Harald stepped out from Understone Keep into the night and yawned. It seemed ages since he’d arrived in Markarth, since he’d witnessed a murder; but it had only been a few hours. He’d met important people, including Calcelmo. He’d gotten his first look inside a real Dwemer ruin. And he’d learned more about his father’s history with this area, and heard people’s divided opinions about that history.
The moons were full. Masser positively loomed over the city, Secunda following along behind like an obedient hound.
He asked me to meet him at midnight. I think it must be close.
He could easily have tossed a rock from the entrance of Understone Keep to the passage leading past the shrine of Talos. He couldn’t fly through the air like a thrown rock, though; and it took him several minutes to find a path that bridged across the city’s rapid streams and led to stairs up to the shrines.
Hope I’m not late, now…
Not only the time, but the location made him fairly sure that this meeting was related to the murder. Talos worship was solid and widespread in the east, but here in the western fringes of the Reach, not so much. There wouldn’t be much traffic here at midnight.
From the doorway a ramp led down to a statue of Talos, inside a circular niche with Dwemer pillars around the edges – an unlikely but oddly satisfying mix of stonework. The place seemed empty. He reached the bottom of the shrine and circled around it to the right, checking the corners and the shadowed benches along the walls for signs of life, and admiring the stonework and its metallic embellishments. He yawned again, passing the far side of the room and starting back toward the front.
“Sorry to drag you into Markarth’s problems,” a voice just to his left said.
Harald jumped backward, his heart pounding. The man who’d given him the note was leaning up against the column closest to Harald.
“By Shor’s holy bones, man, you just about scared me to death!” he yelped, his heart pounding.
The man chuckled.
“Sorry to startle you. I’m used to sneaking around in this city, for safety. They’re always watching me. Think I’m Forsworn. I’m Eltrys.”
Harald took a deep breath to calm himself, and chuckled. “Greetings, Eltrys. I’m Harald. So what did you want to see me about, in the middle of the night?”
“After that attack in the market, I’m running out of time,” the man said. “You’re an outsider. You’re dangerous-looking. You’ll do.”
That “you’ll do” would have rubbed Harald the wrong way, ordinarily. But there was something perversely satisfying to him that he might be considered “dangerous-looking.” Most people had always treated him like some sort of fragile objet d’art because he was the prince.
“I’ll do – for what?” he asked, grinning in spite of himself.
Eltrys grimaced. “You want answers? So do I. So does everyone in this city. A man goes crazy in the market. Everyone knows he’s a Forsworn agent. The guards do nothing. Nothing but clean up the mess.”
Harald nodded. “So you’re hoping I’ll help find out what’s behind this, is that right?”
“Yes. This has been going on for years. Decades, even. It’s been quiet for awhile now, but… I’ve been looking for answers and all I’ve been able to find is murder and blood. I need help. Please. You help me find out why that woman was attacked, who’s behind Weylin and the Forsworn, and I’ll pay you for any information you bring me.”
Harald barely hesitated. His father had been involved with the Forsworn and their uprising, decades earlier. This might be one of the best chances he would get to dig up the truth about the matter for himself, as well as to help Eltrys.
“OK. Who was Weylin? Is that the murderer?”
“Yeah, that’s him. He was one of the smelter workers. I used to have a job down there myself, casting silver ingots. That’s how I know him. Knew him, I guess. I never knew much about Weylin personally except that he lived in the Warrens, like all the other workers. That’s behind the Dwemer doors across from the smelter.”
Harald nodded. “Tell me about the Forsworn. I’m, uh…” he hesitated, not knowing how much about himself it was safe to share, but wanting to learn everything he could. “I’m from Windhelm, so we don’t exactly have first-hand witnesses.”
Eltrys nodded. “They’re the remnants of the old rulers of Markarth. Natives of the Reach. Followers of the old ways. The Nords drove them out of the city. Ulfric Stormcloak and his men. That was, oh, close to forty years ago now, but somehow they’re still here; and people just don’t forget, especially not the old-timer Forsworn. They’re killing people. Again.”
Harald was glad Eltrys couldn’t see him flushing when his father was mentioned. “What about the woman who was killed? What do you know?”
“Her name is Margret and she’s not from Markarth; she was an outsider, for certain. Visitors to the city usually stay at the Silver-Blood Inn, so that might be the place to check for dirt about her.”
Harald nodded. “Good. That’s two things I can start with. I assume you’ve been looking into these murders yourself?”
