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Garyn had been waiting for them all night. He'd known they would be coming. Even if he hadn't been able to hear them discussing it out loud in barely-diminished voices, he could have guessed there were friends of Lugbrug gro-Ogdum looking for revenge.
He'd slept in Milliways, and kept his eyes open as he lay in bed. As noisy as the contingent of mostly-Orcish conspirators were, he'd gotten the slip on them easily enough.
The answer he gives to the head of barracks security is delivered with a powerful sideward glance at his fellow soldiers.
"No idea, sir. They all must have tripped looking for the privy."
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The Deathshead Legion has been taking on not only local recruits, but fresh bands of pledged mer from the orcish camps outside Orsinium. They're sent half-trained, at best - just the way the Legion likes them, as they're easier to mold that way.
So Garyn is lined up along with them - the first line of the eighth century - with a drill sword in hand.
The drillmaster is a crusty, barrel-chested old sergeant named Sharkub gro-Kashnar. He stands taller than his height as he bellows at the filth, the scum of Nirn he sees before him. Garyn sees every trick he's familiar with, as the orc leans into the ears of his men, and shouts of their worthlessness for all the world to hear.
Then he turns his attention to Garyn.
"You! I've been told you've some experience in drilling."
Garyn continues to look straight ahead. "I do, sir."
"This was Lugrub gro-Ogdum's line. And you're the one wut killed him. Far as I'm concerned, this line is yours now. I haven't time to handle all of this sorry bunch by myself. Make soldiers of them."
Garyn steps forward, as the narrowing eyes of the unit turn to face him. "Sir."
It'll be a long series of days for the first line. And a long series of nights for Garyn.
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The door is a crack open on the crescent-shaped house as Garyn approaches it. He knocks anyway.
"Hetman Abelmawia?"
The owner of the home peers around the corner of his central hearth - he's dressed in common clothes, but clean and new.
"That'd be me. And you'd be here for the Queen's Cure Blight scroll?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very good. They've sent their best man to do the job, so I assume they sent the Emperor's coin along with him?"
Garyn raises an eyebrow as he reaches for the small pouch near his waist. "I wasn't aware I had a reputation, sera."
"I'm the hetman, my good Trooper. It's my job to know these things. And if I might say, it's quite heartening to know a Redoran is among our Legion - Veloth'm julehkin neen."
Garyn is caught off guard by the sudden Dunmeris. "What? Ah...yes, well. A distant son, at best."
The hetman chuckles as Garyn's coin is exchanged for the scroll. "Distant, indeed. But closer than the rest, that's for damn sure."
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In the grand scheme of things, it's not that far from Gnisis to Ald Velothi. But on a full march in full armor, with one line of sullen orcs in tow, it's more than long enough.
Garyn, being in the condition that he is, is able to walk backwards as he pulls up alongside a straggler.
"Pick it up, Spearman Yashnarz, unless you'd care to be tied up and dragged to the outpost."
The Orsimer soldier shakes his head and quickens his pace. "Sorry, sir. Distracted by what Dul gro-Dush was looking at."
"Oh? And what is he looking at?"
Dul snorts. "Nothing. Sir."
Garyn points a sword back over his shoulder toward a well-beaten path they'd just passed. "That doesn't look like nothing. You weren't thinking of going off the path?"
Another snort. "No. Not today, sir. Just a place I'd seen before is all."
"Well, keep the reminiscing to yourself," Garyn says. "Remember we're marching to rescue a woman from Ashlanders and deliver her to the Hetman of Ald Resdaynia. See to it your mind remains on the mission."
Garyn resumes his place at the head of the short column. "And that goes for the rest of you as well, understood?"
"Aye, sir!"
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Two days later, Garyn is out behind the barracks again for drills. They still don't like him. But every day, and with every drilling and occasional beating, there's a little more fear and awe in their eyes. It might even turn to respect before too long.
They still struggle, however, to swarm and defeat their newly appointed drillmaster.
"So, you learn to walk to a cadence and you think this means you've mastered small unit tactics? Disappointing. I thought Orsinium bred fighters."
"We're not from Orsinium, sir."
Garyn leans in close to the offending Orc and raises his voice. "Well, that must explain it, doesn't it!
The Code-Holding Stronghold Orcs can't hold their own without Gortwog to show them which end to hold a sword?"
