The cathedral – for in no plane of existence could it be called a mere church – was enormous, and beautiful, both from the outside and within. Everything about it was massive, from its soaring stained glass windows to the rich red draperies hung at either side. A sumptuous green-and-red carpet warmed the spotless, polished stone floor of the nave, with the chancel housing an altar lit both by candles and by magic. Twin staircases swept upward and inward, to the high altar, a beautifully-appointed area with shrines to each of the Imperial pantheon’s gods. Harald could only imagine the sermons that might have been intoned from that height over the many ages in which this edifice had stood in Evermore.
He shook himself free of his awe and gazed around at the people inside. It didn’t matter how impressive the architecture, they were here to find the Arch-Bishop and exchange information. He scanned the cathedral and saw, against one wall, an arcane enchanter. Using it was an older gentleman with a fringe of steel-gray hair and Breton facial tattoos, dressed not in clerical robes but in rich clothing. Kalaman, standing near the man, nodded discreetly in his direction. Harald made his way across the space to greet him.
“Excuse me, but might you be the Arch-Bishop? The priest in Arnima has sent me to speak to you. About Mortifayne.”
The Arch-Bishop didn’t leave the table, but turned his head to speak. “Pardon, these weary eyes mistook you for just another pilgrim. Yes, I’ve heard of you; the priest has sung nothing but praise for your name. And lest we slip into bad habits, that town is called Raven Spring. ‘Arnima’ is an alien moniker, almost sinister.”
Harald nodded. “Forgive me. I am not from these parts and tend to remember the name I heard first.”
“Now then,” the Arch-Bishop said. “Sigmayne has finally realized Mortifayne’s madness for himself. Not that it wasn’t apparent for those subjugated to the mad lord, but their cries fell on deaf ears. Almost three decades of tyranny, with so much cruelty…”
“Cruelty… of what sort?”
“Ever heard of the Halon family?” the man asked him, sighing when Harald shook his head no.
“One of the most infamous demonstrations of Mortifayne’s sadism, sundering every heart who was witness. Geffir was accused of high treason with little evidence other than the lord’s paranoid suspicion, bypassing trial. Yet it wouldn’t be Mortifayne if there were just a single execution. No, the lord was ravenous on that day. As the Raven Spring people said, he had a hunger in his eyes.”
Kalaman, who had been standing silent nearby, listening attentively, made a distressed sound. Harald’s gaze followed the sound and saw that his expression was equally distressed.
By the Nine. What he said about that amulet, and its inscription, and the effect it had on him… I’ll wager the people of Raven Spring were right!
He forced his attention back to the Arch-Bishop. “Forgive me for asking, but why was he not replaced then?”
“Sigmayne has had the misplaced belief that Mortifayne is a necessary evil, that his is the order that can tame the Reach. He assumes that a gentler lord would fall to the myriad threats to that town. As Raven Spring is our most important asset in the east, its fall would have Evermore eventually follow.”
Harald paused for a moment, weighing his words carefully before lowering his voice. “Sigmayne might have been right if the risks only involved the various mortal factions, but what of the rumors of Namira’s involvement? My companion here is convinced that it is the case and I’ve seen evidence of it myself.”
“It would be a great folly to continue dismissing it. There comes a time when the evidence transforms rumor to reality. The nature of her relation with Mortifayne is a mystery, though; what good could possibly be derived from it? The priests have been worried about Daedric plots against individual victims for some time. However, Mortifayne’s actions suggest a far grander scheme: a plot targeted at Ada-mantia itself.”
“What?”
“Ada-mantia?” Kalaman gasped. “The Adamantine Tower, Harald. Also known as the Direnni Tower. Created, it’s said, by the Aedra during the Merethic Era. It’s the oldest known structure, anywhere.” Kalaman peered at Harald. “It’s said that it was originally Akatosh’s vessel, and that Shor embedded it deep into Nirn, leaving only one spire above ground.”
The hair on Harald’s neck rose. “Shor did?”
“According to the most ancient tales, yes. Mortals, including the Direnni, have changed the structure around the tower over and over again but nobody has found its depths yet. And you might well imagine the power that it might yet hold.”
Shor’s bones.
Literally.