Eltrys sighed. “Oh yes. It all started when I was a boy. My father owned one of the mines. Rare, for someone who isn’t a Nord. No offense – it’s obvious you’re a Nord.”
Harald chuckled. “You could say that.”
“Well,” Eltrys continued, “he was killed. Guards said it was just a madman, but everyone knew it was a member of the Forsworn. I’ve been trying to find out why ever since. Gotten nowhere so far. And then I got married. Got a child of my own on the way. I swore I was going to give up, for my child’s sake, but it’s just … like my father’s ghost is haunting me, asking me why!”
Gods. I can understand that feeling, and my father isn’t even dead yet.
Harald grimaced. It wouldn’t be all that long, very likely, before his own father was gone, and then it would be his ghost haunting Harald.
“I’m sorry. I have reasons for wanting to get to the bottom of this as well, but they’re not nearly as important as your reasons. I’ll help however I can.”
“Thanks, Harald,” Eltrys said. “Let me know as soon as you’ve found anything. I thought the killings were done, but they’re not, and we need to stop them.”
“Let me get started, in that case.” Harald turned to leave the shrine, more awake now than when he entered.
A mystery! A dangerous mystery, even, and something that may give me some of the answers I’m looking for, as well.
He worked his way down toward the base of the city, trying to decide where to start. The market square was quiet aside from a patrolling guard, and one of the night ladies. Harald couldn’t see the moving lights of guards’ torches anywhere near the smelter. He decided to head that way first, to see whether he could learn anything useful in the Warrens.
“Need something?” a sultry voice asked.
Harald whirled to look. She was quite beautiful, with honey-blonde hair done up in various curls and braids that he found fascinating. Oh yes. He could definitely be convinced that he needed something. But he smiled and shook his head.
“Thank you, but I have to go help someone out. Another time, maybe.”
“Ok, honey. Just keep me in mind,” she said, turning back uphill toward the keep. Harald stared after her for a second before he was able to shake himself back into motion and continue toward his destination.
Which was… what? Oh yes. The Warrens.
Focus, Harald. Focus.
He reached the lifeblood of Markarth: the silver mine. Just outside it was the smelter where, according to Eltrys, the late Weylin had worked. The noisy stream pouring down from the mountains containing the silver flowed past the smelter and under boardwalks. With the heat from the smelter and the forge just uphill, there was a riot of fungi, flowers, and moss growing on every surface. And across one of the boardwalks Harald spotted a stylized face carved into the stone: a Dwemer carving, mostly covered with moss, next to a metal door. Neither looked well maintained at all.
Just the kind of place you might want to stow your culturally-unacceptable people.
He grimaced, recognizing how sad it was that he even knew about housing for the culturally-unacceptable. But that was part of why he was here: to find out more about his father and whether the nasty things that were said about him were true.
The Warrens were more or less what he’d expected. Piles of rubble were everywhere, the excavation having never been finished. Only a couple of pitiful fires on the floor kept the place from being completely dark. Dwemer-metal doors spaced along each side of the hall reflected back what little light there was. He was grateful that he could see the few figures moving about; it would be far too easy to get mugged in a place like this. Not even the familiar odor of wood smoke could disguise the overpowering stench of mold, and unwashed people, and neglect.
A man in ragged clothing leaned up against a pillar near the entrance. He gave Harald a frown as he approached.
“The Warrens isn’t a place for your type,” he said sourly.
“My type? What is that?” Harald asked.
“Well dressed. Armored. Clean. Whaddya want?”
“Sorry,” Harald said. “I meant no offense. Did you know Weylin?”
The man grimaced. “Oh yes. I know everyone who sleeps in the Warrens. I’m kinda the one who passes the keys around. I guess someone else will be taking his room now.”
“So what is this place?”
“It’s where you go when you can’t afford a room anywhere else,” the man said. “About the time they opened the mines, someone got the bright idea to throw a few beds in here. Keeps people alive enough that they can still hammer rock or shovel coal into the smelter, so the Silver-Bloods make their coin.”
Harald nodded. He’d seen people in Windhelm living under constructions that barely deserved the name “roofs,” perched on rickety underpinnings above the streets of the Gray Quarter. Even the Dunmer, in buildings that should long since have been torn down and rebuilt, had it better than those folks. This place smelled worse because it was closed in, but there were solid roofs and it was warm. Still, he didn’t know which set of awful conditions would produce that familiar look of hopeless anger more quickly.
“Listen, I need the key to Weylin’s room.” He didn’t dare say why; mentioning Eltrys might get him a reaction he didn’t want.
