Kalaman rose the next morning refreshed as well as richer, for Priest Fenig had given him an ample coin purse in exchange for the spriggans’ sap. The “pox,” as he’d called it, was coming from the west, and that was where Kalaman intended to go.
I’m certain I can learn more about local affairs in the capital city. Searching out a cure for the “pox” is a more convincing reason to give for my presence than “I’m scouting potential magical threats to the eastern provinces.” I might easily lose my head for something like that. This town, Arnima, is on the way. Perhaps I’ll stop there, first.
As he neared the Divide’s southern ramp a voice caught his attention.
“Come on, Hanni, almost there and then you can have all the hay ye want.” A red-haired man, Breton judging by his accent, led a shaggy horse by its reins.
“She definitely earned her keep if she came through the pass from the east,” Kalaman said by way of introduction.
“Indeed she did,” he answered with a friendly grin, “and she’s going to get a breather for a few days after hauling us all the way up here. And it’s a miracle – a sunny day in the Reach! With weather like we usually have here I almost regret having turned the chance down to become a mage and cast one of those special spells to protect us from the rain.”
Kalaman couldn’t help but laugh. It was the perfect opportunity to find out more, and he took it. “As a mage I’d be happy to teach you just such a thing if I knew it myself, but I don’t,” he said. “I have many spells but sadly, weather control isn’t one of them. Speaking of earning one’s keep, how would a mage go about doing so, here in the Reach?”
The man looked him over as though taking the measure of him, and then nodded. “Well, you’ve got the Imperials,” he said, pointing, “right where that grey tower sits between the rivers. Always have errands at hand. Or,” he added when Kalaman shook his head, “give us a moment. I have it somewhere.” He checked several pockets and finally pulled out a parchment. “Here it is. Grabbed it in Arnima not long ago. It seems that the lord – Mortifayne, his name is, but don’t call him that without the ‘lord’ part – is looking for some help. Rumors have it that those Witchmen up the valley ran off with something very dear to him.”
Kalaman took the note and nodded appreciatively. “That’s exactly the sort of work I was looking for,” he said. “I may not look the bounty hunter sort but I…” He paused, trying to gauge what he could say that would not get him into trouble.
“Need to get the lay of the land where power is concerned?” the merchant grinned. “Be careful, though. The Imperials have a good record of keeping their helpers alive but the same can’t be said about Mortifayne. Don’t worry, I won’t tell a soul. Besides that, ye haven’t shared yer name nor I mine. We’ll keep it like that. A very fine day to you.” The man tugged on his horse’s lead again but then turned to Kalaman once more, chuckling. “And if you do happen to learn a weather spell, look me up. I’m not much of a mage but I am Breton, so I should be able to rub a few words together and get some results.”
“I shall,” Kalaman said. “And thank you.”
He waited until he was out of town before looking over the notice, which specified very little about the job but invited “any man or mer” to apply. In that case he wouldn’t look utterly out of place entering the palace.
“Take up your arms to serve the local lord and your reward will be generous!’ Honestly, it had better be. Why I let Rumaril talk me into this is beyond me. Given the rumors of an increased Thalmor presence here I suppose another Altmer wouldn’t raise eyebrows too much. Even a half-Altmer. But better safe than not.
Kalaman took his time along the road to Arnima. In the full daylight, the signs of struggle he’d noticed the previous night were clearer, the bloodstains more vibrant, the splotches of green even more obviously poisonous. He reached the place where he’d left the roadway to hunt spriggans and saw, gratefully, that he’d been very lucky to have avoided the encampment of scruffy men in shabby tents and rickety lean-tos perched at the uppermost edge of the riverbank. He sighed heavily as he sloshed around the corner into the soggy confines of a hamlet that might have once been prosperous but was now mostly a ruin.
Who am I fooling? Rumaril merely planted the seed of curiosity; I was the one who allowed it to bloom. But if my reward isn’t generous I’ll be tracking down my dear cousin to demand payment for a new pair of boots.
Once he stepped through the gates of Arnima it took only a few moments for Kalaman to locate his destination. To his left was the church. To its north was a town square with the inevitable implements of public executions and corporal punishments; and straight in front of him, up a flight of steps to a hill that served to raise its lofty walls above those of the common rabble, was, without question, the palace.
“Of course it is,” he muttered under his breath while making for the stairs. Even as a relatively young Altmer he was too familiar with the supposed superiority of elven nobility to expect anything else from the distantly half-elven Bretons. It was, frankly, one of the reasons he’d chosen to become a minor functionary in Cyrodiil rather than join those of the Jorus extended family who belonged to the Thalmor sect. They all had ridiculously out-sized opinons of themselves, and Kalaman had wanted as little to do with them as possible.