“Yes,” the Arch-Bishop said. “It has many names, holding its own unique value to every culture. Now that tower happens to be one of the last. Others across Tamriel have since been destroyed or, like the White-Gold Tower in Cyrodiil, made dysfunctional. Compounded with the waning liminal barrier that separates us from Oblivion itself, we have a recipe for disaster. Whatever is happening in Raven Spring could spell a catastrophe unseen since the beginning of our times.”
“Good gods,” Kalaman gasped. “Rumaril was right. He told me he didn’t know what was stirring but that it felt enormously powerful.”
“And we’ve seen working Oblivion gates here in the Reach,” Ulkarin muttered. “Damn, this is bad.”
“Should worse come to worst, we’ve a strategy to prevent complete chaos descending onto this Kingdom. Knowledge from the Oblivion Crisis has been instilled in every Priest’s mind, in case it may ever transpire again.”
Kalaman shook his head. “Let us hope that will suffice.”
Harald had been struggling to follow the complexities of the discussion, but thought he understood well enough. “Is there anything else I should know?” And furthermore, what exactly do you want me to do?
“Horustair – Sigmayne’s personal knight – was seen departing for Raven Spring with his retinue. They’ll be convening with Merosa before ousting Mortifayne from his throne.”
“So it’s really come to that,” Harald murmured. “And you want us to attend as, what, witnesses?” Again? These people seem to put a great deal of trust in the influence of outsiders.
The Arch-Bishop nodded. “Yes. Your presence may halt tensions from boiling over. Fare well, and please hurry.”
Harald turned to his companions. “Well, you heard the man. I guess we’d better get moving.”
“Yes, sir,” Ulkarin said, grinning.
Harald chuckled as he headed for the door. “Don’t make me hurt you, Tiny.”
The light had nearly disappeared by the time they made it to the walls of Arnima. As they rounded its walls toward the main gate Harald groaned. Merosa wasn’t merely going to accost Mortifayne verbally – she’d brought a catapult.
How to raise tensions even further, in one easy lesson. So much for diplomacy.
Beyond the catapult was an assembly of people, among whom was one of the tallest men Harald had yet seen in the Reach. It had to be the king’s knight, Horustair. Armed with a sword but still in her court clothing, Merosa stood next to him; facing them was Matthew, Priest of the Nine, flanked by two guards. Harald slowed to a stop between the two groups and held his breath.
“It’s time, Priest,” Merosa said calmly. “I hope Mortifayne has prepared for a life with the beggars. Sigmayne and the council have made it clear, Mortifayne can not rule. The putrid man has the gall to ignore the will of the King?! Where is he, Priest?” She practically growled the last few words. Harald was astonished. It was the first time he’d heard anything aside from tones of bored indifference from her.
Matthew, to his credit, didn’t look any happier to be there than anyone else, but he nodded politely. “Pardon our lord. There was a last minute detail within the manor. He’ll be with us shortly.”
As if on cue, the city gate creaked open and Mortifayne strode out, his every motion and expression belligerent. When he spoke, Harald had to fight to suppress a groan.
“The Hag rears her head at last! So you finally had your way with the King?! Why do you persist in harassing me, vulture?”
The man is mad. Or his mind is being controlled by Namira. Or both.
Merosa sneered. “Horustair here will see to your death if you try anything brash, little ‘lord.'” As if to underline her words, Horustair raised his warhammer and balanced it on his shoulder, at the ready. “You have stained the Kingdom of Evermore with your ill acts. Your capturing of trade goods and intimidation of merchants have brought ruin to your town and The Reach. Your rights as royalty are now forfeit.”
To Harald’s astonishment, Mortifayne laughed, raised his hands, and began — applauding. “Ha, the audacity!” the man cackled, his eyes glittering. “You can place a new ass on that seat tomorrow, but the town itself belongs to no man now. Sigmayne and the rest of The Reach now belong to Her.”
Kalaman gasped audibly. Harald glanced at him, knowing with a certainty that their suspicions about Namira had just been confirmed.
Matthew, Priest of the Nine, took a deep breath and turned just slightly toward Mortifayne. “To whom, my lord?”
Before he could answer, Merosa tsk’d and turned to Horustair. “This mad man has rambled long enough. Arrest him and bring him to trial in Evermore. My stomach reels at the sight of him.”