“Sorry,” the man told him. “But you don’t exactly belong here.”
That comment put Harald’s teeth on edge. “Yeah. You made that clear already. But let’s get this straight – I wasn’t asking.”
He knew the tone of voice to use to get results; he’d heard his father use it hundreds of times. He could do a decent-enough impression of power. It worked, too; the man with the keys looked startled for a moment and then narrowed his eyes again.
“Now, don’t get all upset! Here, take it!” He rummaged in a grimy pocket and handed Harald a piece of metal. “It’s down at the end.”
Harald nodded and started down the hall. He had to fight to keep from looking behind, waiting as he was for a blade to come through his armor and into his back. A shudder ran up his spine anyway as he passed a mound of skeletons, not-quite-covered with soil. That was where the stench was coming from, to be sure. Not too far past the bones, a woman sat coughing, huddled in a pile of dirt. She wasn’t even making the effort to get near one of the fires for comfort’s sake. She looked up at him as he passed and shook her head.
“You don’t want to be here. Nobody wants to.”
“I’m sorry,” Harald murmured, not really knowing what else to say or do.
He continued picking his way through and over the piles of rubble, down the long hallway. He tried the key in both doors at the end; the one on the right clicked open.
It wasn’t quite the most depressing sight Harald had laid eyes on but it was certainly close. There was one chair, and one table holding a moldy piece of bread, a slice of cheese, and a pickaxe; but the “bed” was a pile of hay with a fur tossed over it, and none too fresh-smelling, at that. Harald stared at the unremitting bleakness of the room and thought of his own warm, cozily-furnished cabin. His eyes began to sting.
It’s not right that I should have so much and these people should have so little. It’s just not right.
But what can I do?
He caught a shuddering breath and looked around again, finally spotting the chest against one wall. Peeking inside he saw a horse hide, a few septims, a piece of charcoal and a note, which he removed to look at.
“Weylin,” it read, “You’ve been chosen to strike fear in the heart of the Nords. Go to the market tomorrow. You will know what to do. – N.”
“Ok, so he was acting under orders,” Harald murmured to himself. “But who’s N?” He pocketed the note and turned to leave. He wasn’t sorry that Weylin was dead; the man had committed a murder at someone else’s direction, and he had gotten what he’d deserved. But living like this? It wasn’t something anyone truly deserved.
He walked past the coughing woman on the floor, back to the man near the door and handed him the key and a large handful of septims. “Thanks,” he said. “Sorry about before. See if you can get her something for that cough.” Without waiting for a response, he pushed his way out into the fresh air, and gratefully took a big gulp of it.
There was a Nord blocking his path – a big guy with chestnut hair shaved on the sides, dressed in leather armor. He sneered.
“You been diggin’ around where you don’t belong,” he growled. “It’s time you learned a lesson.”
“Is that so?” Harald replied, sounding a whole lot more self-assured than he felt. “Who sent you, exactly?”
“Someone who doesn’t like you askin’ questions,” the Nord growled, raising his fists. “Come on! Let’s see what you’re made of!”
Harald stood there for a moment, startled, long enough for the other guy to land a solid punch on his jaw. Then, recovering his wits, he raised his own fists and tried not to laugh. His father had insisted, over the years, that Harald learn how to defend himself; and he’d sparred with Roggi and some of his father’s other advisors. He wasn’t an expert fist-fighter, by any stretch, but he could hold his own.
And I’m wearing heavy armored gauntlets. This guy is a fool.
Harald took a few hits that were going to leave nasty bruises. But he was younger and quite a lot quicker on his feet than the lumbering brute who was trying to intimidate him. It wasn’t much of a fight, truthfully. Harald kept landing one heavy-gloved fist after another. He laughed when a woman standing nearby yelled “who taught you to fight?” just seconds before he drove the Nord to his knees.
“Ugh, you mangy piece of pit-bait!” the man growled as he struggled to catch his breath and rise to his feet.
Harald grinned. “Thanks. Now are you going to tell me who sent you, or am I going to finish the job and send you to the gods?”
As though I would really do that. But he doesn’t know that about me. I didn’t grow up around Chip and his family for nothing.
“I was sent by Nepos the Nose,” the Nord answered instantly. Harald thought he saw a bit of real panic in the eyes darting back and forth in the fellow’s well-bloodied face. One of those eyes was already swelling and starting to turn blue. “The old man hands out the orders.”
