Chapter III: Privateer's Hold

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been out. Only that he’d used the last of his magicka to seal the wound at his brow. The Blade was no healer. Fire had been his only recourse. A deft spell to the broken skin, taking care to avoid his eye.

Still he clutched his broken sword. The fire was nearly gone now, but even with only a few embers left, there was light enough to see his immediate surroundings. He held the ruined blade to his face—two red eyes peeking back at him in his reflection. His skin, ashen grey, made him almost invisible in the gloom; his hair, raven black, hung over the cauterized wound. He was a Dunmer. For him, fire did not burn so hot as it did others. With the Atronach bolstering his natural abilites, he'd been a formidable battlemage. That mattered little now. He fingered the burnt skin, wondering if his eyebrow would ever grow back. The skin reflected in his sword was paler than usual. His eyes sunken.

The guarskin wrappings had begun to fall away from the hilt of his sword, coming loose to reveal the carved wood that cradled the tang beneath. As the fire began to die, he ran his eyes over the engravings there. He replaced the grip with care, sheathed the weapon, and tried to stand. He steadied himself against the driftwood, body urging him to lay back down and die. The world spun as he got to his feet, steadying only after he spent a long time willing it.

The first shuffling steps through the cold air were agony, but then the Blade was making his way through the cave, toward the door he had seen before the landslide knocked him unconscious. There came a draft of warm, mildewed air from somewhere ahead. He followed the scent, the shrinking echoes of his footsteps, until he found the far wall of the cave. His fingers reached out, brushing against sea-worn wood. Then he was stepping through the threshold, and into the warmth beyond.

The room on the other side was warm and humid, stinking of mold and old wine. He kicked something that sounded like glass as he wandered into the darkness. There came other sounds too. More glass, now and then forcing him to stop and pick shards from his feet. The soft crunch of straw. Something that sounded too close to the cracking of dry bone. He could not see if the walls were cave or carved. At last, he came to another doorway, this one leading higher, up a staircase that led to the promising scent of cinders. He put his weight on the edge of the first stair, willing the old wood to stay silent. It creaked, a mocking lilt to the sound. He ascended slowly, painfully into the ruins above.

Torch sconces lined the walls there every few spans, though the light they could cast was faint. The ceiling, dripping with water, sagged beneath the mass of earth above. The walls and floor were indeed hewn from old stone—the same flesh-colored limestone of the cave. He followed the torches, leaning against the wall. It curved gently, ushering him deeper into the hold.

Where have I found myself? he wondered. Who keeps torches in a place like this? When he realized he’d fallen asleep before, he’d half-expected to wake to the searing light of Aetherius. When instead he was met with darkness, he was sure he’d been cast into the Waters of Oblivion. But this was no infernal plane. He could hear creatures, scuttling about in the shadows, their squeaks accompanied by footfalls too large for comfort. He wondered if they could sense how weak he’d become. It would be one thing to fail in his mission—it would be another to be eaten alive by rats. He pushed the thought from his mind, hand ready over the hilt of his sword.

The stream of his magicka was utterly dry now—he carried only his ruined blade. Rats did not keep these halls. Something more formidable lay deeper. He could almost sense it. He wondered if he would have the strength to face whatever it was. Don't even know if there's a way out. There was no guarantee his entrance had not been the only one.

Suddenly, there was a shriek that echoed through the tunnel like the scream of a horn-blower. The Blade saw nothing—the hall turned hard to the left ahead. Whatever was around the corner must have sensed him. He could hear it coming closer; the sound of leather wings beating frantically. There was a shadow that for a heartbeat blocked one of the torches—then it was surging toward him, squeaking maniacally.

It was a hallmark of his order to cut as one drew. The ruined sword sang a shrill song as he freed it. There was no thought behind it. No calculation. The sound of the edge scraping bone was its coda. A heartbeat later,the Blade’s ears pricked as something wet landed behind him. Another heartbeat later, and the other half of the creature landed beside it.

Pain forced its way through his body like a bolt of lightning, grounding him as though he’d been struck. The Blade dropped his sword, clutching his chest in the place where the ribs were loose.