Mortifayne snorted. “All your stomachs will reel when you see the Lady, I assure you! I showed mercy upon you insects. I relented when the Lady demanded this town. But I see the rats have bit the hand that feeds. You will be the first to taste her domain, whore!”
Kalaman shouted “No!” as Mortifayne’s hand curled up and a red light appeared within its cup. For Harald, time seemed to slow as though he’d used his Shout. Mortifayne extended his arm and opened his palm. The red energy he’d held flew forward. Horustair staggered, dropping his battleaxe below his shoulders as he fought for balance.
And Merosa’s head flew forward, landing on the cobblestones before her as her body took a long moment to realize it was dead and follow its owner to to ground.
Horustair was the first to react. “Bastard! Don’t let him run!” he cried, taking off after the noble-turned-murderer. Everyone followed him, piling through the gates and running toward the palace.
Until they came to a stop at the foot of the final stairs. And there, standing with arms at the ready like another wall, were Mek and Sek. Harald’s mouth dropped open. Mek and Sek, who had fought beside them against the Redguards, were blocking their way to Mortifayne.
“We have no time for this!” Horustair said. “You’re just delaying the inevitable.”
“Shut it, prick,” the brother on the left said. “The Lord has done us good, runts to kill every day and hills of gold. Can’t say the same for the King.”
“But…” Harald started, before Ulkarin grabbed him roughly by the shoulder, shaking his head no.
But he killed Merosa! Just took her head off!
A figure ran through their ranks and up the stairs past both Mek and Sek before turning to face Horustair, Harald, and the others.
Jackos! You’re against us, too?
“Now if you want his neck, then we got a problem,” the brother continued. “And the only way I see an end to that problem is you mucking off in a coffin or through that gate.”
“Sek! Stand aside!” Horustair demanded. “Do you want this town to become a gauntlet for that insane lord?”
Neither Sek nor Mek had a chance to respond, for just as Horustair challenged them there was a collective gasp – not just from Harald’s side but from all the townsfolk in the area as well. The priest looked up and cried out.
“Nine lock my heart…. the skies!”
Harald looked up to see a green, writhing cloud hovering just above the palace. The sky, already darkened by twilight, turned a dusky red.
“What abyssal sorcery is this?” Horustair yelled.
And then the world went mad. There was a flash of red in front of the palace doors, beneath the cloud, and from it dropped a large form, indeterminate in the dark. Harald heard the kind of howl he remembered from the Gorgon they’d fought in the northern valley.
“What’s that? I see you, scum!”
Harald whirled, to see Horustair taking aim on a flying, skeletal beast with a bloodied skull at its front. Kalaman shouted “Come on! Come on!” It was as feral a sound as Harald had ever heard, and it startled him to hear it from the Archmage. He heard Ulkarin’s quiet but fierce “scream for me” followed by the sound of his axe striking bone.
More bizarre sounds to the north caught Harald’s attention. Above the city, stretching up to the skies and down to the ground, was something he didn’t recognize at all – massive, transparent, and foreboding, wider at its midsection and tapering at both top and bottom. He whirled back to check on everyone else and discovered that what he’d seen falling from the red magic was, in fact, a Gorgon. It, and all of the smaller beasts like it, flew about the courtyard with shrill noise that burned pathways through his skull.
Harald was practically immobilized by the overwhelming noise around him. He heard cries: “I see you, monster!” “What kind of evil are you?” “Wrong move!” but he couldn’t tell who was screaming what, and he couldn’t seem to move quickly enough to land a blow on the Gorgon or its smaller cousins. He tried, darting from place to place only to arrive just a moment too late, as if it was some kind of vivid nightmare from which he couldn’t awaken. Just as he was about to scream, hoping that he was only asleep and he might shake himself free, there was a firm grasp on his shoulder and Matthew, Priest of the Nine, leaned close to his ear.
“I think a portal just opened in the center of town!” he cried, pointing toward the lower end of the strange structure hovering in the city’s center. “Maybe you can use that to get to the other side! You must destroy the sigil stone! At all costs, destroy the sigil stone!”
