The War of The Fourth Caravan - Thedorus Mallus

The following work was written and later published by self-professed bardic master, Thedorus Mallus, in 4E 169 whilst serving time in Cidhna Mine. The work has often been considered controversial, at times accused of being blasphemous. It is supposedly an explanation of how he ended up in the prison.

It is a northern province, a land of harsh cold and bitter nights that smother the days. On particularly grey days, of which there are many, the sky and the snow meet and kiss and join as one, leaving even a most skilled Cyrodillic bardic adventurers stranded for days, wandering hopelessly in search of shelter from the very land that outcasts him.

And yet, despite the frigid hostility of this primitive world, desert-walkers of the south roam vigilant from night's black wolves to daggers crossed. Three caravans there were, of Ri'saad, Ahkari and Ma'dran. Outsiders, shunned. A pitiful people in this foreign kingdom, yet they had been here too long. Without them, this land would bleed dry and wither, pining for it's skooma sprinkled amongst the endless snow.

Mayhaps it was the will of some god, known to me or no, but it was one of those exotic cats who plucked me out of the blinding white that fateful night, my four companions following close behind, into safety. A small cave, warmth from a spluttering fire trapped like a torchbug in a jar. It was quite the squeeze inside, seven of us crowded around, each with their own bags and possessions, and of course the cart with our precious cargo.

Nur'drun, an old wizened cat with suspicious eyes, and his accomplice Dro'darjo, irritable and impatience rampant even in just his whiskers. But who are you? Who are these? Patience, my dear moonchild. And so came our names as well. Arius, a very good friend from Bravil, healer, teacher and trusted advisor in all my travels. Sillus, an apprentice from the Mage's Guild, young and untested, but a genius greater than most thrice his age. Virena, a Breton of High Rock, fluent in sword and spell as much as she was with her treacherous tongue. That only left Graldun, who pulled the carriage, and whom I often spent the most time talking with. After all, despite his apparent unusual intelligence, a giant was hardly going to reveal my deepest secrets. And of course, there was I, Thedorus Mallus. Leader of our rag tag band.

Enemies are an easy spice to come by in any land. And in our isolated world of flame and stone, tensions did rise. Words were spoken, insults were made, intentionally and not. But of course, as I once told a wise man, a common foe unites even the bitterest of brothers. And indeed, when the blizzard did clear, with the settling of snow, a paw would meet hand in powerful alliance, the Fourth Caravan of Skyrim formed. For from the mouth of our newfound home, the vanishing void had revealed the greater threat. Great 'Karth stood proud in virgin white, though broken quickly by determined feet.

Reachmen, invaders, savages. All fell to the Caravan. Claw and blade fought side by side. Demonic ravenwomen, Elkenwarriors with hearts of briar. None withstood our combined might. Together, the Fourth Caravan drove back our attackers. Victory thundered, triumph ruled. Even the cold seem to bite with a little less bitter resentment. With pride in our veins, the old Khajiit and I, marched back to our rocky hall, five in tow. Mead did flow free and tankards were raised, round the fire to the glory we'd taken that day. Friends were made, prejudices cast to the eastern breeze. 'Let us go, my friend. Let us travel, trade and prosper'. A wise old cat, and a foolish man investing in his dreams.

Every bag was packed, every chest heaved, every blade, book and bottle secured safely on that precarious cart, groaning under the strain of alliance. Quiet at first was that groan, drowned out by the pound of foot, the strum of lute and the dancing harmonies of voice. 'To Great 'Karth!' we did sing 'To the City of Brass and Stone!'. But aye, that groan did grow, and with it the discomfort of my friends. You see, prejudice can never truly be removed. It shouldn't. A wise man should never act on prejudice alone true, but a man who ignores it all together is a fool. So I listen to the worries of Graldun, cart-laden ally, Arius, kindly and tender, Sillus, thoughtful and quick, and Virena, mysterious and deep-eyed. I allow them their trivial concerns. Each I dismiss as the mountains do the snow, to melt and slide away.

'Vax!' Graldun's draconic roar shattered the peace with a single word, a furious club gesturing towards the shadows of tonight's cave. The groaning had grown insufferable as of late, and so, though the city was close, the smell of silver on the air, Nur'drun and I had called a stop. 'Tell me, friend' he had asked around his pipe 'The chest. What is in it? Could we leave it behind?'. No. The chest contained my purpose, my reason for coming to this accursed wasteland. An ancient flute, supposedly belonging to one of the ancient kings of some back corner of the world, apparently enchanted with such power that...well...I dread to think. It was this flute that the young Khajiit grasped now, paws tinkering, experimenting, testing. 'Banaak!'

Anger sparked, blades were drawn, alliances struggled to grip. The old cat and I, tried to see eye to eye, but at last our two voices were finally lost in the fuming majority. A dagger whipped past, striking young Dro'darjo, the flute falling to the ground, the clatter ringing painfully around the cavern. My precious burden for the Arch'd City. Bonds tore, never to be repaired. 'Darjo fled with the artifact, my companions in pursuit, leaving me and my foe-friend to duel to the wrenching death. Swords touched sword, hovering, still, shaking. 'Run,' my words felt slow and sticky on my lips, usually so deft and sure. The saddest smile ever to kiss my eyes crossed that face, such that my gaze found itself averted. He was gone. The Fourth Caravan ripped limb from limb by the Caravan itself, the true three enduring on.

Reunited with Graldun, he presented the instrument retrieved from the mountainside, to which I entrusted him while I consulted my advisors. All agreed, the tool should be retained and delivered to the college 'neath walls of blue, never to be touched by any. A wise choice, a foolish man having faith in the goodwill of bloodspillers. Leading the three back inside the mountain, we discovered the giant, my friend. The flute had taken him as it had taken the cat, a single long note emanating around those accursed halls. To give up the prize he refused in that guttural roar, and with heavy hearts, blade on club we fought. Yet neither giant nor I were victors that day, when both fell prey to grievous wounds. My three stood waiting, watching 'till end. Sillus, the third to cave to temptations, whilst Virena and Arius stood over my bleeding body. 'Good sir' one spoke, merciful in treachery, 'You have always treated us well'. Another sharper tongue took flight then 'But your end marks our beginning, and so, is necessary.' The mountain turned red, the three, dark.