User blog:Leea/The Tale of Voronwe, Chapter 9

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4th Era 100, 23rd of First Seed, Pyandonea
Creeping in, Markadil could see nothing out of place, yet the wrong feeling persisted. Coming all the way in, he shut the door behind him as he heard the slightest of noises off to the side. He immediately turned his head in the direction. Nothing. Taking another quiet footstep further inside, he felt a presence behind him. Instantly turning around, he brought his dagger up to stab at the individual, but it clinked off another raised, but invisible, weapon. Getting a sense of where the intruder was by the angle of their weapon, he balled his right fist and slammed it into the other's chest, knocking the wind from them in a whoosh and a grunt. He heard the other's dagger whistle by his head, and it grazed the very tip of his left ear as he grabbed one of the invisible assailant's hands and whirled him around, slashing deep into the target's chest with the motion, before slamming him onto the table in his appartment's entry hall.

The invisibility snapped off for both at that moment. The slashed opponent on the table was none other than Orthendar himself. Standing over his former rival with his dagger poised at his chest, Markadil casually said, "When will they learn? Invisibility isn't everything. Stealth is also a requirement for any assassin. Not to mention speed. You may have had some inherrent skill, but you lacked stealth entirely. You failed miserably."

Blood foaming from the slash, the dying Elf on the table gasped out, "That's what you think this is about? Who's the better assassin?" Orthendar tried to laugh, but choked on blood instead, coughing it up on his strong chin. He cleared his throat and tried again. "You can't escape your fate. You and all of the King's men. We are many, and we are everywhere," he smiled at Markadil, the smile turning into a grin, the formerly white teeth now horribly bloodstained. "Not even Orgnum knows where we are. Every one of us is well hidden. Balasian taught us well." More blood leaked from the wound as Orthendar died. "The King's actions told us that he wouldn't comply willingly, therefore, we will take it eventually. A little here, a little there. Sooner rather than later. Your time is coming." With these last words, Orthendar reached up with both hands and grasped Markadil's hand and dagger and stabbed himself in the heart, flinching only the slightest before the light in his eyes died forever.

Markadil stood in stunned silence, his hand still clutching the dagger planted in Orthendar's chest. The situation was worse than he thought. Than anyone thought. Clearly even His Highness had not known where the rebels were, as he had threatened Markadil's position as leader of the Sea Serpents with Orthendar just this afternoon. Looking down at the dead Elf, he pulled his dagger from the body and cleaned it off on the dead man's clothes before sheathing it once more. Taking a step back, he thought over this new information. Clearly, there were spies in the court. How else had Orthendar known that the King was sending him to the Summerset Isle to deal with Balasian? How many other spies did they have? There were undoubtedly rebels in the Royal Guard, as they were present in the room as he and the King had discussed the traitor. Perhaps there were even some of the dissenters posing as some of the wenches that the King had sent to his quarters occasionally.

He needed to tell his Lord right away. Or did he? If he went to Summerset Isle like he was supposed to and killed the traitor, he could come back with this news, saying that he had tortured it out of Balasian himself. He would get double the commendations, and all of the dissidents would have to come out of hiding, as only them and Balasian himself knew how many and who they were. He would gain even more prestige. "Yes, this will work out quite nicely," Markadil said to himself as he looked over the dead Elf on the table. The only problem facing him at the moment, he thought, was what to do with the body.

Due to the warm and often muggy climate, it was the perfect environment for the body to quickly start to decompose, which would fill the place with the scent of decay, and as a result someone would come investigating, his secret would be discovered, he would be in disgrace, and his plan thwarted. Facing this dillema, he used the only thought that came to mind: picking up the body (and cursing under his breath at its heaviness), he staggered over to the fireplace. Stoking up a fire that would melt the biggest glaciers of Skyrim, he doused the body of Orthendar with oil before heaving the body onto the flames, and then placing the fire screen in front, not wishing to see the body as it burned.

Leisurely walking around his quarters, Markadil packed the items he would need for his trip to Summerset Isle. Once done, he placed the knapsack next to the door, so he could grab it early in the morning. Taking a late supper, he ate cold leftover fish, not wanting to heat it over the burning Elf in the fireplace. Drinking long, slow draughts of wine from his goblet, he pondered what prestige he might have when he got back. More money for the guild? It would prevent him from always having to mention it to the King. More contracts from nobles? That was likely. There was little more that was more important than killing so an outspoken dissenter for leadership of the island empire. That should get the fussy aristocrats' attention.

Getting up from he table, he slowly stretched and glanced over at the fireplace. How long had the fire been going now? Three, four hours? He lost track of time, but the smell of cooking flesh had mostly dissipated, so we wandered over and peered over the screen. The fire had almost gone out, barring a few glowing embers. There was nothing left of the body besides a few bones. "Amazing what fire and some wit can accomplish," he said to himself with a smile. Gathering up the bones, which were still quite hot to the touch, he took them to his balcony, and the poisoner's garden he kept there. He didn't fear being sighted, as it was way past nightfall, so there was very slim chance of being seen by any passerby below or citizens in the public square across the way.

Digging a hole beneath the Deathbell, which he paid handsomely for from a captured ship bound from Skyrim, he placed the bones under its roots and covered the hole. "Now we will see if the legend of Deathbell's affinity for death is true," he whispered. Quitely clapping the dirt off his hands, he walked back into his appartment and removed his uniform, hanging it up before settling into his bed and falling sound asleep.