He lets the silent glares speak for themselves.
"You want to prove me wrong? Hold your shields up. I'm going to teach you how to kill me."
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The odd tower at the edge of town had always looked out of place to Garyn. It was a weathered, rounded, and ancient thing, and the rest of Gnisis seemed set apart from it, as though the buildings themselves were trying to give it a wide berth.
Hearing that a trooper had tried to collect taxes from the wizard who owned it was somewhat akin to hearing that someone had yelled at Red Mountain and demanded it to move. Hearing that this trooper was assigned to his command and therefore his responsibility was just the icing on the cake.
She hadn't been seen since she entered the tower. Gods only know what's happened to her since, but Garyn rather suspects she'd have been better off trying to fight the mountain. But he has a duty to his command, and he must carry out that duty.
There's an obvious door up to the top of the keep - where, Garyn suspects, the wizard Baladas can be found. Because nothing Garyn ever does can be simple, it's locked.
He clambers through the labyrinthine corridors of the underpassages. Every door seems to have a brace of armed and animated skeletons ready to fight for their master's keep. It's in the clutches of one of these skeletons that he finds a dusty key.
Sure enough, it opens the locked door. Slowly, he creeps into the top of the keep, into a large, rounded room. His sword and shield are raised immediately when he sees a Daedroth, and a sphere-shaped Dwemer construct with a spear for an arm, standing in a pit in the center of the room.
They each turn to Garyn, staring for a long moment before resuming ignoring him.
Not wanting to press his luck, Garyn walks swiftly past them, and up the stairs, where the ancient wizard is waiting. Well, not so much waiting as minding his own business. And he seems to continue minding it, not turning his head even as he speaks to him.
"Who's this, then? Another soldier demanding tribute for the Empire of Men? Listen well, outlander. I was here before Gnisis, before the Empire of Men. I will be here after Gnisis is gone and after this short-lived Empire has crumbled. The people of Gnisis live only because I tolerate them. As do you, standing here now. Why should I pay tribute?"
Garyn raises his hand. "Believe me, I would attempt no such thing. I'm simply here to collect one of my troopers who made a mistake. If you let her go, I promise no one will trouble you again."
The wizard snorts. "You trouble me now. And something in me doubts you have the authority to make such a promise. Normally I would not be inclined to tolerate, let alone trust you...but I shall. If you found the key, you have what you need to release your brute. Go. The dungeon is on the lowest level. Take the orc with you and let neither of you return."
Garyn's footsteps are swift as he finds the dungeon. He's fast enough that Ragash is startled upright from where she lies slumped against the edge of her cell.
"Get up, Spearman. We're unwelcome guests and I'm getting us out of this party."
The orc snorts with amusement as she watches him unlock the door. "So how'd you get it from him?"
"I can work a little magic myself, Spearman Ragash."
She smiles - she'll have many a loud, boisterous story to tell about this in the tavern tonight. And for the first time, they'll be speaking of their commander with fondness.
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They've made the march to Ald Velothi at least a dozen times by this point, and it's been getting easier by the day. Sometimes Hetman Virith would even have work for them - the squad leader is a respected member of House Redoran, after all. The rest of the men stopped grumbling after the third or fourth time, and settled into the routine.
The dazed, stumbling Redguard, shambling toward them in the middle of the road with his eyes wideb is decidedly NOT a part of this routine.
"Malexa! Malexa!"
One of the men reaches for his sword, but Dol gro-Dush grabs him by the wrist and squeezes. Garyn steps forward with his hand raised. The Redguard, still panting and sweating, slumps to a stop in front of him.
"Something the matter, citizen?"
"Please, sir...can you help me? Malexa...m-my wife...she's been kidnapped by cultists!"
Garyn's brow furrows. "Cultists? From where?"
"Yes, I'm sure they must have been cultists! Malexa and I were traveling to meet friends in Ald Velothi when some men surprised us. They cast a spell on me, and I...fell asleep. When I woke up, she...she was gone! I'm sure they're planning to use her in some unholy ritual...but they can't have gone far!"
Garyn turns to Dol gro-Dush, a knowing look in his eye. "Spearman Dol...you've shown some interest in the geography of this area. You wouldn't happen to know where the nearest Daedric shrine is?"
The orc grunts. "There's a shrine to Molag Bal just west of here. I'd been thinking of leading a looting party during a furlough."