Apparently the same can be said of Rumaril. He certainly misspent enough of his youth emphasizing his desire to be “different.” And good for him. I might not have approved of his actions – too much drink, too many women, too much money wasted – but I thoroughly approve of his motives. Even moreso now that he’s shown himself capable of weighing what might be vital to the shared interests of all.
Nobody challenged his entry into the palace, a dark and labyrinthine space with far too many doors. He wandered around inside for quite some time, searching for Mortifayne and bumping into at least three guards, and the most he got from any of them was a curt admonition to make himself busy.
One might have imagined the Lord’s personal guard would be more concerned about a stranger’s intentions, Kalaman thought. Especially when a simple merchant had made a special point to warn the stranger of Mortifayne’s reputation for allowing his servants to come to a bad end. A random stranger might well be bent on revenge. But so be it.
Beyond the last door was a large audience chamber bearing the same sort of architectural flourishes one saw in the Blue Palace in Solitude. Imperial design, Breton flair, a dais at one end, he thought. The surly-looking man in fine clothing slouched in the great throne had to be Mortifayne. He frowned as Kalaman approached, retrieved the bounty notice from a pouch, and made a great show of opening it.
“I understand that my Lord may have use for my modest talents,” he said. In his experience, the more useless a person in high office was, the more defensive they were about their superiority. He would not verbally assume anything about Mortifayne. Mortifayne did not ‘need help,’ he might simply have a task that Kalaman was suited for.
It’s all about the phrasing. And this man looks like a buffoon to me. A powerful buffoon, which makes him the most dangerous kind of man to have on a throne.
“It’s not often that mercenaries come waltzing into my chamber. Fortunately for you, I am in need of an errand boy.”
Kalaman found his jaw clenching in annoyance. Errand boy? The Archmage of the College of Winterhold! Errand boy indeed!
He forced himself to breathe.
And a mediocre mage who has self-identified as nothing more than a good organizer. I also seem to retain my Altmer pride in spite of it.
He forced a smile. “Yes, sire. Tell me.”
“Just two days ago my guard encountered a small group of Witchmen just outside the city walls, much closer than they’ve come for some time. They killed all but one that ran for the hills deep within the valley. By strange coincidence a necklace of mine went missing.”
Kalaman tried not to snort. “A necklace? You want me to retrieve jewelry? Could you not simply buy another?”
Mortifayne frowned, and his eyes flashed. Kalaman sensed that he’d come perilously close to making a bad misstep.
“These relics are hardly common jewels! This amulet is what keeps you, and this town, safe!”
Kalaman bowed his head. “Of course, sire. Forgive my ignorance. I was unaware of which amulet went astray.”
What in Oblivion type of amulet would have a backwater Lord outraged with its absence and proclaiming its power?
Mortifayne sighed. “Yes. I shouldn’t become riled by naivety. You’ll find the Witchmen hiding in their caves to the north. Look for their grisly monuments and you’ll find them soon after. Now off you go, before you forfeit the gold you desire and forgo the safety you’ll have within my walls.”
“Of course, sire. Thank you for your trust,” Kalaman said, backing several steps before a guard’s clearing his throat discreetly stopped him short. He turned and realized that he’d come within a step of backing into a torture rack, strategically placed so that any occupant thereof would be in full display of the Lord of Arnima. He shot a grateful glance at the guard and made his way out of the room as quickly as he could.
Footsteps approaching rapidly from behind caught his attention. He swiveled to find the same guard waving him down.
“Wait,” the man whispered. “Before you go, let me show you where the cave is that the Witchman likely disappeared into. It’ll save you time and you’ll be less likely to lose a head to Mortifayne’s bad temper.”
Kalaman blinked in surprise. “Of course. Here’s my map.”
The guard looked it over and pointed to a spot along the eastern flank of the valley. “Watch yourself,” he whispered. “You probably won’t see them, but I’d wager a winter’s wages that they’ll see you. That’s why none of us have gone to fetch the bauble. But if you keep low and quiet you’ll probably get at least as far as the entrance all in one piece.” He looked Kalaman over and nodded. “Looks like you might have a bit of magic up your sleeve, too. Don’t be afraid to use it. They won’t be.”