“You’ve been most helpful,” Harald said cheerfully, walking back across the footbridge and up toward the forge. Once he was safely away from the thug, he pulled off one gauntlet and checked his jaw, gingerly. It didn’t seem to be bleeding, and it definitely wasn’t broken, but it was going to hurt.
Guy was really a good fighter. He just wasn’t expecting to be up against someone who’s been trained by the High King’s own staff.
The fatigue was beginning to creep up on him again. On the way in, he’d seen a small bed tucked into a corner of Markarth’s exterior wall, and figured he might use it. But it was still the dead of night; this might be an excellent time to sniff around inside the inn with the fewest people looking on.
It was dead quiet inside, with only a lone man in rags sitting at the bar. Harald moved around the place, peeking into the rooms, their tidiness a stark contrast to the rooms in the Warrens. The innkeeper and his wife were fast asleep; so was a younger man in the room at the far side of the inn. Harald passed by an open door and stared at the bed, a simple slab of stone. He didn’t want to wake the innkeeper, either to ask questions or to rent that unaccommodating bed.
Up a few stairs at the end of the hall, though, was another door, this one locked. Harald chewed the inside of his lip for a moment. This has to be the room Margret was in. And I need to find out about her. It’s not really right of me to pick this lock, but under the circumstances…
He looked behind him to make sure the beggar at the bar wasn’t watching, then knelt down and picked the lock. It was another occasion to be grateful for the years he’d spent with Chip and Qara. She, in particular, was especially talented with locks, and had been eager to insist that Harald learn what he could about them, too. He smiled to himself as he worked the tumblers, listening to their sounds. Qara was a good friend, and a sweet girl, and maybe even a little more than that; but she was opinionated and stubborn in a way only his mother could equal. Maybe that’s why we get along so well. Who knows?
The lock clicked open, and he slipped into the room. This space was well-appointed, with snacks and drinks on the tables and a comfortable-looking spread on the bed. He glanced at the sacks and satchels and then moved to the bedstand. The single drawer held a variety of small items; but most interesting was a journal, which he pulled out to read.
Thonar Silver Blood made all the decisions, working from the Treasury House, she had written.
The Jarl’s brother? And why…
He had his answer when he turned the page. Margret had been in Markarth at the direction of the Imperial general, just over the border in Bruma County, and was trying to obtain the deed to Cidhna Mine, the mine here in Markarth.
Harald ground his teeth. It didn’t seem to matter how many years passed, the Imperials were determined to regain control of Skyrim. Ulfric had explained it to him, many times: they had a precarious and tentative relationship with the Empire, based primarily on trade; but they governed themselves and worshipped as they chose. The Empire, still groaning under the yoke of the Aldmeri Dominion, couldn’t seem to deal with that notion. Ulfric had continued warning anyone who would listen that they needed to work together against the Thalmor; but if this journal was correct, it would seem that his words continued to fall on deaf ears.
So I have one group that hates Father and what he did because he’s Nord, and they hate the Nords owning everything. The other group enjoys owning everything, but hates Father because he wants to use the wealth from mining to prepare for the future; and therefore he stands in the way of their short-term gain. And people on both sides are operating to kill people on the other side.
He took the journal. He wasn’t fond of stealing things, but this was important information to share with Eltrys. What he needed to do next, though, was get some sleep, so that maybe his mind could make sense of this all.
There were a few more people at the bar when he shut the door behind him, all yawning and breaking their fast quietly. He managed to slip through them without too much fanfare, and assumed he hadn’t been noticed. But when he emerged into the dim morning, there was a guard blocking his way.
“You. I’ve seen you sniffing around. Asking questions.”
The alarming thing about this, to Harald, was that this city guard – like all of the other city guards in Skyrim – was dressed in Stormcloak blue. This was one of his father’s men, accosting him for being curious.
“And it’s a problem to ask questions?” he said, struggling to keep his voice even and not defensive.
“Back. Off. You don’t want to know what happens to troublemakers here,” the guard answered.
And you don’t want to know what happens to people in my father’s dungeons, Harald thought, fighting to keep his composure.
“I’m not trying to cause any trouble,” he said instead.
“Well you’re finding it,” the soldier told him.
“Do you know who I am?” Harald said as his anger rose. Then he instantly regretted it. The guard sneered.
“I don’t care if you’re the Emperor from the Imperial City,” the guard responded. “This is your last warning, outsider. We keep the peace, here. Stay out of our business.”
Harald frowned at the soldier’s back as he headed for the gate. Just the fact that he was being warned away from the issue told him there was a need to investigate it further. But at that moment he was too tired to do anything but follow the guard out through the gate, and then find the bed he’d spotted earlier, fall onto it, and sleep like a stone for several hours.