"I thought as much," Garyn says. "Lead us there, and we'll hit them hard and fast."
He'd slept in Milliways, and kept his eyes open as he lay in bed. As noisy as the contingent of mostly-Orcish conspirators were, he'd gotten the slip on them easily enough.
The answer he gives to the head of barracks security is delivered with a powerful sideward glance at his fellow soldiers.
"No idea, sir. They all must have tripped looking for the privy."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Deathshead Legion has been taking on not only local recruits, but fresh bands of pledged mer from the orcish camps outside Orsinium. They're sent half-trained, at best - just the way the Legion likes them, as they're easier to mold that way.
So Garyn is lined up along with them - the first line of the eighth century - with a drill sword in hand.
The drillmaster is a crusty, barrel-chested old sergeant named Sharkub gro-Kashnar. He stands taller than his height as he bellows at the filth, the scum of Nirn he sees before him. Garyn sees every trick he's familiar with, as the orc leans into the ears of his men, and shouts of their worthlessness for all the world to hear.
Then he turns his attention to Garyn.
"You! I've been told you've some experience in drilling."
Garyn continues to look straight ahead. "I do, sir."
"This was Lugrub gro-Ogdum's line. And you're the one wut killed him. Far as I'm concerned, this line is yours now. I haven't time to handle all of this sorry bunch by myself. Make soldiers of them."
Garyn steps forward, as the narrowing eyes of the unit turn to face him. "Sir."
It'll be a long series of days for the first line. And a long series of nights for Garyn.
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The door is a crack open on the crescent-shaped house as Garyn approaches it. He knocks anyway.
"Hetman Abelmawia?"
The owner of the home peers around the corner of his central hearth - he's dressed in common clothes, but clean and new.
"That'd be me. And you'd be here for the Queen's Cure Blight scroll?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very good. They've sent their best man to do the job, so I assume they sent the Emperor's coin along with him?"
Garyn raises an eyebrow as he reaches for the small pouch near his waist. "I wasn't aware I had a reputation, sera."
"I'm the hetman, my good Trooper. It's my job to know these things. And if I might say, it's quite heartening to know a Redoran is among our Legion - Veloth'm julehkin neen."
Garyn is caught off guard by the sudden Dunmeris. "What? Ah...yes, well. A distant son, at best."
The hetman chuckles as Garyn's coin is exchanged for the scroll. "Distant, indeed. But closer than the rest, that's for damn sure."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In the grand scheme of things, it's not that far from Gnisis to Ald Velothi. But on a full march in full armor, with one line of sullen orcs in tow, it's more than long enough.
Garyn, being in the condition that he is, is able to walk backwards as he pulls up alongside a straggler.
"Pick it up, Spearman Yashnarz, unless you'd care to be tied up and dragged to the outpost."
The Orsimer soldier shakes his head and quickens his pace. "Sorry, sir. Distracted by what Dul gro-Dush was looking at."
"Oh? And what is he looking at?"
Dul snorts. "Nothing. Sir."
Garyn points a sword back over his shoulder toward a well-beaten path they'd just passed. "That doesn't look like nothing. You weren't thinking of going off the path?"
Another snort. "No. Not today, sir. Just a place I'd seen before is all."
"Well, keep the reminiscing to yourself," Garyn says. "Remember we're marching to rescue a woman from Ashlanders and deliver her to the Hetman of Ald Resdaynia. See to it your mind remains on the mission."
Garyn resumes his place at the head of the short column. "And that goes for the rest of you as well, understood?"
"Aye, sir!"
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Two days later, Garyn is out behind the barracks again for drills. They still don't like him. But every day, and with every drilling and occasional beating, there's a little more fear and awe in their eyes. It might even turn to respect before too long.
They still struggle, however, to swarm and defeat their newly appointed drillmaster.
"So, you learn to walk to a cadence and you think this means you've mastered small unit tactics? Disappointing. I thought Orsinium bred fighters."
"We're not from Orsinium, sir."
Garyn leans in close to the offending Orc and raises his voice. "Well, that must explain it, doesn't it!
The Code-Holding Stronghold Orcs can't hold their own without Gortwog to show them which end to hold a sword?"
He lets the silent glares speak for themselves.
