Chapter 9
“It is important to her that our emotions be engaged in her worship. And our love must also be directed inward. If we love her and hate ourselves, she feels our pain.”
-- From Invocation of Azura
Vvardenfell was a divided island - that was putting it mildly. The Kingdom of Morrowind effectively owned most of the south, save for the region around Vivec City; this was all that remained of the Temple holdings. Dunmer historians could only look at this with sadness: at one time, the Tribunal had owned the entire island, and kept it under control with a stable, if oppressive grip. Thanks to the disastrous wars with Morrowind, and their failure to crush the initial Ashlander uprisings, all of that had been lost. Now it was but a shadow of once it once was - a city that was the religious center for most Dunmer, but with barely even a fraction of the power it had once carried.
For Nethyn, the intervention by Queen Yelithah had been an annoyance, but it did prove to be beneficial in one aspect: Morrowind armies had effectively cut off the Ashlanders from the Temple, and separated the two warring factions from one another. This would mean that the Ashlanders could not march south and take Vivec City as so many of their tribal leaders had dreamed. This also meant, however, that the Ashlanders hated the Morrowind Dunmer all the more. The days ahead would see the bloodshed of Dunmer against Dunmer, in a scale never before seen in Morrowind history.
What made Nethyn curious was the fact that the Tribunal had not yet shown up. He had read accounts of the ALMSEVI leading Morrowind’s forces against the Empire when it had attempted to subjugate the region. Vivec himself had fought in battle, winning again and again, until treachery had forced them to come to a peace agreement. The fall of the Empire had led to greater freedom for the Dunmer yet again, but, in the midst of the Temple’s fall, and the failure of her armed forces, where was Vivec the General? Where were the other members of the Tribunal? Did they remain holed up in their temples in Vivec City, doing nothing?
For now, however, Nethyn had other concerns. With the south secured, he wanted to further separate the Ashlanders from Vivec City, and make sure there was no way for them to sneak through his territory and take the city before he could. There had been a slight delay when Mornsu had sent word that she was dealing with an outbreak of cabals that had crept up along the Bitter Coast region. Apparently some of the Ashlander wise women had begun to claim that Azura spoke directly through them, which was normal...except this involved certain substances, which most expected to be skooma. They were causing a problem among the local populace, as their religious sessions tended to end in chaos and with many of their members wreaking havoc on the small towns along the region. Mornsu was initiating tough measures against them, and sending small bands of Hlaalu troops through the swamps and riverways to root them out.
Making sure she had her necessary forces, Nethyn now took his his 1,000 Dunmer army, still fresh from their victory against the Temple, and turned northeast, along the bottom of Red Mountain. His goal was to strike at the army of Mausur, the ashkhan he had once met and believed to be a sincere follower of Azura. Mauser, who was once again leading an army after his terrible maiming, and who was now being fancied as “the Giant” for whatever reason, had pulled his armies back to the Grazelands, preparing to meet Nethyn in battle. This gave the Hlaalu forces time to enter the region of Molag Amur, which they overran in the month of Second Seed, in 2E489.
By now, the men were very confident in Nethyn as a commander, and he had earned the respect of most Hlaalu warriors. If one had gone to them decades ago and told them that they would consider their grandmaster a great leader of men and armies, they would have probably laughed at such a notion - now, there was no denying it: Nethyn had gone from a grandmaster who kept in his palace to a man comfortable in the field, and capable of leading an organized force into battle. For his part, Nethyn simply owed it all to the grace and edification from Azura; he also attributed much of it to his bodyguard Saren, who was a tactical as well as courageous warrior. Nethyn learned much from him in the way of how to handle oneself in battle.
With Molag Amur in their hands, the Hlaalu army moved north. Nethyn, Vonos, and Varvur were the commanders again, and Varvur had begun to get very talkative with Nethyn as of late.
“I shall be glad to be out of Molag Amur, and into the Grazelands,” he remarked, riding alongside his grandmaster as they moved through the rock and dirt, “place is more depressing than...than...well, a depressing place.” He squinted his eyes and snarled, angry at himself for not being able to think of better terminology. Nethyn could only give a warmhearted laugh:
“The land around Red Mountain does get a tad bit dull, doesn’t it? The Grazelands are hit from the northern seas, and offers more green. I traveled there long ago, and must confess I have missed it.”
Of course, when I went there last, Nethyn thought to himself,
I went as a brother in Azura, not as an enemy.
Varvur gripped the reins of his horse a moment, as if to think on something. His red eyes darted back and forth, and then he cleared his throat as he said, “Grandmaster...it has uh...come to my attention that uh...my attitude has not always been the most...er...perfect...and uh...as such I believe it is my duty to uh...apologize…if I have ever overstepped my bounds and...uh...forsaken proper eating kits…”
The grandmaster raised an eyebrow and turned his red eyes towards Varvur. The poor muthsera was looking around nervously, his eyes darting back and forth as if reading words that were in midair, and visible only to him. It was quite obvious that he was repeating something he had memorized, perhaps even been taught (most likely by one of his officers). However, these words were obviously said with humility and heart. Nethyn met them with a soft smile.
