Chapter XXX: Not Your Typical Knights

"What a glorious day for an expedition against the heathen dogs!" Knight Commander Reynauld boasts loudly, praising the clear and warm autumn day as the nine of his comrades rode in perfect formation behind him, followed by their squires who easily marched forth in full combat armor.

The old mage and mentor, whose name I learned was Alfred sighs in exasperation "Young lord, we are already deep in Forsworn territory, I do not think it is all too bright to be advertising our position so loudly."

Reynauld huffs, mildly annoyed by his teacher's pestering "We are marching into their territory in full armor and on horseback, they would have to be complete idiots and blind not to notice us in time." He gives me a conspiratorial glance "Besides, the honorable Court Mage would warn us if we were spotted."

"Figured that out, did you?" I ask with some amusement, ignoring the old man's grumbling.

"It was pretty obvious in hindsight." Reynauld shrugs but I can hear how impressed he is by what he discovered "The way you would always know where I was about to strike went beyond merely being skilled enough to predict my next move."

"You have some scary intuition." I praise lightly and turn my eyes back on the road while Reynauld raises his nose into the air, his pride evident to all.

Recruiting the Knights of Evermor for my little rescue operation was as easy as walking up to Reynauld and asking him. That was literally it, it took the young man a minute to get everyone into preparation mode and we were marching before the hour was out.

Locating the Priest of Boethiah was a simple affair as well. All I had to do was ask Igmund for information on all known Forsworn strongholds and then just spend a metric fuckton of Magicka scrying for the priest.

Needless to say, I had his exact location within a couple of seconds.

And so it was that, accompanied by the knights' full complement and Serana, I left Markarth and headed east, toward an old ruined fortress that went by the name of Broken Tower Redoubt.

It would take us about a day of travel to reach the place, and that was without camping on the way, but it was better than rushing a fortified position with only the twelve of us while the foot squires still trudged behind us.

Even if something told me I could probably solo the whole place on my own, and so could Serana for that matter...

"Enjoying the ride?" I turn to my vampiric companion.

She sends me a light glare before seemingly relaxing "Anything is better now that we have left the city."

"That bad, huh?" I wonder aloud.

"And what did you expect?" She practically hisses, though too quietly to get noticed by the knights "I wasn't even close to prepared to face that monster!"

"A bit of fear yes." I nod lightly, trying to signal my understanding "But also fury and hate, the desire to avenge yourself and destroy that which had hurt you." Now my voice turns just a tad disappointed "One must strike back against the world when it attempts to drown them in its misery."

Her eyes narrow, her glare becoming anything but light "And you think it is sooo easy?" She questions snippily "Oh why don't you just get over your fears Serana? It isn't like a literal god is the source of them!"

"You seem awfully talkative today." I comment suddenly, easily redirecting the conversation with the slightly unstable vampire.

And just like that all of the fire leaves her as she huffs and mutters, a bit brokenly "You try keeping your composure when someone scares the living blood out of you."

"Ah but that is where you are wrong, my dear friend." I proclaim grandly "By at the very least standing your ground you have already taken the first step in facing your tormentor!" And without waiting for an answer I rode up to Reynauld who had gotten deep into conversation with one of his comrades, soon drawing me into his talk about sword types, two ancient eyes looking at me with a mix of confusion and frustration for many a following hour.

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A bright campfire crackled in the dark night as my companions and I huddled close to its warmth.

"I keep forgetting how cold Skyrim can get." One of the knights comments with a shiver.

Reynauld lets out an amused chuckle "Ah but my friend, the cold is merely here to temper us both body and spirit!" He raises his hand boisterously.

"You weren't this enthused by the chill when you caught a cold a week back." Old Alfred perfectly delivers some fatherly mockery, making Reynauld blush with embarrassment.

"I am curious" I speak up after some comfortable silence "How does one join your knightly order?"

"Considering your options, Court Mage?" One of the nearby knights japes.

I offer him a wry smile and shake my head "No, I am just curious, Ser...?"

"Abelard Westford." The Breton knight inclines his head "At your service." This knight was the only one among his comrades who didn't wear ostentatious armor, even if his set was just as functional, leading me to believe that there was something of a divide between them.

Of which sort I would no doubt find out.

Receiving my own nod of greeting in turn the man speaks once more "As to your question a vast majority of our recruits are of a more noble stock, those with the necessary strength both of will and of pedigree are the ones that usually grace our chapter hall."

