Chapter VIII: The Steed

The streets of Gothway Garden were paved in mud and brown snow. Everywhere he stepped, Steve deepened the cold, wet intrusion into his poulaines. Rodig had given him the shoes, choosing for himself a pair of tall, weather-worn boots. Steve wondered how dry the knight’s stocks were—and how much his gift was actually an act of charity as he stepped into another mound of cold mud. The village smelled like any other: a raucous collection of scents ranging from freshly-baked bread, smoked meat, unwashed bodies, and horse manure. It wasn’t an unpleasant orchestra, but it certainly was a loud one, especially after the subtle aromas of the temple. The snow was razor-white, gleaming and untouched by the roadside. The people of the Garden had their routes through the village; vast yards between houses were separated by their well-worn trails. Steve imagined the place must look quite nice in spring, when the grasses and flowers would replace the pristine snowbanks. That’s probably why they called it Gothway Garden. A particularly wet squelch between his toes brought him back to the present moment.

“Keep up,” Rodig grunted. Absent-mindedly, the knight kicked down a tower of muddy snow, walking just faster than Steve’s weary legs could. “Brisienna says you’ll need a horse. Spymaster’s fronted the money. Most of what they set aside for us.” The knight gave an exacerbated sigh. Steve knew the frustration well. The Empire was loath to concentrate resources on the frontier. “I say you’ll need more than that. I’ve got coin, and the Garden has a smith. I can’t walk around with an Akaviri weapon. People will get wise. But you’re Dunmer. They’ll think it looks normal on you. Exotic. So you can keep yours.”

Steve thought back to the abomination in the cave. With the full strength of his fire behind him, the monster—and everything else that came before it—would have been a trifle. He had no qualms about burning the undead. Rodig was right though. Fire eluded him. He’d need a sword until he could find a source to replenish his stores. If the Garden kept an alchemist, he might find a potion or two that could restore them. Even with a weapon, it would do little against a giant, or nymph, or—gods forbid—a Dremora.

Their real limitation was coin. If their mission had been in Cyrodiil, the Empire would have a coffer waiting for them at a dead drop, filled to the brim with supplies and gold. Here, in the provincial backwaters, a Blade was expected to earn his provisions. The instructions were always the same on the frontier: join a guild, do some hunting, sell the pelts. It all amounted to the same advice, even if the Empire never spoke it aloud: figure it out, complete your mission, or someone else will. The fact that

“The Empire’s coughing up scampside—and for a horse, no less?” Steve asked, hobbling after Rodig. Perionard had been kind enough to supply him with a crutch. Procuring it from the priest had been as frustrating as their first meeting. Something about that man still hadn’t settled with him.

Rodig looked back, offering a knowing smirk and the subtlest of nods. He slowed just enough for Steve to catch up. “Aye, like divine intervention, isn’t it?” he answered darkly. “Next thing you know, they’ll send me a mage that can actually cast spells—or better yet, a boat back to the City Isle.” Steve shared the sentiment. He’d been as far and wide as Valenwood and Summerset—and yet no matter how dire the mission, the Empire was always miserly when it came to requisitions.

They kept down the road, Rodig kept pace now. Steve realized his distrust in the knight might be mutual. They were both Blades of the frontier. If he’d read him right, Rodig wasn’t the sort of man to offer comment lightly—but if he could earn the man’s respect, something told him he’d have it for life.

Quickly, they came to a smith, the only one in the Garden, according to Rodig. The shop was open to the chill winds, metalworks scattered about beneath a wooden awning. A metalwork sign hung from it, the word ‘smith’ rendered in crude, jagged letters. Despite the cold, the man beneath was sweating, pounding steel into the shape of a sword next to a furnace. The air was so hot Steve could see the heat-haze off the man’s back. He wore a beard that covered his great hairy chest, fishing waders repurposed into an apron for his great belly. He was shirtless, covered head-to-toe in dirt and ash and soot.

“Jape,” Rodig said, ducking to enter the awning.

“Not my name.” The smith answered. Jape swung his hammer down again, the sound ringing almost intolerably loud.

“Here for the sword. Something for my friend too.”