“I believe you mean etiquette, not eating kit,” said Nethyn, laughing some more. All the same, he reached out and touched Varvur on his broad arms, “However, your apology is accepted, Varvur. I do not recall any moment where you slighted me, and if you had, I probably missed it, and thought nothing of it. You have been a great warrior.”
Varvur grinned back, now looking very relaxed, “I simply wanted to serve you. And Azura. Want to prove to the Nerevarine he has good men in his army, I do.”
Nethyn nodded, then turned suddenly when he saw a rider coming up. It was Hlaalu horseman, wearing light leather and carrying a bow on his back. It was a scout.
“Grandmaster! The Ashlanders are up ahead, coming towards us.”
“To arms!” Nethyn shouted. “Vonos, take the western flank - Varvur, our east. I will lead the center. Hlaalu! Formations!”
The generals rode off to take their commands. The armies quickly assembled, forming their lines. Many of the scouts were returning, flying over the hills and ridges and joining up with the army. Nethyn knew that could only mean one thing: the enemy was close. Sure enough, some minutes later, the Ashlanders came marching over the hill. Many of them were mounted, while others sat on the ground, working as support for the cavalry. There may have not been more than half what the Hlaalu had, but it was a decent force nonetheless.
The concentration of the Ashlanders was on the eastern and central flanks, and their cavalry came rushing towards those sections on the Hlaalu line. Nethyn kept his forces stationary, knowing that going on the defensive would give them more time to organize. In the central and western flanks, the Dunmer lifted up their bows and let loose a volley of arrows, taking the Ashlander left flank from the front and side. Dunmer and horse alike fell to the earth, struck by the arrows. More volleys came after that, and the Ashlander attack against Nethyn’s position was stunted.
On the eastern flank, Varvur had led his mounted force against the Ashlanders, obviously hoping to turn their right flank. It was a brilliant move to make, given the Ashlander left flank was occupied, and Nethyn thought that he would have to comment Varvur for it later. The big muthsera was seen on his large steed, wielding his great warhammer with one arm. If it hadn’t been for his dark blue skin and red eyes, one might have confused him for an orc.
The Hlaalu cavalry crashed into the Ashlander troops, and began to inflict serious casualties. Spears and swords flew, and in the midst of it, Varvur was swinging his hammer left and right, taking out any who dared get near. Blood and dirt rose up from around him as one Ashlander rider after another was knocked off his horse, never to rise again. Suddenly, Ashlander infantry began to storm forward, and Nethyn watched as Varvur’s horse was killed under him. The grandmaster let out a gasp as he saw Varvur fall to the ground, surrounded by Ashlander forces.
Then suddenly, one Ashlander warrior went flying through the air, followed by another. Varvur popped up, and swung his hammer in a circle. Skulls were crushed and flesh was ripped as the blow made contact with several enemies. Varvur was clearly in a rage. He swung this way and that, killing the attacking enemy, and adding to the tally of foes killed that day. His men stayed true to him and kept up the fight, and the Ashlanders began to fall back…
It was then that a lone arrow struck Varvur right in the chest. Nethyn watched in horror as Varvur let out a cry, tearing the arrow from his body, causing more bleeding. He threw it aside and swung his hammer, killing an Ashlander before another came up and thrust a spear into his belly. Like an enraged animal, Varvur gripped the shaft of the spear and broke it in half, bringing the hammer down onto the Ashlander’s skull with a swing of one arm. More Ashlanders gathered around, thrusting into him again and again, and though some were taken down, eventually Varvur disappeared in the midst of them…
“No…” Nethyn muttered allowed, “No...no...no no no!”
He drew his sword and ran in front of his men, pointing towards the Ashlander armies and screaming at the top of his lungs:
“Charge! Everyone charge! Take no prisoners! No prisoners!”
His men let out a cheer and obeyed him. Suddenly, the entire Hlaalu line was surging through the grazelands, right for the cracking Ashlander line. The mounted Hlaalu ran down the Ashlanders, taking them off one by one, and soon the entire force fell away. Those whom the cavalry did not kill were slayed by the infantry, or plucked down by the archers, or struck by the mages. Nethyn had called for his horse and rode ahead of his forces, killing any Ashlander he could find. He was in a rage. He did not like any of his men dying, but he had just witnessed one of his generals perish in the attack - and this general had been a brother in Azura.
At the end of the day, the field was strewn with Ashlanders. Many had fled north, including the ashkhan himself, but most of them had perished. Cliff racers flew down from the mountain and began to peck off the bodies, and had to be chased away by mages and horsemen. Nethyn himself was moving through the scene on foot, his hands and sword covered in blood. As his red eyes glanced across the scene, he quietly prayed to Azura...and it was an imprecatory prayer. He wanted Azura to raise these men again. He wanted this filth to be raised alive once again, so that he could slay them again. He wanted to kill them as many times as Azura would let him. He wanted to see them die until his arms got tired, and his bloodlust satiated. He wanted Varvur’s death to be atoned for.
