“Yes, the scribe,” the man said as if snapping back to reality. “He’s down that way.” He pointed. “Take your first left, your third right, then go all the way to the stairs on the right.”

“Thank you.” Ezril turned to leave and caught the man reaching for something at his feet. He afforded the man his full attention and saw a cluster of unlit torches at his feet. He remembered seeing something of the fort at the entrance too but he’d ignored them because he hadn’t needed any.

The King’s guard hesitated for a moment, unsure of whatever action he wanted to take. Ezril cocked a questioning brow then looked behind him, then back at the man who was now holding the torch but seemed to be in a dilemma of if to light it or not.

Understanding dawned on Ezril and he helped make the man’s decision for him.

“Oh, don’t worry about it. I’ve been down here enough times to know my way around the grounds,” he lied. “I just needed to know which way to go. Thank you, nonetheless.”

With that he turned again and continued on his way cursing himself under his breath. He’d been alone too long. Normal people don’t walk dark passages without lit torches. He took the first left. You’ll have to remember that. Your brothers may accept it as a trick but not everyone will be so understanding.

There were so many turns leading to the unpredictable but he stuck to the path he’d been given. The place was like a labyrinth. One he had no intentions of ever exploring.

While the path had been tilting left, he found the stairs easily in an aberration to the right. What do you know; they go down.

He took them down their subtle spiral, following the soft sound of voices until he came to a door. This was too much secrecy just to secure one scribe whom the soldiers hadn’t even been secretive about in anyway. Unless…

He rasped his knuckle against the rough wood. To his surprise, the door creaked, opening inwards, unjammed against its frame. The voices were louder now and he realized they were men engaged in benign conversations.

“Father Urden.” A soldier stood up from his chair in surprise, fiddling with what was an uncertain salute.

The man—whoever he was—obviously knew him, but Ezril couldn’t conjure up any remorse for not knowing the man. He nodded to the man’s maladroit form and turned to familiar faces.

Alphex sat conversing with one of the soldiers who had simply acknowledged him with a surprised look. Ezril’s gaze rolled over Alphex to someone of higher authority.

“Reverend Ghimasu,” he greeted.

Ghimasu rose to meet him. “Brother Urden,” he said, offering a hand Ezril took. “What brings you all the way here?”

Ezril finished his brief scan of the room he’d begun when he entered. Eight, he counted. Eight men were in the room; himself excluded. Three King’s guards, four soldiers, and one priest.

To the left of the room, standing at the entrance, were three cells that seemed to have been dug into the wall then barred with metal lattice. One of them held prisoners and it didn’t take Salem’s skills to know Levlin would be in there.

His attention returned to find Ghimasu’s small eyes snuggled on an oblong face waiting for him.

“I’m here for my scribe,” he answered casually. “He and I have an arrangement.”

“An arrangement…” the reverend mused then looked down at their hands.

Ezril adjusted the hem of his sleeve, concealing the exposed scars as black as night.

“I’d heard you were burned but I didn’t think…” Ghimasu let the words trail off with the discomfort in his eyes.

“Understandable.”

Ezril didn’t care for the pity. It wasn’t surprising; he expected anyone who saw it to react that way; being burned by shadow fire wasn’t an easy thought to handle. But many didn’t know how he got it, if they did, they’d know he didn’t need their pity.

“The scribe,” he repeated ignoring a grunt from the cell.

Reverend Ghimasu released his hand, and taking him by the shoulder, gently led him aside.

“The scribe is working,” he told him in a whispered tone.

“Working?”

Ghimasu nodded. “Working. You remember I’ve been charged with secretly breaching the walls when next we meet them,” he continued and Ezril nodded. “Well, a few days ago I was speaking with Brother Salem regarding any ideas he had on the matter and he suggested that…” another grunt broke from the cell. They ignored it. “That I bring in a new batch of prisoners from one of the camps and have them kept here according to their markings.” Another pain filled grunt. “When the scribe arrived, the soldiers had orders to bring one man from each marking and put them in one place. The scribe was to represent his marking. We were to leave them together for as long as we could; allow them whisper amongst each other. He said that way the scribe could gather something faster.”

Another grunt rend the air followed by a bloody cough.

Ezril regarded Ghimasu with suspicion. “Is he still working?”

“Well…”

“Reverend Father Ghimasu, is the scribe still working.”

“No,” Alphex said aloud. “Now he’s paying for being what he is.”