"But not exclusively?" I ask, purposefully staring at a group of slightly less handsome or well groomed squires huddled around their own campfire and then turning straight back to Abelard.

"Of course not, we are not barbarians." Abelard huffs, only half joking, and utterly failing to hide the hint of bitterness from his voice "Any young man with enough magical and martial potential can attempt the knightly trials" He seems to be praising the rules but I notice a twinge of disgust in his eyes.

Reynauld reads the situation immediately and ads with a bit of shame lacing his tone "While it is true that our recruitment is available to all I will be the first to admit that those of noble stock hold every advantage over their less fortunate kin."

A couple more of the knights, including the commander himself, also show their distaste at the practice with almost perfect synchronicity. 

I give them a calculating look over, and realizing how serious they were I ask "If you all hold such distaste for the practice, why allow it?"

Surprisingly it is Alfred who speaks up "I am afraid it is not that simple." He chuckles drily "High Rock is a land of tradition and said traditions had dug themselves deeply into the minds of our people, it is also the reason why you see no women amongst our number even though Skyrim clearly shows us that women can be great warriors indeed." His lips thin in distaste "Attempting to change something in High Rock, I am afraid, is nothing but folly unless one is a living legend."

A wave of determination passes throughout the gathered knights as he stops speaking.

"I see..." I reevaluate the outwardly foppish warriors in my mind "I hope you succeed in your quest then."

Many of them, especially the common squires, smile at my supportive words and soon after we trail off back into inconsequential topics.

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It was an hour after dawn that we stepped out into a clearing between two sharp cliffsides. An old Nord fortress, dilapidated by age and many a recent attack, was dug into both hills and its two ends were connected by a duo of stone bridges. The structure was in fact not a fortress but a duo of interconnected keeps meant to stop anyone from passing between the two larger regions of Markarth it guarded.

The once mighty pass was now guarded by hundreds of fur clad barbarians, many of their number armed with bone-crafted bows and no doubt stolen arrows.

The moment one of the taller towers fell into my view and the faint aura of my target shuddered under my gaze I knew I had found my destination.

"An intimidating sight, to be certain." Reynauld comments from atop his heavily armored steed, his voice showing none of the supposed fear or intimidation.

"Uh huh" I deadpan, already seeing about a dozen ways I could just strafe the entire fort and turn it into a pile of flaming corpses. Instead I look back to the knight and ask "How do you want to do this?"

"We charge." Reynauld says with such certainty it actually took me a moment to realize what he had just spouted.

"I am sorry" I blink and slow my words as if I was talking to a child "But you want to charge a fortress.... on horseback?"

"Yes." He nods, utterly unmoved by my tone. Before I can inform him as to how utterly stupid that was he points at one of the crumbled parts of the wall "See that crumbly bit there to the right?"

I squint unnecessarily "I do, it is short enough to jump over but I still don't see you surviving the attempt." I cup my chin "Although... You lot are alteration mages."

"Hah!" Reynauld laughs "I knew you would catch on quick."

"So we just rush in, raise a platform of stone and proceed to slaughter anyone not immediately surrendering?" I quirk an eyebrow.

"Just so, honored Court Mage." Reynauld says boisterously and grabs the hilt of his blade "Now then, shall we?"

I tap the sides of my own barded steed with my armored heels, sending it trotting forward, lazily summoning my glaive into my right hand and giving it a powerful twirl to warm myself up as I do so.

I look back at the gathered knights, all of them in pristine attack formation with Serana staying behind the infantry just in case 'Wouldn't want anyone to notice her specific skillset, especially the honorable knights.'

Instead of wasting any more time worrying about the hidden vampire I address the crowd "Well then." My voice carries across the entire valley "What are we waiting for?! Let's kill us some Forsworn!"

A mighty and cacophonous mix of battle cries roars in response, invocations of Stendarr, Julianos and even a very quiet one of Talos, resounding across the field.

The Forsworn won't know what hit them.

(General POV)

The Forsworn were at a complete loss at what was hitting them.

It took the lookouts only but a moment to find the source of the battle cries but this only served to confuse them further as they did not recognize their usual enemies among the gathered raiding party.

They were given no more time to ponder their fate as eleven riders entered a full galloping charge. At first the Forsworn laughed at the idiocy of their enemy, many of the archers outright not even shooting their arrows in their belief that the walls would stop any attack.

