with fine yellow powder. He handed it to the smith, who uncorked it and carefully tapped it over the shiny part of the plate, letting a pinch of powder drop on it. The air filled with the stench horribly reminiscent of rotten eggs. Taldryn corked the bottle, and gently spread the powder over the silver, almost rubbing it in. When he was done, he carefully placed the bracer in a small leather bag and tucked it away. Absently, he pushed his stained fingers into the fire, causing the residue powder on them to burst into flames. Returning to the table, he pulled out several more pieces, before finally taking the cuirass out. A drawn out whistle escaped his lips as he caressed the torn leather on the front.
“Sweet Mephala, what did this?” he muttered to nobody in particular. He turned to Gareth. “What leather was this?” he asked.
“Doe,” said Gareth.
“Doe?” quizzed Taldryn. “You're just asking for trouble with that, you moron.” He took a chisel and stared carefully separating bolts that held the plate and leather together. When he was done, he tossed the leather into the fire: nothing more could be done with it.
“Well I ain’t got any doe or wolf or cat here, lad.” said Taldryn. “All used up, and next shipment ain’t until next full moons. I only have netch.”
“You do?” said Gareth with a hint of excitement in his voice. He heard stories about the leather’s amazing properties: it was lighter and more resilient than normal leather, and could divert the blow completely if worn by one nimble on his feet. “That’d be perfect.” he added.
“Also expensive, wuss,” retorted Taldryn. “It’s an import, and that damn queen of yours isn't too keen on importing anything from Morrowind.”
“Don’t worry, Taldryn,” said Gareth reassuringly. “I’ll be able to pay you right away.”
“Ya better, dwarf,” said Taldryn. “Now get outta here, I got work to do. I’ll let you know when it’s done.”
This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Gareth wanted to believe that leaving Taldryn weighed heavily on his soul, but after stepping out and taking in a few breaths of crisp winter air, he decided not to lie to himself.
---
Stepping outside the castle, Gareth turned east. The sun rose far enough to somewhat illuminate the world, but not quite enough to start warming it. Several of his brothers and sisters were already outside, diligently practising. He saw Olga swinging her heavy axe, beheading a straw dummy in one slash. Felara was jabbing her rapier in a similar dummy with the speed of a cat, in a pattern that maimed the limbs first. Lormaril was loosening an arrow after arrow from the top of the walls, drawing out a star on a target only about as large as a shield, one which would be almost invisible from that distan-
Something struck him on the back of a head with enough force to knock him into onto the snowy ground. For a moment, his world exploded in a whole palette of colours, but he was back before he knew it. Shaking his head to clear his vision, he heard a giggle from behind him. His lips parted into a vicious grin. He grabbed a handful of snow and formed it into a firm ball, before shooting up into a standing position and flinging it to the source of the laughter.
She dodged it with the elegance of a dancer despite wearing an armour that would hinder someone of her stature. Gracefully, her dodge transitioned into a pirouette, her plated half-skirt swirling around her. Her faced cracked into a smile to match his own.
“I win again!” she proclaimed cheerfully as she hopped her way to him. Her black hair, tied into a tall ponytail as always, swished behind her. Two streaks were left free, framing her small, slightly round face. Her skin, as pale as Secunda’s surface, seemed to glow faintly under what little of rising sun there was. Smile as white as pearls peeked from behind pink lips. She was an image of youthful beauty, unsettled only by a long, white scar that stretched over her left brow and eye, cutting into her cheek, and moving down almost to the corner of her mouth, and the left eye itself, that was mystically purple, contrasting the azure one on the right.
“You win again,” he admitted. “For the fiftieth time in a row,” he added under his breath.
Aeriel Emberstar, famous for her frightening efficiency in hunting monsters, taking and completing jobs that would usually take a small group of people to even consider, heard him and laughed.