Jape looked up from his work long enough to fix his eyes on Steve, look him over once, and return to hammering. “None of that fancy elven stuff. Sorry,” his eyes flicked to Steve again. “And gods above—no Daedric neither.”

“Jape, look at the man,” Rodig gave Steve a clap on the shoulder, nearly toppling him. “He’s here because he knows good steel when he sees it. Now—you want our gold or not?”

Jape shrugged, before tossing his callow blade into the furnace. The metal began to heat as the blacksmith lumbered away. He searched, with surprising tenderness, through stacks of backlogged equipment: mostly farm tools, pikeheads, fastenings and fixings that Steve was sure he wouldn’t recognize until they were set into their intended places. Finally, the blacksmith came away from the pile with two long objects, one stacked atop the other and wrapped in rough leather. He flopped open the first flap of leather, revealing a freshly sharpened longsword. Steve took it, and gave it an experimental swing.

“S’ain’t no katana, master elf.” Jape said, sloughing off the top layer of now-empty leather before gesturing to the wooden scabbard at Steve’s side. “Take care you mind the false edge,” he added, with a foreboding chuckle.

Steve had used a longsword before, of course. It was the first sort of sword he’d ever held as a legion battlemage, long before joining the Blades. His katana was an excellent weapon for cutting. He could draw it quick as lightning—that was the old Akaviri style, the sort all Blades were trained in. Even though he preferred it over anything else save his fire, the longsword carried an unparalleled versatility—and perhaps a note of nostalgia for the old legionnaire. It would be a suitable substitute, until he could return to Cloud Ruler Temple to have his katana reforged. A Blade’s sword was his symbol of office, a sign of his loyalty to the Empire. But his was more than that, in a way Rodig would struggle to understand.

Jape was quick to produce the second weapon, much more proud to reveal it than he was the first. He threw back another leather flap, the morning light catching the glint of steel beneath. The wavering blade glowed. Rodig’s sword: a flamberge nearly a span longer than Steve’s new longsword, with a wavy edge like fire. Its blade was wide and deep. As Rodig lifted it to check its weight and symmetry, Steve saw how much material was left in the center of the double-edged sword. The thickness left no doubt in his mind that the weapon was heavy—easily a two-hander; good for killing horses and men alike. Rodig slid it into the scabbard on his back like it was natural—only bothering to use one.

“Zenithar’s work, Jape. Hockreaver looks good as new.” Somehow, Steve had no problem believing that was the sword’s name. Jape gave Steve a scabbard for his new weapon. He was more than polite after Rodig handed over the coin for Hockreaver’s repair and the new sword.

Soon, the two Blades were walking into town again, through slushy streets beneath gloomy skies. They found a general store, selling hardtack and venison jerky, along with a waterskin and grey cloak Steve could take with him on his journey to Daggerfall. He was grateful to have something to fight back the cold. He had no trouble with the heat, but he despised the cold. Not least after his escape from the privateer’s hold. They found an alchemist, who offered them two potions of magicka—’the last he had in stock’—for an outrageous fifty gold. Rodig glowered at each expense, forced to pay out-of-pocket. Steve appreciated the man’s generosity, especially in the dead of winter. Without something to keep him warm, or food to eat, or spells to start fires, there was no small chance that the road might be his most dangerous foe on this mission. Even so, the prospect of taking his coin left Steve chagrined. He’d not needed another man’s coin since he was a boy. The notion of becoming indebted to a stranger did little to put him at ease. He’d find a way to recompense the knight, if he could get him to accept repayment.

“Now—a horse,” Rodig said with no small hint of aggravation. His coinpurse must have lightened by half after such a day of spending. “Brisienna expects you in Daggerfall in three days’ time. You’ll need a swift steed to make the trip—and since the Empire has been kind enough to bear the bill, I advise you to make the most of it.”

“Perchance you can pocket whatever’s left?” Steve asked the knight. It wasn’t an uncommon practice among Blades to save some coin for later.

Rodig’s brow went up at the prospect, before he became stone-faced once more. “No. You will need a steed to carry you.

They journeyed past market stalls and featureless snowbank gardens, where the road slowly began to turn from slush to hard, frosted earth. On the outskirts of Gothway Garden, they approached a low building set in the fence of a wide, snow-laden pasture. The stalls adjoined a small house, smoke trailing from the chimney, both buildings covered in a thick sheet of fresh snow. They were scarcely halfway down the winding road when a voice called out from the window.