It was a tense trek north out of the city and across the river, along a trail littered with corpses so recent that flies had barely begun to gather on them. Kalaman found a narrow, elevated shelf of stone and crept along it, keeping to the deep mountain shadows, wondering what had happened to leave so many bodies in its wake. He quietly slipped past an oddly-silent encampment, only a single man standing sentry near its gate.
Well beyond that camp was another, very different one. A huge stone, painted bright red with yellow markings, held a totem like some dire warning: deer skulls, elk antlers, and a bloody rib cage. An equally unsettling man prowled near its base. Impossibly pale, he was, and dressed in the fashion of Skyrim’s Forsworn.
Witchman, clearly. I’d best watch my step. This must be the ‘grisly monument’ Mortifayne mentioned.
He used his magic to muffle his footsteps, prepared his bow, and continued north. It felt like an entire eon, but he finally arrived at a cave entrance marked by several huge stones painted in the same alarmingly-vivid red as that in the valley floor below. Confident that he’d reached his destination, he took a deep breath and crept inside to find a roughly-excavated tunnel with a puddle of dim light somewhere ahead.
More red symbols marked the cavern walls and bone chimes dangled from the branches of stunted, mostly-dead trees. Kalaman frowned and moved ahead slowly and carefully, avoiding the chimes by plastering himself against the wall and inching past, sideways, taking special care to keep his robe’s long sleeves away from them. Beyond was a substantial cave, lighted by braziers, with water rushing along its floor; wooden ramps and decking allowed for passage.
He made it to the foot of the first wooden ramp undetected but then nearly jumped out of his robes. There was a corpse flopped down on the platform – a woman, in a nondescript dress.
She was missing her head.
Later, Kalaman decided that he must have made some sort of distressed noise. From the right side of the wooden platform came another of the incredibly pale men dressed in deer antlers and skimpy furs. Kalaman shrank back into the shadows and took aim with his bow. He must have managed to hide well enough, for his first shot felled the Witchman, who dropped to the ramp crying “Mother!”
Mother? Odd. I know they worship Mara here in the West but I can’t imagine these creatures calling out to her.
Another Witchman, this one with some spell glowing red in each hand, came rushing out from beyond the center of the cave.
“Out of the darkness!” he cried.
Kalaman’s startled bow shot struck the man, but the bowstring hadn’t been fully pulled back and his arrow, therefore, wasn’t lethal. He leapt back toward the cave entrance, releasing his bow in favor of flames. He first conjured an atronach and then began hurling fireballs one after another, as quickly as he could. All the while the man continued to spout nonsense.
“Make them cry!” the man shouted. “I am the despoiler!” And finally, Kalaman’s dual-cast fireball and his conjured atronach struck at the same time and the man sank to the floor: “Released from the flesh!”
Past where the Witchmen had been was a round dais with a massive, pointed arch of highly-polished stone. Kalaman recognized it as Direnni architecture and eagerly pushed forward to examine it, but then drew back, stunned. There was another of the bone totems erected beneath the archway, this one atop a thick, de-barked tree that had been roughly forced into a crack in the stone below. Worse, though, were the many sticks ringing the Direnni platform, most bearing blood-stained skulls. And worst of all, a viciously sharp pike nearest to Kalaman held an impaled body.
Or at least what’s left of it. No arms. No legs. No head. Just an upper torso.
He moved ahead, feeling slightly ill. There was another impaled body between the arch’s limbs, this one intact; yet he couldn’t help but shudder, imagining how these poor victims must have died.
The Thalmor are known for their unapologetic skill with torture, but they don’t generally display the rotting corpses of their subjects. This is vile. What god or goddess or Daedric Prince do these people worship?
He discovered the head of the Breton woman whose body had surprised him so. It was resting atop a table, next to a pair of burned books and – disgustingly – a bowl of fresh bread. His stomach lurched.
I’m suddenly of a mind never to eat bread again.
Shuddering, he pushed past the Direnni arch and the Witchmen’s gruesome additions to it, passing into a narrow, rough-hewn tunnel at one side.
The corridor led him down into a warren of habitation, where most of the structures were built over the vigorous stream on platforms connected by hanging bridges. There were rare alchemy ingredients to take, here, but also evidence of more Witchmen ahead. With little space to run or hide, he decided to use a modified invisibility spell to creep forward. Few things were quite as effective as having the drop on an enemy because you knew he was there, but not vice-versa.
On one table was a shallow bowl holding a human heart. Kalaman picked it up carefully, wrapping it in a bit of cloth before adding it to his alchemy pouch. He wasn’t necessarily going to use it himself, but human hearts were rare and powerful ingredients, worth nearly their weight in gold. Besides, he wanted to deprive the Witchmen of its use.
