A Task Unfinished
“You did well to bring this to my attention. Go with honor.”
The two stout, stone-faced hunters bowed to their chief before seeing themselves out of the longhouse. The past few decades had been a slow crawl to restore any sort of communication between the stronghold of Armauk-Vras and the outside world. Even now, some thirty years after his father’s death and his brother’s exile, Ancath was hard pressed to find friends among the scattered Bretic hamlets that had once been the raiding grounds of his kin. He had worked tirelessly to dissipate the stigma that hung like a venomous mist over his clan, but a people who had been terrorized for generation upon generation was not quick to forget. He couldn’t say he blamed them. Even several of the other peaceful Orsimeri strongholds still refused his offers for trade. The more barbarous of his kin, meanwhile, had scoffed and scorned his refusal to continue his forefathers’ aimless crusade. He would not allow his clan to be marked as savages, but he knew better than anyone that some wounds never truly healed.
Whenever he did manage to foster contact from the outside, it was a godsend. The story his scouts had just brought him was more than that, however, it was a potential turning point for the people of Armauk-Vras. Dakog, the Black Iron Bandit, his brother, was finally slain. The last, vile remnant of the vengeful plague that once held his people in its grip was at long last extinguished.
With the limited lines of communication he had, Ancath had meticulously followed his elder brother’s exploits. His rampage through Wrothgar, the legend of the Unslain, his disappearance from High Rock and sudden resurgence in Skyrim just a few years ago. His exploits as Bossuet’s henchman had been hard enough on his stronghold’s reputation. This business of banditry, and the murder of a Daggerfall noblewoman, was yet another political blow that Armauk-Vras had not been ready to weather. Indeed, for a time he had felt as if the nightmares brought on by Dakog would never end. But now, after immeasurable disgrace, that chapter of Armauk-Vras’ history was finally being brought to a close. An army of Bretic knights had returned to Solitude, bringing with them news of the marauder king’s destruction. No doubt the clan would be eager to hear of this. There was just one small matter to attend to before he could break the news.
“Rugash,” the chief commanded the guard at his side. “Send for my wise-woman. I must consult with her on these developments.”
“She is here,” an old voice, an all but broken voice, echoed from down the hall as Ziva shuffled out of the darkness. “And she has a request for her chief.”
Ancath nodded down from his throne, silently dismissing his bodyguard. The titan of an Orsimer bowed as he made his exit, leaving chieftain and shaman alone. “How long have you been listening?”
She puffed out a breath of air that escaped her body like spirits from a derelict grave. “Not so long that I heard anything I did not already know.”
The chief frowned. The ways of his people aside, he ill-liked such cryptic speech. “You foresaw this, then.”
“I have seen much,” she responded noncommittally. “He is not dead.”
Ancath’s sharp features softened. Perhaps this final bout of grief was too much for her. “Ziva,” he whispered. “They brought his fortress to the ground. His bandits are scattered like dust.”
“Iron withstands even that which causes stone to crumble. Did they recover his body?”
There, she had him. “A search party is looking for it as we speak. It is only a matter of time before they return with—”
“They will return empty handed; he is alive.”
Wise-woman or not, he had little time for such flights of fancy. “I understand what this must be like for you, but this time there is no dispute. He’s gone.”
“Do not presume to spare my feelings,” she bit back at him, a fire in her eyes that had long been absent. “My son yet lives, yes, and I am as terrified by that truth as you are.”
He opened his mouth to speak, to reprimand her insolence. She ignored him. “They have not killed him, only revealed to him what he truly is. Once he knows, he will return to the place where it all began. He will return, here, and he will be our destruction.”
For the first time since his youth, Ancath of Armauk-Vras tried to push himself to his feet. The shattered limbs beneath him remained stiff and useless, as they always did. He collapsed back into his throne, catching himself gracelessly on his armrests, his fingers gripping the cold stone as if to choke the life from something already inanimate.
“I am the chief of this stronghold.” He could feel an old anger, like a scar torn open upon his breast. “I will not entertain these fantasies. My brother is dead. He is never coming back.”
She met his gaze evenly, unphased by his display. “He is not your brother.”
This was growing more and more absurd. “Do you mean to tell me…?”
“Chief Vorrog was not his father.” Her amber-colored eyes, now gray and milky, seemed to be focused on something distant and intangible. “He is nothing to you but the man who stole your legs.”
He felt tired, suddenly. The anger in him was too heavy, too hungry. The chief slumped in his seat. “What is it you want from me, Ziva?”
“I want you to promise me,” she pleaded. “That you will be ready when the time comes. I will not be here to help you prepare.”
More mysticism, more frustration. “You did not put me through all this to tell me you’re dying on me.”
For the first time since this debate had started, she could not offer him an immediate response. “I must beg my chief’s blessing,” she spoke at last. “To leave this stronghold. There is something I must do. Something you will understand only when the time comes.”
“The wise-woman needs no blessing from the chief.”
She mustered up a simple shrug. “Even so, I wish to have your good faith in this.”
Ancath sighed. “And what if I should tell you that you have none of my faith at all, at the moment?”
Of all things, he had not expected her to smile. “I have advised you for many years now,” the wise-woman said. “And in that time you have become like a son to me. Your mind, Ancath, is sharp as any blade, and I do not expect you to put your trust in the prophesizing of an old, done woman.
“When your mother passed, and you made me wise-woman, I know that it was not a choice borne of any love for me. You thought that by providing for me, you could overcome the vengeance in your heart, and the hatred you bore for my son. I would hope, however, that after all these years you have come to think of me as your friend. For that love you bear me, let me do what I must.”
This was madness, utter madness. But he could not deny her now. “I can give you a carriage and a small entourage. I trust that will suffice for your designs?”
“Hardly anything so extravagant. A horse will do. Preferably a gentle one. I am getting on in years, after all.”
He tried to smile at that. He couldn’t. “What do you intend, Ziva? To see him one final time? If what you say is true— if you truly regard me as your own son —then your final days should be spent here. This is your home.”
Again, she smiled at him. This time however, there was something else in the sobreity of her expression. “I will see him before this is done, yes, but that is not my purpose for leaving. Armauk-Vras is my home, and it cannot withstand his wrath. I must find the one force that can, and send it to you.”
“Why? Why must you? I have envoys at my disposal, ready to ride from here at a moment’s notice. Tell me where to send them, and I will have this force brought to us at all costs.”
“I cannot,” spoke Ziva, mother of exiles, wise-woman of her clan. “She does not yet understand, any more than you. Only I can show her the way, and I must find her before he does.”
“She?” At this point, he may as well have believed anything, even if it meant staking his hopes on an old woman and a single, mysterious warrior. “Where is she now?”
“On a ship,” the old shaman smirked. “Bound for Solitude.”