“Ser Rodig!” Came a woman’s cry. Steve heard her before he saw her. She appeared at the doorstep suddenly, a young Breton with porcelain skin and brown hair done up in a pretty braid. Her face was round, in that way that human faces so often were, but Steve thought she was quite beautiful for it. She was standing outside the threshold, hands held on wide hips, as the two men approached. The hem of her long dress swept the snow from the doorstep as she swayed back and forth.

“Ser Rodig! Your friend came by earlier and told us of your arrival! I had not expected you to visit us today!” She had not taken her eyes off the knight.

“Hail, Marie.” Rodig said with a half-hearted wave. Steve took note of how the lines on the knight’s face tightened when he saw her. “Was it Perefia this time, or Vittondra?” Pseudonyms, Steve guessed. Other operatives he wasn’t privy to. He wondered how many there were.

“Vittondra came by,” said Marie, still swaying. She clasped her hands lovingly over her lap. “She said you were looking for a horse today? I hope everything’s okay with your palfrey—he was such a sweet thing when you left him with us last.”

Steve made another note of how Rodig started for the stable, not turning to face the young woman. He’d been familiar enough with the blacksmith, and Marie was fair. Strange.

“My horse is fine. We’re here for my friend,” Rodig was already walking into the stalls. The air was warmer beneath the wide roof. Tthe wind cut through with a chill as Rodig spoke.

Marie seemed to shy, clearly repelled by the distance Rodig forced between them. Only then did she seem to notice the Dunmer. Steve could practically feel her resist the urge to frown. He was a handsome enough man—at least, according to the few times a companion had been bold enough to make the comment. Something told him he had nothing to do with her disappointment.

“Oh yes—of course. You’re an adventurer, aren’t you? We have a lot of those through here. It’s the only reason Gothway keeps a stable. Most villages don’t have the patronage we do. Let’s see what we can find for you, master elf.”

Steve followed Marie and Rodig into the stable. There, set in two rows were stalls upon stalls of horses: palfreys in brown and brindle, a grey-coated destrier with brindle spots like flecks of old blood, a black courser corded with glistening muscle, and about a half-dozen dutiful plowhorses—all of them excellent quality, which surprised Steve for a place like this. Marie mentioned they’d been patronized by many an adventurer—suddenly he realized that many of these horses' former owners might never have returned for them. The Iliac Bay was a dangerous place. He knew that from experience now. A good horse would be paramount to the mission’s success.

Rodig came next to him, nudging Steve with his armored elbow. “Make haste. I would be rid of this place quickly,” was all he said. Marie came up behind them both shortly after. Steve caught her opening her mouth to speak before she realized Rodig was already walking away.

“Any of our horses catch your eye?” she said quickly, adopting a small, tired smile. “We have an impressive selection, really. All things considered. We’re very proud of it.”

Steve gave her a polite smile. If he suspected anything between her and his companion, he made no show of it. Better to not draw attention. “All of these look… expensive—if I’m to be blunt. A plowhorse won’t do, but I’m loath to spend more than need be for the journey ahead.” In truth, he was loath to spend more of Rodig’s coin, especially in case the Empire’s magnanimity fell short. If he could get a good deal, he was sure Rodig would be grateful. “Do you have any… older destriers? Perhaps a strong broodmare or two I could look at? I’m not planning on charging into battle—just need to make it to Daggerfall castle in short order.”

At that, Marie brightened considerably. She led Steve to one of the rear stalls—at the end of the stable, facing away from the road and toward the great, open pasture. The world beyond was pure white, from their feet to the clouds. The day was just beginning to settle into dusk, the light of Magnus painted the pristine canvas in bands of fiery orange.

“She’s been with us a long time now, poor thing,” Marie said. Steve had to lean over the stall she led him to. On the other side was an old grey mare, black stocks of fur covering each of her hooves. She was lying down, snoring contentedly.

”I see,” Steve wasn’t enthusiastic at the sight of her. You did ask for an older horse, and a broodmare. He hadn’t expected both at once.