Harald didn’t wait. He ran. As he crossed the bridge toward the training yard there was a low rumble, and huge chartreuse pods enmeshed in sickly green vines rose from the earth. Another of the small creatures opened its maw and spewed red at the soldiers there. Still, Harald ran. Beyond the creature he could see something he recognized – short, squat, with boiling red magic in its center. An Oblivion gate.
The Arch-Bishop told us that the priests know what to do if the barrier between Nirn and Oblivion broke. Matthew told me to go through the portal and destroy the sigil stone. So here I go.
He heard teeth snapping behind him, and a roar followed by a spray of red – whether magic or poison he didn’t know. He simply leapt forward and threw himself into the portal.
Everything went black.
He heard, before he saw. Kalaman Jorus yelled “Oh, no you don’t!”
He opened his eyes and gasped, half in relief that there was a familiar face there before him and half in dismay at their surroundings. The place was desolate: there was lush grass on the steep hillside next to them, but all the trees were dead. Kalaman stood in a shallow pool of red liquid, whether blood or water reflecting the red glow of the skies, he didn’t know. It didn’t matter: he scrambled onto the nearest patch of dry land he could find and turned back to the Archmage.
“Kalaman! Thank the gods you’re here. I thought I was losing my mind!” He paused for a moment and frowned. “Or maybe I have, and you’re not real.”
“Oh, I’m quite real, Harald,” the Altmer said. “I was following you, trying to remove one of those creatures that was right behind you, and the next thing I knew I was here. I believe that portal simply took anyone in the area.” He picked his way toward Harald with a look of sublime disgust. “These robes will never be the same again, I fear. I have no magic that will remove this taint from them.”
Harald found himself grinning. There was something reassuring about hearing a companion complain about dirty clothes even in such a dire situation. His grin faded, though, as he looked around.
“Where… do you suppose we are?” he asked.
Kalaman peered around, then sighed. “Given our recent revelations I would hazard a guess that we are in the Scuttling Void – Namira’s plane of Oblivion.”
Harald shuddered. “Shor’s bones. And I thought Subject Realm 137 was creepy. I wonder who else might have made it through? And… Ulkarin? Is he… did you see him…” He couldn’t quite bring himself to utter the notion that his friend Tiny might not have made it through the battle.
“I’m sorry, Harald. I didn’t see him. As to others? It’s hard to say, but we should search,” Kalaman said. “I was told that we must destroy a Sigil Stone. I’d wager that we won’t return to Tamriel unless we do.”
Harald gasped and turned from side to side, looking frantically for the portal that would take him home again: home to Mother and Father, Dardeh and Roggi, Chip and Qara. Kalaman was right; there was no such thing. “Well,” he said at last, fighting down the moment of panic, “I think you’re right. Let’s search. Uphill, perhaps?”
“Lead on.”
Harald started uphill, through the dim, reddish-hued, foggy light. He gasped once again when he realized that it wasn’t dead tree trunks he was walking beneath, but rather a huge bone effigy, much like those near the Witchmen encampments but more sinister, holding a gigantic skull up to the skies. “Delightful,” Kalaman murmured as they passed beneath it and made for a pathway leading into the hills.
The skittering sound caught his attention before the motion did: an enormous red not-spider dropped down onto the path in front of him. He saw another on the hillside a good bit ahead.
“Spider!” Kalaman shrieked, simultaneously conjuring a flame atronach. “Come on!”
The creature attacked with a gigantic forward leap. The atronach, of course, merely swiveled in place and hurled a fireball at the spider – a Daedric shrug, Harald thought as he dashed forward to attack with his sword. He got lucky, piercing downward into the creature’s brain just as Kalaman struck home with another fireball. The atronach exploded, sealing the spider’s fate.
The “trail” became progressively less trail-like the farther up it they scrambled, until they decided to go back and search in the opposite direction. There were two decrepit, rotting wooden towers just beyond where they’d arrived; as he passed them Harald heard a woman crying.
“Where are you?” he called, intending to help whoever was there. Instead of a verbal response, though, he was met by a ruddy-skinned, shuffling creature like those he and Ulkarin had seen in the mines. It spewed green poison at him, but because he’d seen it coming he dodged easily, and another firebolt from Kalaman downed it. There were three of them in all, and each of them fell in turn; yet the sounds of loud weeping persisted.