"You want to prove me wrong? Hold your shields up. I'm going to teach you how to kill me."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The odd tower at the edge of town had always looked out of place to Garyn. It was a weathered, rounded, and ancient thing, and the rest of Gnisis seemed set apart from it, as though the buildings themselves were trying to give it a wide berth.
Hearing that a trooper had tried to collect taxes from the wizard who owned it was somewhat akin to hearing that someone had yelled at Red Mountain and demanded it to move. Hearing that this trooper was assigned to his command and therefore his responsibility was just the icing on the cake.
She hadn't been seen since she entered the tower. Gods only know what's happened to her since, but Garyn rather suspects she'd have been better off trying to fight the mountain. But he has a duty to his command, and he must carry out that duty.
There's an obvious door up to the top of the keep - where, Garyn suspects, the wizard Baladas can be found. Because nothing Garyn ever does can be simple, it's locked.
He clambers through the labyrinthine corridors of the underpassages. Every door seems to have a brace of armed and animated skeletons ready to fight for their master's keep. It's in the clutches of one of these skeletons that he finds a dusty key.
Sure enough, it opens the locked door. Slowly, he creeps into the top of the keep, into a large, rounded room. His sword and shield are raised immediately when he sees a Daedroth, and a sphere-shaped Dwemer construct with a spear for an arm, standing in a pit in the center of the room.
They each turn to Garyn, staring for a long moment before resuming ignoring him.
Not wanting to press his luck, Garyn walks swiftly past them, and up the stairs, where the ancient wizard is waiting. Well, not so much waiting as minding his own business. And he seems to continue minding it, not turning his head even as he speaks to him.
"Who's this, then? Another soldier demanding tribute for the Empire of Men? Listen well, outlander. I was here before Gnisis, before the Empire of Men. I will be here after Gnisis is gone and after this short-lived Empire has crumbled. The people of Gnisis live only because I tolerate them. As do you, standing here now. Why should I pay tribute?"
Garyn raises his hand. "Believe me, I would attempt no such thing. I'm simply here to collect one of my troopers who made a mistake. If you let her go, I promise no one will trouble you again."
The wizard snorts. "You trouble me now. And something in me doubts you have the authority to make such a promise. Normally I would not be inclined to tolerate, let alone trust you...but I shall. If you found the key, you have what you need to release your brute. Go. The dungeon is on the lowest level. Take the orc with you and let neither of you return."
Garyn's footsteps are swift as he finds the dungeon. He's fast enough that Ragash is startled upright from where she lies slumped against the edge of her cell.
"Get up, Spearman. We're unwelcome guests and I'm getting us out of this party."
The orc snorts with amusement as she watches him unlock the door. "So how'd you get it from him?"
"I can work a little magic myself, Spearman Ragash."
She smiles - she'll have many a loud, boisterous story to tell about this in the tavern tonight. And for the first time, they'll be speaking of their commander with fondness.
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They've made the march to Ald Velothi at least a dozen times by this point, and it's been getting easier by the day. Sometimes Hetman Virith would even have work for them - the squad leader is a respected member of House Redoran, after all. The rest of the men stopped grumbling after the third or fourth time, and settled into the routine.
The dazed, stumbling Redguard, shambling toward them in the middle of the road with his eyes wideb is decidedly NOT a part of this routine.
"Malexa! Malexa!"
One of the men reaches for his sword, but Dol gro-Dush grabs him by the wrist and squeezes. Garyn steps forward with his hand raised. The Redguard, still panting and sweating, slumps to a stop in front of him.
"Something the matter, citizen?"
"Please, sir...can you help me? Malexa...m-my wife...she's been kidnapped by cultists!"
Garyn's brow furrows. "Cultists? From where?"
"Yes, I'm sure they must have been cultists! Malexa and I were traveling to meet friends in Ald Velothi when some men surprised us. They cast a spell on me, and I...fell asleep. When I woke up, she...she was gone! I'm sure they're planning to use her in some unholy ritual...but they can't have gone far!"
Garyn turns to Dol gro-Dush, a knowing look in his eye. "Spearman Dol...you've shown some interest in the geography of this area. You wouldn't happen to know where the nearest Daedric shrine is?"
The orc grunts. "There's a shrine to Molag Bal just west of here. I'd been thinking of leading a looting party during a furlough."
"I thought as much," Garyn says. "Lead us there, and we'll hit them hard and fast."