“Her name’s Azura—please ser, it’s no joke. I know the Dunmer revere the Lady of Dawn and Dusk, but Azura’s her name, given to her by King Eadwyre himself.”

Steve’s only answer was a scrutinizing glance. Did she expect him to believe that?

”They brought her out to pasture here, intending to breed her to one of King Gothryd’s destriers—that was before all this nastiness with the war. She was the mother of Gothryd’s horse you see, and Eadwyre’s, and Camaron’s, and probably half a dozen other warhorses across the whole of High Rock.”

Steve looked up from the animal in the stall. Seeing her snoring there, it was hard to believe Azura could be connected to any royal family, much less half a dozen of them. “What’s she doing here, then? Don’t expect the kings of the Iliac bay would leave her to the care of this stable, no matter its quality. Not all the way out here.”

Marie smiled sadly, but something about the way she spoke suggested she would not be deterred. “Her ladyship could not foal. So they left her in our care—in my care, to tell the truth. My father is the stablemaster here, and he would have nothing to do with a horse he could not sell. But trust me when I say she is strong, even in her wizened years—and uncanny smart, for a horse. There’s a reason her sons carried kings, ser. Erm… sera. She will serve you well, I promise it.”

Steve studied the young woman’s face. Marie betrayed no deception—not that he was certain she was even capable of it. Look at her. She couldn’t lie. Not well. Not after the way she so openly pined after Sir Rodig. “How much?” was the only question Steve had left. She might not truly be the dam of so many destriers, but the more he came to think of it, Azura was perfect in nearly every way: like to be hardy, inconspicuous, and very like to be cheap. He might believe she was actually the goddess of fate, if she came at an easy enough price.

Marie shied, her hands fidgeting with her skirt. “Take her. I know that Ser Rodig is good to his horses. If he brings you here, then I believe you must be to” She cast a glance into the horse’s stall. “She doesn’t deserve to live like this, not for all the years she’s been left here.”

***

It wasn’t long before Azura was saddled and ready to bear him. Rodig wandered into the stable, long after the sale was already been made.

“No. You did not spend our gold on this… this nag!” he said indignantly. The knight gave Steve a look that could have rusted fresh iron.

“You’re right, Sir Knight,” Steve answered him with a smirk. He was mounted now, Azura clopped lazily through the stable and into the snows of dusk. “We didn’t spend a single drake,”

Rodig looked like all the blood in his body had gone to his head. He was angry for an entirely different reason now. “What did you say to the girl?!”

“Nothing—she said the dam was free, so I took her. Said you were good to your horses.” The knight’s color returned to normal quickly. Rodig was nodding, as though willing himself to understand. Steve thought it would help when he added: “Keep the gold, Sir Knight. As payment for your generosity today.”

Judging by the wry smile on his companion’s face, it did.

Rodig had brought his horse along, leaving the brown palfrey just outside the stable. He mounted alongside Steve, the dutiful horse not so much as shifting beneath his immense weight. Together they began riding for the far edge of Gothway Garden, back through the streets and lanes of the quiet, sleepy village as it wound down for the night. Jape's forge had gone silent, the blacksmith long since retired. The potionseller's store was shuttered. The last of farmers returning from the fields, where seeded mounds stitch back and forth over the distant countryside.

They came to the temple of Arkay, resting just on the border of town. The sun was setting on the road. They'd taken longer than necessary. There was no time left to waste.

An attendant was outside, disposing a pot of warm wash on the ground. He waved to her, flagging her down as they rode past.

"Hail, servant of life, servant of death. Before we away, there is a priest I wish to thank. He healed me in my time of need. Kept by my bedside until I was fit to travel."

She gave a small bow when she caught sight of Sir Rodig. "Safe travels, milords. What was this priest's name? I'll make sure to pass on your message to him."

Rodig shot him a stern glance. Steve was sure he knew why. Why ask for a name?

"Perionard. A short man, balding. Pleasant but odd," he answered, watching her face carefully for any reaction. The only thing he saw was confusion, and no attempt to hide it.

Her answer came slowly, carefully; as though she were answering a riddle. "I'm certain you're mistaken, master elf. There is no such priest here. None bearing that name."