They brought his body to him, carried on a banner. His armor had been torn up, and it could be seen that the Ashlanders had cut him everywhere. The spears had thrusted not only into his chest and belly, but his arms, legs, and face. He was barely recognizable. The only thing to distinguish him from other Hlaalu dead was the warhammer that lay beside his corpse. This heap of flesh and blood had, just months ago, been the instrumental mind behind the defeat of the Temple in battle, and it was without a doubt his doing that the Ashlander attack was halted, and the reason the Hlaalu counter attack was successful. This was the man who just before battle had shared a smile with Nethyn, and who had been alongside him in worship of Azura. This was the man whom Nethyn hoped to live long enough to see the Nerevarine return and restore the kingdom.
Now, this man was gone from this realm.
“No,” Nethyn muttered. Healers and officers alike looked at him in confusion. After a moment of silence, Nethyn added, “No...no, no...that’s not him…” He knelt down on one knee, just beside Varvur’s corpse. His lip quivered, and his red eyes moistened. At last, he held his blood-stained hands to his face, rubbing his eyes as he shivered and said, “No, that’s not him!”
The Hlaalu army camped on the border between the Grazelands and Molag Amur. Mornsu had been sent for, and arrived to replace Varvur; however, it had been decided by then that the Hlaalu would pull back into their own territory. At the moment, Nethyn did not have the spirit to continue - and Mornsu could see that. As she was carried by her female courtiers into Nethyn’s command tent, she could see him in a chair over his table, staring at nothing and fidgeting with his fingers folded together. Saren had warned Mornsu to speak tactfully to him, as the death of Varvur was still affecting him greatly.
“All is well in the bitter coast, grandmaster,” Mornsu replied, showing a soft side of hers that was rare. “Is there anything I can do to be of service for you now?”
Nethyn shook his head, not even turning to look at her. He merely hung his head low and said in a low voice, “No, that is all...thank you, Mornsu. I shall be fine.”
Mornsu nodded, motioning for her courtiers to help her out of the tent. She had an arm over a courtier each, and they were helping to keep her up, due to her weak (and ever weakening) state. As they reached the tent flap, she turned and cast a sad, wearied glance towards Nethyn. She stared for quite a moment before continuing out, and leaving him alone.
As soon as he was certain he was alone, Nethyn finally acted. He grabbed the edge of the table and flung it over, letting out a scream.
“Where are your visions now?!” he shouted upwards, looking about. “Where are your cryptic words?! Where are your visions?! Where are your prophecies?! Where is your love! Speak to me! You have been silent for so long - speak to me!”
Nothing was spoken. Not even a thought. Nethyn stood there for a while, and eventually began to feel like a fool. This only made him more angry.
“He loved you and worshiped you!” he continued to shout, his voice growing hoarse as his chords strained. “He was fighting for you! He wanted to meet the Nerevarine! And you let him perish! You let him die! Why?! Where is your wisdom?! Why did you let him die?!”
Nethyn wanted to throw more things. He wanted to let out his anger. The chair became his first victim. It was thrown against a pole holding up the tent, and thrown with such force that a leg shattered. Next came one of his gloves, lying on a crate near his bed. It was thrown on the ground, bouncing once before turning over. Its kinsman became the next victim. Then Nethyn decided that he was still angry enough at the chair, and threw it on the ground, and then again, until the object was all but shattered in pieces. When this was done, he found himself standing there, alone in the tent, panting, feeling his heart race within his chest. His red eyes stared at the ground, seeing the scattered bits of wood that had formerly been his chair.
“That wasn’t him…” he suddenly whispered. “That wasn’t him that I saw...it wasn’t the smiling face, it wasn’t the courage, it wasn’t the life, it wasn’t the loyalty, it wasn’t…”
Suddenly, a new wave of emotion came over the grandmaster. He felt like something was wrong with his face, as if it were melting...and then, he realized that there were tears pouring down his cheeks. As quickly as he had gotten angry, he was on the floor, his knees bent, his back hunched over, and his eyes buried in his arms. He was weeping terribly.
“I’m sorry…” he whispered. “I’m sorry. Forgive me please…” He wept, feeling more tears flow, soaking into the fabric of his tunic. “I’m so sorry...please forgive me…”
He was alone that night in the tent. No one disturbed him. Not Saren, not Mornsu, not Vonos - no one. There were guards posted nearby, to keep anyone from disturbing him, and after Mornsu left, no one else was seen entering that tent. And yet, that very night, as he lay weeping, Nethyn could feel a woman press against him, and he felt comforting arms wrap around him in an embrace. Someone was holding him close to her, and weeping with him. He could feel the face of a Dunmer woman pressed against the back of his tunic, and feel the moisture of her tears as they fell against him. That was all he remembered before his exhausted body fell asleep upon the ground.