“I hear it too,” Kalaman said. “It’s not real; it is there to lure us into a trap. It’s likely a part of the very stones in this area. Let us keep moving. There must be others here.”
They crossed a decrepit bridge over a shallow but swift-running creek, and continued along the side of the hill past another series of crumbling watchtowers. The weeping was louder here, and even worse was the sound of a dragon – or another Gorgon – faint but growing louder by the moment. Farther up the hill, the spider Harald had seen earlier – and its companion – dropped into their path. These were smaller, and easier to slay, but still put shudders down Harald’s back. Still, Kalaman said “well done!” when the second was dead, and that made Harald feel better.
Harald heard water ahead, and saw another bridge. As they rounded the corner to pass between the wooden panels serving as rails on either side of the bridge, Harald gasped. There, standing at the bridge’s highest point, was a familiar form.
“Jackos,” he said, slowing to approach the man. He didn’t know whether he was relieved to see another human from Arnima, or appalled that it was Jackos and not Horustair.
This man ran past us to join Mortifayne’s people. I can’t trust him.
I suppose he’s never been one to trust, not from the very first moment. And yet, somehow, I have until now.
Jackos nodded. “I know it looks grim – and by the gods I’m terrified too – but we have to follow what the priests taught us.”
“They spoke to you as well?”
“Yes, and I wish I remembered everything. We have to find the others, and then we find that stone. Keep close. This is gonna get rough.”
With that, Jackos drew his sword, turned, and darted across the bridge, heading for the nearest thing to a trail in the vicinity. Harald hesitated, annoyed. Until that moment, he’d been the one to lead. The others had followed him, whether it had been a single companion or a group. Only Jackos had treated him like a mere boy.
I am just a boy. Who am I kidding?
“We should keep up with him, sire,” Kalaman said calmly, crossing the bridge to stand beside him. “I don’t know that I trust him either,” he added to Harald’s relief, “but he is, after all, going to draw the fire and spring the traps. That may sound callous, but there is much to be said for having a fire mage and a warrior with the Voice free to battle without fear of surprises.”
Harald gave Kalaman a curious look. Sire. He just called me Sire.
“Sire is one of my father’s titles, Archmage,” he answered with a grin. “I’m just ‘hey you.’ But thank you. You have a very good point. I feel better now.” And with that, he took off after Jackos.
Kalaman had been right. As they rounded another curve, Jackos drew the attention of no fewer than four of the zombies – their skin red beyond red in the ruddy light, their poison as virulent as that of the Witchmen. “We have hostiles!” Jackos yelled, though it was obvious to all of them; they worked together to put all four of the creatures down, and neither Harald nor Kalaman took any damage at all.
“Now that’s how it’s done,” Kalaman said once the final zombie fell.
The trail led into a valley between steep cliffs. At the narrowest part, a stone bridge spanned the higher levels. Arched below and with windowed walls above, it was a surprising edifice to find in this place of rotting, leaning wooden towers and decrepit footbridges. Harald slowed a bit and then realized that the arch was of red vines, not of stone, and that Jackos was running directly beneath it.
“Don’t lose track of me,” the man called back. “This isn’t a place you want to get lost in.”
For some reason, that set Harald’s ire alight again. And you would know that how, Jackos? How many times have you been here before? None, I imagine. And what was I doing before I. Found YOU? I was leading. Through this unfamiliar, dangerous place.
He shuddered, nonetheless, as he passed the slimy roots, and heaved an enormous sigh. It was pointless of him to be angry with Jackos. Jackos was a soldier. He was used to commanding, and he was used to having his commands obeyed.
It doesn’t hurt anything for me to follow. Now that I think of it, I might even learn something by watching him. It’s not as though I’ve been in any actual battles with Dardeh and Roggi.
Another gigantic spider dropped down from the vines directly into Jackos’ path. The soldier sighed, and began slicing away at it with his sword. “Cleaning the filth,” he remarked – calmly, Harald thought, for a man who was within a fang’s distance of a grisly death.
Past the stone structure, the trail dropped to where a much more substantial river crossed in front of them. There was a series of large wooden platforms crossing it, though how sturdy they were was hard to tell. Above them, the Gorgon criss-crossed the skies, roaring incessantly.