“You have to get faster!” she chirped. She slapped him on the shoulder, and he winced. For someone shorter than him by his whole head, and likely twice as lighter, she was deceptively strong.
“I doubt I’ll ever be able to match you, Aeri,” he said apologetically.
Instead of a response, she hugged him, pinning his arms to his side. The air was forced out of his lungs, and he had to invest a monstrous effort to wiggle one of his hands free and tap out on her shoulder. She released him, grinning like a maniac.
“So, when’re you off again?” she asked.
“Not anytime soon,” he said. “I intend to stay until the spring.
Aeriel’s grin melted off into a smile of genuine happiness. She hugged him again, albeit much gentler this time. He returned the hug and patted her on the back.
They split, and Aeriel scratched her nose.
“So,” he asked, “how did the last job go?”
“Fairly easy,” Aeriel said with a hint of pride in her voice. “A classic: conjuror messed up and summoned three daedroths instead of one. Didn’t find much of him left when I arrived, but the daedroths were still there. They aren’t anymore.”
Gareth shuddered: Aeriel was the only person he knew that would call confronting three angry daedroths by herself anything even resembling 'fairly easy'.
“How much did they pay you?”
Aeriel proudly stuck out her chest. “Fifteen hundred. The Jarl was more than grateful for my quick response,”
Gareth whistled, impressed.
“What about you?” she asked.
“Me? I got to track down a couple of missing children and found a windigo at the end of the trail. Killed the bastard, got the whelps home safely. Got two hundred pieces for it.”
“Not a bad job,” Aeriel noted. “Did you use fire oil?”
“I didn’t have any on me,” said Gareth bitterly, remembering the smashed bottles in his pouch.
“Why did you go hunt a windigo without any-”
“Master Gareth! Master Gareth!”
They turned to the source of the voice: it was Julius, and he was running in their direction, hand on the pommel of his sword. When he stopped next to them, he was breathing heavily.
“Master Gareth,” he squeezed, trying to catch his breath, “the Council summons you… it’s immediate… must see them now.” He only seemed to notice Aeriel then, and he immediately straightened up.
“Lady Aeriel, my apologies for interrupting you,” he said formally, with a slight hint of nervousness in his voice.
“Cut it out, Julie,” she joked, before playfully shoving him, causing him to stumble. “I’m not your commanding officer and you don’t have to apologize. What does the Council want with Gareth?”
“Forgive me, Lady Aeriel, but I was instructed only to summon Master Gareth. I don’t know any more details.”
“What in the Sixteen Realms could they possibly want with me?” moaned Gareth.
“Maybe it’s dues?” Aeriel suggested.
“Paid them already,” he responded.
“Maybe a mission?”
“Talos preserve me, I hope not,” he said. “I wasn’t planning on venturing out until the spring.”
Nobody said anything for a few seconds.
“Well, whatever it is, you best go now.” Aeriel adjusted a strap of her armour. “If they say it’s urgent, it’s urgent.”
“I’m beginning to wonder that,” said Gareth. “Very well Julius, lead the way.”
The young Cyrod nodded, gave a nervous half-bow to Aeriel, and set off towards the castle. Gareth followed him closely. It seemed he wouldn’t be getting the free time he wanted anytime soon.
---
The main council chamber was located in a place of former chapel of Molag Bal. The large chamber was cleared of any religious paraphernalia, which was replaced with some minimalistic furniture and one remarkably large desk that could house all five members of the council. And equally remarkable, they were all there: Brunwylf, a large, burly Nord with a booming voice; Tyerolenmar, an Altmer of sharp features and stern face; Sigmund, a short Nord with an unusual talent for obtaining intelligence; Araneya, a pretty Dunmer, and the only woman in the group; and Decimus, an ageing, nervous Cyrod that spent more time reviewing papers than interacting with living beings.
“You’re late, Easterling.” Tyerolenmar’s cold voice resounded through the largely empty chamber.