Ezril spared the man a brief glance and caught his stare. Alphex was challenging him. He ignored him and turned back to Ghimasu. “Kindly explain that.”

“Well it’s quite simple, really.” Alphex interrupted again sounding smug. “When he signaled that he’d gotten useful intel, we brought him out and had him tell us. The savage was dumb enough to spill it in front of them. After that, we threw him back in.” The King’s guard laughed. “No need hiding anymore. They’ve been teaching him ever since.”

Ezril allowed him finish. It seemed Alphex had grown some balls since the last time they met. “The scribe is under the care of the seminary,” he told the Reverend. “If anything is to happen to…”

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“That’s why I’m here!” Ghimasu hissed. “To make sure he remains alive.”

Ezril looked at the Reverend. He didn’t seem like a bad person. If anything, he seemed like someone who cared about others. But hate for the Merdendi was a vicious thing; it easily clouded the judgement of men.

He turned from the priest and walked up to the table. Alphex stiffened, preparing for an encounter, but Ezril had his eyes on the soldier nearest to the cell.

“Open it,” he commanded.

“I wouldn’t if I were you.” Alphex laughed, then pointed. “You see that guy over there.” Ezril ignored him. “We asked for him ourselves. It took a lot of men to bring him down when we captured him. One night in a cell and all of them already answer to him.”

It seemed the man had also forgotten how to keep quiet.

“Open it,” Ezril repeated unstrapping his bow and placing it on the table. Then he looked at the soldier who looked between him and the reverend, confused. “Open it or I’ll open you.”

The man fidgeted, quickly sifting through a bunch of keys.

“Levlin,” Ezril said, eyes lingering on his bow. “Are you still alive?”

The only response he got was a strained cough.

He nodded.

When he spoke again he continued to address the scribe, however, his eyes never left Ghimasu. He dropped his unsheathed Sunders on the table with a thud.

“Translate,” he instructed, then unstrapped his scabbards. “I am Ezril Vi Antari Urden, son of Urden Urden,” Levlin did as commanded, and though he couldn’t see the man, he knew the scribe addressed the huge muscled man Alphex had pointed out earlier. “And I challenge you to unarmed combat.”

Alphex grinned so hard it was a wonder the man’s scraggly bearded mouth didn’t tear, and Ghimasu frowned in disapproval. Ezril ignored them both.

“Should I win,” Levlin continued his pained translation. “I will have the traitor. Should you win… well… there will be nothing to offer you because that would mean my death.” Levlin stuttered here but completed the translation.

The man huffed and grunted loudly. Ezril didn’t care for his intimidation tactics.

“Do you accept?”

Levlin translated.

The man gave a loud grunt then thumped his chest loudly. He spread his arms with pride and said, “Umvag!”

It could have meant anything. So Ezril took it to be his name.

Stepping up to the cage, he took the keys from the still fumbling soldier. After three tries he heard the gate click. He looked at Levlin for the first time since entering the room, and the scribe, coiled up on the floor in a fetal position protecting his vital parts, nodded. Opening the gate, he stepped inside and tossed the key to Levlin who failed to catch it. Still, it landed on him and none approached it.

One of the Merdendi customs the scribe had witnessed as a child was that of duels. Men would challenge each other and fight till one was dead. All the while each member of the group would stand aside and observe the outcome. The losers would accept the terms of defeat without question.

Levlin had said it was a custom ingrained in them since their ancestors. To Ezril, it was just men being men.

Umvag rushed him almost immediately after he had secured the gate. Ezril ducked beneath the attack, striking the man in the armpit as he made his way to the other side. His opponent growled more in annoyance than pain and turned to face him. Everyone in the cell had scurried up against the walls on both sides, giving them the center to fight. Up close the man wasn’t so huge, but his muscles were certainly intimidating; pushing against the veins from beneath the reddened skin in massive bulges.

Perhaps you should have thought this through, Ezril thought as he leaned away from two punches and weaved around Umvag in an attempt to get behind the man.

Umvag rushed him but this time he was prepared. He stepped forward, planting his feet against the man’s chest. Bolstered by the strength of a Hallowed, the kick threw Umvag against the wall. His opponent bounced back immediately but Ezril had already rushed in, jumping as high as the confines allowed him. Without hesitation, Umvag’s hands rose to meet him, shoving him away in midair. Ezril fell on his face, the blow he’d intended hadn’t even come down.