A senseless cry tore itself from his throat, echoing through the hall. He lay there seething until he could silence himself and stand. His vision blurred. His head pounding against the charred flesh of his brow. A dozen searing wounds reminded him of their presence. He forced them to melt away—using every last drop of willpower remaining to quiet them, one by one.

“Gods, I could have been a healer.” He said to the darkness as he struggled to his feet. Can't swing like that again. Too much.

After some time, he came to a doorway, hewn into the wall and fixed with another worn, wooden door. He pushed it open, willing that at least one thing in this place would not betray him. The door, like the stairs before it, greeted him with a malicious creak. The room on the other side looked how he imagined the one from before. It was darker than the hallway had been here, though there was light from a tripod brazier, its brass surface long since patinaed. Broken bottles lay smashed across the floor. Battered crates were piled high against the walls, some stacks reaching to the ceiling. On one wooden facade, the compass of the East Empire Company was emblazoned. On another, the shield-eagle of the Summerset Isles. There were more: a trio of purple-orange dahlias for Wayrest, the red dragon of Daggerfall, the sullen-faced crescent moon of Sentinel. The only other sign the Blade could make out in the gloom was a burnished ‘R’ for the Restless League. The plunder of pirates dead for centuries. A smuggler’s den, and an old one at that. Somehow, the Blade thought there must be a thousand such places in the Iliac Bay. The Emperor's peace was a patchwork affair here; the Blades strecthed thin across the kingdoms of the Bay. He wondered how many of such dens the king of Daggerfall knew of. It wouldn’t make High Rock or Hammerfell special among the provinces if the answer was not none.

He made a brief effort to search the crates. Most were filled with trade goods—silks that would have made fine bandages if he’d known about them earlier, jars of scented candlewax, spoiled whale oil—a discovery he lamented finding immediately after—alongside no shortage of opened crates, half-full of brandy, rum, and sundry liquors. Definitely a smuggler’s den.

From the shadows between two stacks of crates, a rattle pierced the darkness. The Blade turned to it, sword in hand.

His wounds made themselves known again, though this time he was ready for them. Limping, he tried to summon a fire to his hand. The light came only for a moment, flickering before it died.

The rattling grew with the flames, relaxing as they waned. Just at the edge of its light, the Blade could make out two beady red eyes, gleaming balefully. There was nothing behind them, save an expression of dull, withdrawn resentment that vanished with the light. Creeping closer, he could see the oultine of a body, coated with blue-green skin. Two thin, membranous wings stretched from the back of an emaciated, humanoid body. An imp. It screeched at his approach, battering itself bloody against the confines of its cage. It reached for him through the bars of its cage, miniature hands flexing claws half their length. The Blade stepped back just in time to avoid them.

“Easy now,” he said, attempting to calm the creature. It grew bolder instead, thrashing, reaching through the bars of its cage until rust raked across the its bare chest. It was a pitiful sight, probably once intended for some alchemist’s storehouse or a king’s menagerie but never arriving, voyage beset by pirates.

“You’ve been here a good long time, haven’t you?” The Blade brought his sword to bear. The creature’s skin was wrapped tight over the bone, like a garrote of flesh. This was no way to die, starving to death in a moldy cage. He’d make it quick.

He could barely raise his arm before pain shot through his chest again. Too weak. He’d seen what an imp was capable of—travelers with their throats torn out. Horses, their flanks blown open by heathen fire. One battle with such a creature would have been enough to tell him he was in no shape to face one now—and he’d seen dozens in his years. With no fire, no strength, and no sword long enough to deliver the killing blow, he could not chance the effort. Not with his mission at stake.

“Apologies,” he said. The imp chattered madly, before answering with a blast of fire, hurled from between the bars of its cage. The blast went wide, coming close enough to his shoulder that he could feel its heat. It struck the far wall, dissipating, taking with it a brief surge of light. The Blade stumbled back from the cage, grimacing.

"If you aren't dead when I'm healed, I'll come back to end you myself. Kynareth soothe you."

He turned from the cage, hobbling back to the door. There was nothing more he could do here.