Not even a greeting, Gareth thought to himself. “I was only now informed that you wanted to see me, Master Tyerolenmar,” he said, trying his best to fake regret in his voice. Next to him, Julius did his best to hide himself from the piercing eyes of the councillors.
“And you’re out of your uniform?”
“I brought it to Taldryn to have it repaired,” Gareth explained.
“Excuses,” said Araneya with a clear contempt in her voice. “We expect every member to follow the rules.”
“The rules his own mother brought in place, if you’ll remember,” another voice spoke from behind Gareth.
All heads in room immediately turned towards the door. Aeriel stood there, staring the council members down.
“Emberstar,” growled Sigmund, disdain clear in his voice. “You were not summoned to this meeting.”
“I have the right to be here as much as any of you, Sigmund,” she retorted. Gareth could almost hear the councillor’s teeth gritting for being addressed without a title. He allowed himself a hidden smile.
“Careful, Emberstar,” spoke Brunwylf. “You may be our best, but that doesn’t give you the right to disrespect your superiors.”
“Of course not, Master Brunwylf,” she responded humbly. Sigmund gripped his pen so hard it snapped. “I merely speak on the behalf of my brothers and sisters, as is my right.”
“Speak then, if you’ve something clever to say,” Araneya taunted her.
“As you wish, Lady Araneya.” Aeriel bowed her head slightly. “Brother Gareth has been summoned, but you’ve yet to tell him the reason for it.”
“The Easterling has been assigned a specific task,” said Tyerolenmar, matter-of-factly.
“Someone wished to hire me?” asked Gareth.
“You will speak when spoken to, Easterling,” Tyerolenmar retorted. “But no, you have not been hired. This task is issued directly from us.”
“What is the task then, Master Tyerolenmar?” asked Aeriel quickly.
Tyerolenmar’s eyes met Aeriel’s own: they studied each other for a moment.
“He is to take on an apprentice,” he finally said.
It was like someone had flung a pail of cold water in his face. Taking on an apprentice was not only a massive responsibility, but also a very long lasting job: his plans were ruined.
“But, Master Tyerolenmar,” he started, struggling to find words, “I did not intend to venture out until the spring.”
“Which is why you’ve been selected,” said Sigmund, with a wicked glint in his eye. “All your other brothers and sisters are too busy to just laze around.”
Gareth felt an irresistible urge to throttle the diminutive man. And he would have maybe gone on with it if Aeriel didn’t step out before him.
“Master Tyerolenmar, I humbly request permission to train this apprentice myself,” she said pleadingly.
“Request denied, Emberstar,” Tyerolenmar cut off. “Someone of your talents should not waste her time on something so trivial. The Easterling will handle that. And besides, we already have a task suited for someone of your skills.”
Gareth felt powerless anger well up in him. Not only would he have to take on an apprentice, but by the sounds of it, it would be someone who only recently came of age. He would have to look after a child on one of the most dangerous jobs in northern Tamriel. Aeriel didn’t look too happy, either. But suddenly, her eyes flashed, and a mischievous smile crept on her face.
“And what if,” she started, barely containing the growing excitement in her voice, “we trained that apprentice together?”
“Preposterous!” screamed Araneya. “Two hunters for a single apprentice? You should know better than to suggest something so absurd!”
“If Lady Araneya would allow me to explain-”
“No explanations,” Araneya quickly snipped, leaning forward in her chair just enough to push it back with an unpleasant squeak on the cold stone floor. “It’s a ludicrous idea and a waste of time and resources. You may say you have good reason, but making a mockery out of a task not even assigned to you simply to ease another’s burden is no excuse.” Her eyes narrowed, an almost bored disdain easing itself into amongst her elven features. “You’d do well to remember that you are in no position to bend our rules, let alone break them, Emberstar.” The name spat forth from her lips with contempt, a clear reply to the earlier lack of respect she’d earlier shown to the council.