The moment one of them recognized the rider crowned in ebony every single one of those that did choose to fire regretted it as forking crimson lightning rent their bodies into ash and soon turned its merciless gaze upon the rest of their positions, even the hidden ones were not spared the wrathful tempest.

And as if that wasn't terrifying enough, as the armored horsemen finally arrived at the walls, instead of dismounting and charging through the already somewhat damaged gates, they raised their hands as one and, much to great horror of the Forsworn, a stone platform rose from the ground allowing the Bretons' steeds to seamlessly ascend to the top of the great keep's roof.

To call what came after that a massacre would have been a complete understatement as the magic empowered knights cut through the defenders like scythe would dry grass, not even the constant reinforcements or the small contingent of witches assigned to the fort were able to meaningfully slow down their advance and even the vaunted bridges, guarded by spell and spear, failed to stop the reckless charge of Reynauld of Evermor.

The despairing defenders prepared themselves for one last charge under he leadership of their final Briarheart but even the monstrous half-undead creature had its courage broken when another thirty attackers marched up the platform, an unbreakable shieldwall forming behind their knightly leaders.

By the time the assault, if it can even be called that, was finished only one of the knights had suffered grievous injury. A nice consolation prize for the unwashed barbarians no doubt, but even that was not to be as the middle aged knight was healed with but a lazy tap of the Court Mage's staff.

(Reyvin's POV)

"There is a couple more witches hiding within the east section. Kindly make sure that they do not continue to bother the hold." I helpfully inform the surprisingly bloodthirsty Bretons as they finish butchering the last defenders that still dared stand atop their precious wall.

My words are met with a roar of approval as a duo of knights grabs their squires and descends into the fort to slaughter the cultists.

Seeing that I was no longer needed I step into the tower that hid my prize, lazily flicking the blood off of my glaive as I ascended the stairs 'Going full dynasty warrior on someone's ass from time to time is surprisingly fun' I muse in my mind.

'Insufficient incineration.' Scorch complains, his tone utterly bored.

"Eh, you win some you lose some" I shrug while speaking aloud, intentionally drawing the attention of the caged man waiting atop the short stairwell I had just ascended.

"You, who are you?" The old Nord squints at me "Here to slay Logrolf the Mighty while he is caged and hungry?"

"Nothing mighty about you, old man." I dismiss him like the delusional idiot he was.

He scoffs as if hearing a dumb child and treating my insult like wind he asks "Why are you here?"

I stare at him silently for a while, debating on how to approach this, and then simply decide that bluntness would probably be best in this situation "I have heard that you are the one warding off the shrine of Molag Bal within Markarth, I need your assistance in striking against that particular Daedra."

"A weakling like you strike against a Daedra?" He chortles "That would be the day."

I raise an eyebrow at that ignorant comment "How long have you been stuck here exactly?"

The old man merely spits on the ground while staring directly into my eyes.

I try convincing myself that patience would be a virtue in this situation as I was here for the purposes of recruiting the old fart in the first place but just as his eyes told me he was about to mouth off again I lost what little patience I had and simply yanked him up telekinetically, smacking him against the rusted iron bars of his cage in the process.

"When I said I needed your help, old man, I wasn't truly asking." I hiss at him threateningly, my telekinetic grip growing stronger by the moment.

"Do your best, worm." The old man tries to spit at me but I just push the spittle down his own throat with a tiny bit of Magicka, causing him to nearly choke as he falls into a coughing fit.

"Now then, let us try again." I raise him up once more "Quick warning by the way, I am a near master of restoration so we can do this aaaaaaall day." I smile at the now shivering man, said smile no doubt reminding him of a hungering Dremora.

And exactly as I was about to start... convincing the cultist of Boethiah to cooperate, I felt the usual fluctuation of a Daedric vision, something I could utterly ignore at this point due to my power but quickly chose not to.

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No reason to be impolite after all.

Lazily tossing the old man back onto the floor of his cage I turn around to see a stone throne that had appeared out of nowhere and a scarred Dunmer woman in elaborate armor and wielding a burning golden Akaviri blade staring at me challengingly.

"A fine day we are having, wouldn't you say?" I ask cheekily and offer an insultingly light bow "Oh vaunted font of inspiration."

The sarcastic use of one of her rare positive titles finally manages to get a reaction out of my sudden but not unexpected guest, as Boethiah narrows her eyes at me, a glint of interest shining in their molten amber.

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You see Daedra, you throw stone. Simple as.

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