It was oddly quiet here, aside from the rush of water. Too quiet, almost. He’d reached the far end of the encampment without seeing another Witchman, and that made him nervous about entering the narrow tunnel beyond.
He’d been wise to use his magic to investigate, as it happened. The tunnel connected to another huge cavern with Witchmen structures perched along its cliff sides. It also held a bone chime suspended near the tunnel opening, one which Kalaman hadn’t seen. He brushed against it, grimaced at his own stupidity as it clattered, the noise echoing across the cavern. He hadn’t been paying attention. He was, however, still invisible.
The rattle alerted one of the pale, tattooed residents – this one female – who rose from her seat, gathering magic in her hands and looking around in confusion when she did not see him. Kalaman summoned a wraith behind the witch, and instantly transported back to the opening of the tunnel. That gave him a moment to prepare flames.
“Out of the darkness!” he heard her exclaim. That was followed by the unmistakable sounds of the wraith casting ice spikes. A moment later, sounds ceased.
Good. She’s gotten rid of the witch. Safe to continue…
A deep, croaking voice came from down the tunnel.
“You release my kin to the void!”
That was followed by the rattle of the bone chimes. The Witchman would find Kalaman soon enough. He tsk’d, and placed a fire rune near the tunnel opening, backing up again across a hanging bridge and onto one of the living platforms. Then he crouched in the deepest shadows and waited. It wasn’t very long before the Witchman appeared, though it felt like a lifetime.
The man stopped short of the rune, though he didn’t seem to be aware of it. Kalaman tsk’d again. It was much easier to trap an enemy if they actually walked into the trap. He prepared an illusion spell he didn’t often use – one that would send the man into a frenzy and increase the likelihood of his blowing himself up. He watched the cloud of red-tinged magic blossom around the Witchman’s feet and immediately laid another fire rune near the edge of the platform he was on. As he’d hoped, the Witchman stepped into the first rune, burning himself in the explosion, and then ran toward Kalaman in a rage, triggering the second. He sank to the ground in flames, moaning as he died.
“Released… from the flesh.”
He was just about to continue pressing forward when another female voice floated up toward him.
“The Eternal Spider has marked you!”
A mental shock of recognition ran through Kalaman’s body and was followed close on its heels by the physical shock of a pair of ice spikes. The woman was a powerful mage, and she was determined to kill him.
He tossed a conjuration spell behind him and ran, his wraith making short work of the witch while he healed himself. He’d been surprised, and was feeling shaken – but not necessarily by the witch’s spells. No, it was her words that had been unsettling.
The Eternal Spider. There was only one thing that could mean, and it didn’t bode well. Namira.
Oh and it all fits together, doesn’t it? The Daedric Prince of spiders, insects, and other nasty things that creep about in the dark. Even worse: the prince of cannibals. Interference with normal, everyday life. These Witchmen certainly seem to do that.
This doesn’t necessarily explain the plague, though. The Afflicted are absolutely creatures of Peryite. That much is known. The Witchmen have that as well as Namira’s other “gifts.”
By the gods, this is not good.
Kalaman couldn’t stop shuddering as he made his way back through the tunnels into the cavern beyond, pausing at each table or chest to examine what the Witchmen might have deemed important enough to collect. He couldn’t stop thinking about the impaled torsos and the apparent defiling of the Direnni arches.
What does it mean?
At least I know Rumaril’s instincts are good. ‘Vaguely magical and very powerful,’ he told me. If all of this is related to Namira it’s much more than vague magic.
At the bottom of the next set of wooden ramps and platforms he came upon a large ceremonial basin holding a human heart, a briar heart, and slabs of raw flesh that he assumed must be human. His stomach turned. Not only was this further evidence of Namira’s influence, but the briar heart meant that the Witchmen were doing the same unsavory transformations as the Forsworn outside Markarth.
Behind the basin was something the likes of which he’d never seen. Like the assemblages under the Direnni arches, it had as its base a real creature – a spider. But added to it were faces. Human faces, all of which looked as though they had died in excruciating pain and which, he thought, likely explained the many torsos missing heads that he’d seen along the way. As if that weren’t gruesome enough the stench here was nearly overpowering. More evidence that this entire complex was somehow related to Namira.
Kalaman didn’t dare relax. The occupants of this grisly place had caught him off-guard once too often and he didn’t place too much stock in his ability to defeat any of them in close quarters. Sure enough, as he crept through the open gate he spied a pair of male Witchmen. He took careful aim on the closest one to him and fired.