Aeriel lowered her head, her excitement vanishing like dew in the strong sun.
“Actually, Araneya,” said Brunwylf, “I’m curious to hear what Emberstar has in mind.” At the sound of his words, Aeriel lifted her gaze again, smiling hopefully.
“What!?” Araneya’s voice broke as she leaped out of her chair, turning towards the large man. “Since when do we-”
“Silence yourself, Araneya,” said Tyerolenmar in a tone that didn’t allow any complaints. “She has the right to speak.” Araneya clenched her lips, and demonstratively dropped in her chair, staring daggers at her fellow councillors.
“What did you have in mind, Emberstar?” asked Brunwylf with genuine curiosity in his voice.
“If the Masters would allow,” started Aeriel, “I would wish for Gareth to accompany me on my jobs, and take his apprentice with him. That way, we will not only finish the jobs faster and more efficiently, but the apprentice would get first hand experience from the best source.”
“But sending two hunters for the same job...” started Tyerolenmar.
“Excuse me, Master Tyerolenmar, but are we not among your best?” said Aeriel. “We would be able to handle the high profile jobs much more quickly and efficiently, which means better earnings for the Order.”
Tyerolenmar relaxed in his chair: it would seem she’d won him over.
“And what of the apprentice’s safety?” said Decimus, surprising everyone present. “High profile jobs could be dangerous for a new blood.”
“The apprentice’s safety would not be compromised, Master Decimus,” said Gareth. “She would be accompanied by two of the finer members of the Order. I would personally make sure she is out of any significant peril.”
Decimus nodded in agreement, before returning to scribbling on his parchment.
“I still see no reason for the two of you to attend to a single apprentice,” snarled Sigmund.
“Enough, Sigmund,” said Tyerolenmar. “The proposition is sound.” He stood up and cleared his throat.
“It has been decided,” he started ceremoniously, “that Gareth the Easterling and Aeriel Emberstar” he looked to each of them in turn as he spoke, “will both serve as masters of our latest recruit. This decision was brought forth with best interests of the Order of White Cairn in mind. If anyone wishes to contest this decision, let them speak now.”
Nobody said anything. Araneya and Sigmund were silently steaming. Brunwylf seemed satisfied. Decimus didn’t even look up.
“Julius!” Tyerolenmar called.
Julius immediately stepped out and straightened up.
“Yes, Master Tyerolenmar?” he said.
“Bring in the new blood,” he said, his gaze moving on to Gareth and Aeriel. “I believe some introductions are in order.”
“Yes, Master Tyerolenmar.” Julius nervously bowed and rushed out of the room.
“And as for you two,” Tyerolenmar said, looking strictly at Gareth and Thanael, “I expect nothing less than the best from you two."
Gareth and Aeriel nodded in unison. Someone yelled on the outside. Sounds of brief commotion were heard. A sound of a blow, followed by a muffled groan. Gareth and Aeriel looked at each other nervously. Then the doors opened and slammed into the wall with a resounding bang.
A young woman walked in, her hands on her hips. She was dressed in a simple, loose shirt, beige pants, and cheap leather boots that went up to her knees. Her dirty blonde hair was tied in a simple ponytail slung over her left shoulder, and her eyes were the colour of amber. She scanned the room, glaring at everyone present with arrogant contempt.
Moments later, Julius stumbled in. His left eye was almost closed from the swelling, deep purple bruise.
“And who're you?” she spoke to the pair. Her voice was carefree, commanding, and stern: the voice of an arrogant youth.
Gareth could almost hear Aeriel blooming next to him. But he wasn’t as nearly as thrilled. To train a boy was one thing, but to train a girl? To train a bratty, and apparently quick to anger and volatile girl with an attitude that promised many future headaches? He could only silently pray for deliverance, half wishing for another round with a windigo over this.
“Gareth. Aeriel.” Tyerolenmar’s voice was deadpan. “Meet your new apprentice: Livia.”