Dagnell stared for a few moments at the ancient Dwemer wall that surrounded most of Markarth. She’d been through here, before, but had never stopped to consider how odd it was that the two cities at either end of Skyrim kept people out – or perhaps in? – by means of huge, looming, uninviting metal doors. These were of Dwarven make, in the odd orange-gold color of that metal.
She’d made it through to Solitude. Just barely. A few hours west of Dawnstar, she had seen what looked, from a distance, like a Khajit caravan and had approached them. It had not gone well for her. They’d actually been bandits. She had taken out several of them before one, with a huge battleaxe, had landed a deep gash on her left leg. If not for the snow troll that had come barreling out of the woods with an eye for that bandit, she would have died; as it was, she’d barely managed to crawl, and roll, and drag her way into the dubious shelter of a depression between two boulders, on the side of a hill. Much healing magic, several potions, and hours of rest had saved her, but she’d been a sorry mess by the time she dragged herself through Solitude’s gates. The Winking Skeever was a welcome sight that night.
Now, rested and resupplied with potions and food, and after a long but uneventful carriage ride from Solitude, she heaved open the Dwemer doors and slipped into Markarth.
The city of Markarth was built, in large part, deep into the side of one of the huge mountains that made up this part of Skyrim, the Reach. The city spilled out from its keep and down the side of the mountain, as did the river in its center. There was a major silver mining operation here, the carriage driver had told her; it was that silver that had kept the city flourishing for hundreds of years. Dag could see at least two smelters and scaffolding leading to a mine entrance to her left and farther down the hillside. Stone staircases led from landing to landing, up the sides of the mountain, and there were homes with Dwemer metal doors on nearly every flat area.
Except for the flat area directly in front of her. This was a small marketplace, with one man selling meat and a woman showcasing silver jewelry . A Nord woman was looking over the pendants. Dag heard her say “this would look lovely on my sister!”
And then she noticed the man in miner’s clothing, creeping up behind this woman.
Nobody else seemed to see him at all, but he had a knife drawn. He was clearly about to attack her. “For the Forsworn!” she heard him shout as he started to move.
Dag didn’t even think. She drew her sword, and rushed up behind him. She thrust her sword into the man as hard as she could, both hands on her sword, and lifted him fully off the ground as she had once watched Roggi do, except that she was attacking from behind and he never saw her coming.
The man’s blood gushed down over her hands, spurting. Dag looked down at it for the briefest of moments in wonder, a sensation she couldn’t identify filling her, almost exhilaration. Her own blood roared in her ears as she yanked her sword out of him and dashed away, toward the river, toward the mine, trying to get out of the crowd and blend into the city. Behind her she could hear screams, guards shouting that there were no Forsworn in the city. She heard the woman who’d been about to die exclaiming “he could have killed me!” Dag ran as far down the hill as she could and ducked down behind the scaffolding.
She looked at her hands. They, and her gauntlets, were soaked with the would-be assassin’s blood. She stared at it, and stared at it, and then raised one of her hands to her mouth and tasted it. Metallic. Biting. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, the odd exhilaration washing over her in waves. She had tasted her own blood, often enough, raising a cut finger to her mouth as one did out of reflex. This was the same, and yet very different.
You’d better clean yourself up, idiot, her sarcastic voice told her. Nobody’s going to let you look at their research if you look like a slaughterhouse, especially not Calcelmo.
Oh. Yes. I’d better do that, she thought, opening her eyes and plunging her arms into the icy river. She scrubbed herself clean, shivering with the cold, but it felt as though she was outside herself, above and behind, watching herself do these things. The gauntlets were going to be problematic; the blood had soaked deep into them. But she scrubbed them, too, as hard as she could, until they just seemed a darker shade of leather than the rest of her armor. She shook the water off them and put them into her pack; best not to show them while she was in the city. There were a few spots of blood on the front of her armor, but they came off fairly easily. Finally, she splashed her face. The cold brought her finally back to herself and out of whatever reverie had seized her.
Dag walked slowly up the hill toward the smithy she could see above. She had enough raw materials with her that she might be able to make a temporary set of bracers, just enough to protect her wrists while the others dried.
That was just not right, Dag thought. What was that, the feeling that had come over her when she saw the man about to attack? Why had she not just called out? Why had she attacked him, from behind, a coward’s attack, exactly what he had been about to do to the Nord woman?
She heard Roggi’s voice: “Sometimes I wonder what makes me any better than them.”
You’ll figure it out eventually, her other voice told her.