To his dismay, the man didn’t fall. In fact, he turned to face Kalaman and rushed him, spewing vile-smelling green liquid that burned to the touch and made him almost instantly ill. It was all he could do to keep his stomach from disgorging its own contents.
If I don’t heal, I’m dead.
“The maggots come forth!” the Witchman proclaimed as his fellow ran past to attack Kalaman but stopping just short.
Then the most gruesome thing happened. With a horrible howl, the first Witchman hunched over. Bones snapped, grisly sounds emanated from the man’s body, and where it had stood, suddenly there was a creature even more ghastly than the “assembled” spider. Red like dried blood, with a head like a grisly, oversized skull, the creature also spat green poison.
Kalaman conjured another assistant – this time a flame atronach. Flame was his specialty and it might counteract some of the creature’s poison, just as the dual fireballs stopped the second Witchman that had attacked Kalaman head on.
But Kalaman could barely stand upright for the poison he’d consumed, and breathed, and had touch his skin; he couldn’t tell whether the atronach had any effect, or was even still extant. The sounds the creature made were horrible, ear-piercing and meaty noises that drowned out anything else. He backed up in fear and dismay, conjuring his bow again when the fireballs seemed to do no good against the creature and firing over and over, fighting both the creature and his own frailty, watching and hearing it approach nearer by the moment until finally, the accumulated strength of his conjuration magic and the enchantment in his bow had the desired effect and the beast dropped to the floor.
Kalaman wasted no time. He cast healing on himself until at last he was certain he would survive. The uncertainty of his stomach, though, persisted. There were odors in his robes that would take serious cleaning to remove. This was a vile poison and it had come from a vile creature.
Perhaps it is a variation of the disease Peryite has brought to Skyrim. It acts that way. Surely there must be a way to deal with it.
He’d never seen anything like the creature that had almost ended him, and hoped never to see one again.
He was just stepping past the basin of body parts when an ice spike hurtled through the air, missing him by the merest of margins. Just around the corner from where he’d been standing was a wooden gate. To its left was yet another opening, this one partially blocked by thick, slimy-looking roots emitting a red glow. It was decidedly unlike anything else he’d ever seen, and had the hair on his neck rising in distress.
What the…
Kalaman quickly conjured another wraith and let her engage the hag who had attacked him, standing within the shelter of the roots. Then he gathered up his wits and his magic and began countering her ice spikes with dual-cast fireballs.
“Unfettered is our spite!” she called out, sounding confident and secure in her beliefs and entirely mad as she lingered over her final word. She was neither well-armored enough nor strong enough in her magic to withstand both Kalaman and the wraith, though, and as she sank to the ground, burning, she sighed “the unending silence…” as though she was happy to be dying.
All of them seem to be happy to be dying. I don’t understand it.
The wraith dissipated, and Kalaman started to relax. He’d just taken a deep breath when another Witchman stepped out from behind an ancient Direnni structure, looking around as if he knew Kalaman was still there but simply couldn’t find him.
“You cannot escape her eye!”
There was something especially malevolent about this particular Witchman’s tone. He couldn’t decide what it was. Instead of worrying about it, though, he conjured a replacement wraith to serve as a diversion. The two of them fought each other bitterly while Kalaman summoned his bow, looking for openings to land his arrows with their special damage.
“Spread her touch!” the man said, earning a grimace from Kalaman. In the next breath the Witchman dissolved the wraith with a dual-handed axe attack, and turned to face Kalaman. “The tears end here,” the man croaked, giving Kalaman the momentary opening he needed to bury an arrow in the man’s chest.
“One can only hope,” Kalaman muttered, backing up to stay out of range of the axes that he knew would be coated in poison. And, as he had expected, the accumulated effects of his magic and his weapon took the Witchman down, sighing about being released from the flesh as his comrades had.
The glowing red roots, though, were his next concern. He first tried moving between them, but they were too tightly packed together. Then he tried moving them, but they were too thick and he lacked the strength to lift them.
Kalaman growled. I barely survived that creature. The least you can do is let me through. Let me through, damn it!
He raised his hands and cast a fireball at the roots out of sheer frustration.
The roots shrank back against the walls of the passage, as though they were trying to escape the fire. Kalaman dropped his hands in surprise and blinked.
“That was… surprisingly easy. ” He moved slowly toward the roots, wondering whether they would stay where they’d been put or not. He wasn’t at all familiar with them, and he couldn’t see past them.
“I don’t trust it. Let’s see which plane of Oblivion awaits next.”