He scuttled off the floor just in time to meet Umvag. The big man swung hard. Ezril barely escaped it but a second swing caught him across the face, spinning him in place. He collapsed hard. His vision swirled and his head ached.

He was still gathering his wits when his opponent took him by the knot of his hair and he was forced to stand lest the pain rip his scalp. The next fist would draw blood, and perhaps, have him wobbling, but it was something he couldn’t evade. If he braced for it, he could handle it better.

The sound echoed through the room. Sharp and piercing and Ezril’s mouth fell open more from shock than pain. Umvag had slapped him, and now, the brute was laughing.

In Merdendi customs, a slap was an insult.

To a Alduinsian, a slap was an insult.

To a man, a slap was an insult.

Fueled by rage and ignoring the tearing in his scalp, Ezril struck a fist against the man’s throat. Reeling back, Umvag released his hold, clutching at his throat as he choked.

Ezril spun, throwing a kick into the man’s face. That seemed to jerk him into more serious things because Umvag ignored his throat and came back swinging. Ezril weaved beneath each blow. Umvag swung wide and Ezril kicked him against the wall again. Umvag rebounded with another swing. Ezril ducked beneath it, coming up with an upper cut that caught the Merdendi on the jaw. Ezril anticipated the next blow and fell to his knees. His opponent missed, but before he could channel his next attack, Ezril struck a fist against the inside of his knee. His footing destabilized, and yet, the man would not fall.

Ezril took the man’s second swing with his shoulder and kicked out the man’s other knee. Despite preparing for the blow it still came with a suppressing pain. But his sacrifice paid off. Umvag’s knees buckled under his weight. He staggered backward trying to keep on his feet.

Fuck this.

Ezril kicked him into the wall a third time and Umvag seemed too concerned about staying on his feet because he didn’t rebound this time, instead, he used it to keep himself standing. Ezril needed to recuperate after the blow to his shoulder. He rushed the man and caught the look of shock; he wasn’t the only one who’d thought he needed to gather his wits.

His fists moved in practiced routine; ribs, solar plexus, stomach, liver, body. Each strike was vicious and intended to kill, just as Fravis taught. However, the man’s muscles were taut and fearing he was wasting his attacks Ezril struck for the man’s face. The solid blows landed and then he punched the man in the throat. The man choked and staggered forward, away from the wall and towards Ezril. It was a mistake. Ezril brushed the Merdendi’s feet out from under him with a vicious kick, and Umvag dropped. His head whipped the floor with a disgusting crack that filled the room, and the man stayed down.

A normal man would have died from it with a split skull. For a Hallowed like the Merdendi… Ezril looked at him, his head banging with a pain induced head ache and his shoulder screamed with pain and overexertion. I’ll settle for unconscious. Still, he frowned, Olufemi would’ve ended it faster.

He almost buckled from his thoughts as the incredulity of what they implied hit him. Did he just measure his combat prowess with Olufemi’s as the basis?

The room was silent.

The Merdendis made no sound, scuttling closer to the walls on both sides as if he was going to turn on them. He turned to Levlin and found the man was no longer there. Turning to the gate he found him leaning against it shuffling keys in the hole. Even the men outside stared in horror. Ghimasu looked at him as if he had just attempted to kill Truth. And while the other men looked on in amazement, Alphex had the satisfying look of terror, as though Ezril had actually killed Truth, and he was next.

He took a step towards the gate as Levlin pushed it open and fell just outside the confines. Then the murmurings began. They filled the confines like pinpricks and he had a hard time making out what they were saying. His lessons with Levlin helped him pick out words, but as jumbled together as they were, he could make out nothing coherent. He was almost at the gate when he finally heard a clear phrase.

“What is he?” someone had asked.

The answer was easy. This one Levlin had gone out of his way to teach him, despite its unimportance at the time.

Ezril turned to face them and a dead silence fell over the cell. When he spoke, their confusion turned to understanding, and their understanding to terror. For the men outside the confines, there was only confusion. In the Merdendi tongue—as well as he had mastered it—he gave them their answer.

“…The Night’s blue; Herald of the goddess.”

He made his way to the table, putting up a front against all the pain. He wouldn’t let how bad he hurt show. Sheathing his Sunders, he picked them up with his bow, not bothering to strap them on, and taking Levlin by the arm, he helped him up and led him towards the door.

“You and I have a prior arrangement,” he said aloud.

His head cursed him for it and his shoulder hurt.