“Don’t attack it unless it attacks first,” Jackos said, gesturing toward the skies and then leading the way across the “bridge.” The wood was covered with a slippery mix of moss, lichen, and some form of algae; Harald didn’t want to lose his footing because he absolutely didn’t want to touch it.
Suddenly, Jackos yelled “Outed yourself!” and broke into a full run across the second half of the bridge. Almost simultaneously, there was an explosion of red magic beyond the wooden structure, and a familiar voice shouted “time to taste metal!”
“Rados!” Harald yelped, dashing forward to meet them.
It was an impressive sight. Rados and Jackos were fighting another of the bloody effigies, this one standing upright, alternating the sweep of its claws with spewing red venom. Rados, though, was surrounded by a sphere of glowing magical energies. Here in the semi-darkness it was easier to see why the priest had wanted the presence of the one man who could activate the power of the specialized armor Mados had once worn. Sputtering curses as he went, Rados sliced into the spider until it was down.
Jackos said the most animated thing Harald had yet heard from him. “It’s Rados, thank The Divines! Now we stand a better chance.”
Rados spat. “I never asked to be a part of this, Jack. What dungpit have we landed in?”
Jackos shook his head. “We can’t talk now, lest we provoke the ire of that beast above. Keep moving until we can find the Priest.”
Oh please, by Shor, let the Priest be here somewhere. That’s a person I trust.
“You’re the boss,” Rados said. Then he moved past Harald, stopping to stare at him for a moment. “Who are you ogling?”
Kalaman, standing well out of their way, sent Harald a sly wink. “He doesn’t ‘ogle,'” he told the big man, earning a disparaging snort from Rados.
The path forward was revolting. The water, though shallow, bubbled and roiled in places and there was no help for it but to wade through. Harald was beginning to think that his armor would never be the same, as well as Kalaman’s robes.
Jackos called back to them. “Keep vigilant, we’re bound to be set upon soon.”
And they were. As they traveled, for what seemed an interminable span of time, their surroundings grew ever stranger. It was as though every grisly effigy the Witchmen had imagined had grown to twice its size, twice as bloody, twice as gruesome. More of the flying creatures Jackos called “flachets” rose unexpectedly from the waters. More of the zombies appeared, to spew bright green venom as their group tried to navigate narrow ledges above putrid waters. Even more bizarre were the chunks of stone and balls of roots and vines seemingly suspended in midair. The entire place was like a fever dream, Harald thought, and he wanted out. Just when he thought he might go mad, Jackos called out again.
“Priest!”
There was Matthew, Priest of the Nine, mostly hidden in deep shadows next to the cliff face. “Gods’ graces!” he said. “You made it!” He wiped a sleeve across his forehead and took a deep breath. “Let me get a hold of myself. I must recall how to deal with our situation.” Even beneath his priest’s cap his brow furrowed deeply. “Blast it, the drill for this was so long ago. Martin’s sacrifice made us too comfortable, made us unprepared… Hmm, the tower! At the top of this mountain, if we reach it then we can end this. All other paths are closed off for us, we must climb.”
“We’ll have to try, or else our being here will be for nothing,” Jackos agreed, turning then to Harald. “And you, try to find and bring back any other lost men who came through the rift. All the men we can get to reach that stone.”
Harald bristled again. ‘And you,’ indeed. I’ll remember this when…
His thoughts screeched to a halt as he saw Kalaman Jorus, Archmage of the College of Winterhold, who returned his gaze with a slightly amused smirk. Harald looked around at the group. There they were: Matthew, the Priest of the Nine in Arnima and here serving as the source of wisdom in spite of their precarious situation. Rados, descendant of one Mados the Great, revered by all in the former Raven Spring – and the only living being capable of using Mados’ enchanted ebony armor. Jackos, captain of the troops in Arnima, in charge of the city’s defense and liaison with the capital’s forces and the Imperial Legion’s outpost.
And here am I. Harald Stormcloak, with no particular status other than being a pale reflection of a great man in Skyrim. Perhaps I should keep my ego to myself until I’ve earned something more. After all, I did just finish telling Kalaman that I was ‘hey you.’
He grinned back at the tall mage with the silvery hair. “Shall we go?”
“Indeed.”