He woke again in mid-afternoon. He’d go back to the temple at midnight, but in the meantime he decided to look for Nepos the Nose. It seemed logical to him that a person important enough to be quietly giving orders would be important enough to live on the upper levels of Markarth, where the keep was. He wound his way up to the heights, and stopped a passing citizen.
“Do you know where Nepos’ house is?”
The man laughed. “Right behind you.”
Harald turned and glanced at the door, then chuckled and looked at the citizen again. “Thanks. You’ve saved me a lot of time.”
He stepped into an entry foyer, with a short flight of steps at the end. A young woman stood there barring his passage.
“Excuse me. What’s your business here?” she snapped.
Harald thought about simply saying he was there to see Nepos, but instead frowned and asked, “Who are you?”
“If you must know, I’m the maid. And the master of the house is old and needs his rest. So if you don’t have any business, leave.”
Harald peered at her. Yes, she was wearing a maid’s apron, but the way it hung on her left side told him there was at the very least a dagger under it. Behind her two men were moving around, one with a broom and the other with a rag in his hand, both trying their best to look like servants cleaning the home. He didn’t buy it for a moment.
I’ll need to be on my toes with these people.
He opened his mouth to start explaining why he should be let through, but an old man spoke from within the home, out of Harald’s line of sight.
“Wait. It’s ok, my dear. Let him in.” He sounded tired, and maybe a bit resigned.
Harald started up the steps, passing the girl. “Hmph,” she said. “Yes, Nepos.” He looked back at her and saw that she’d moved her apron clear of the dagger’s handle.
This is more dangerous than I thought.
It was immediately obvious why Nepos was called “the Nose.” The old man seated before the fire had one of the largest noses Harald had ever seen: long, narrow, and hooked downward at its tip like a falcon’s beak. He was reading a book and didn’t look up as Harald approached.
“I’m sorry about my housekeeper,” Nepos said. “She’s a little protective of me. Now, what is it you want?”
Harald decided to be direct. “Your housekeeper isn’t the problem. She’s just doing her job. But you sent a thug after me to beat me up. I want to know why.”
“Yes, and you made him look foolish, didn’t you? Well done. And you’ve proven to be a real bloodhound. Well, you’ve sniffed me out.”
“So it was you who sent Weylin out there to commit murder.”
The old man sighed. “I’ve been playing this game for almost forty years now, sending the young to their deaths all in the name of the Forsworn. But I’m tired. So tired.”
“Then why do it?” Harald exclaimed. “What reason do you have?”
“Because my king told me to,” he answered. Harald was about to protest – surely his father had never ordered such a thing, especially given his history in the area – but Nepos cut him off as if he knew what Harald had been thinking.
“Madanach. When the uprising fell at the hands of the Nords, they threw him in the mines. I don’t know how, but he still lives. I get his messages, and I hand out his orders without question.”
He stood, slowly, and turned to look directly at Harald for the first time. Harald thought he saw a moment of shock, the spark of recognition as he gazed at someone who might easily have been Ulfric Stormcloak back when he was still an Imperial soldier. He shook his head.
“Now then. I’m very sorry, my boy, but you don’t imagine you’re getting out of here alive, do you?”
Harald had been more or less expecting an attack, but he hadn’t expected the old man to be the one leading it. He leaped backward, barely missing Nepos’ dagger. He turned and dashed for the door. He heard the two other men drawing blades, and the housekeeper casting an armor spell; but he got lucky and managed to weave past them, throwing himself against the doors and out into Markarth with all of them hot on his heels.
“Hot” wasn’t just metaphorical, either. One of them – he didn’t look behind to see which – cast flames at him at close range. Another of them struck with his sword, but Harald’s heavy armor deflected the main force of the blow and the blade glanced off. Harald threw himself over the side of the ledge where Nepos’ house stood and onto the next set of pathways below.
“You ready to die today, huh?” he heard behind him.
And then something happened. He didn’t know what, either at that moment or later; he was far too busy running down the stairs out of range of the fire, and trying to stop the bleeding from the shallow sword strike he’d taken. Behind and above him, though, he heard swords clashing, and a man screaming; the maid was yelling “I’ll kill you if I have to!” and a man was shouting other battle cries. It took Harald a moment to stop his downhill momentum and turn back. He didn’t want civilians being killed just because Nepos and his people had followed him out into the streets. As he made it back to the level of the Talos shrine, a guard was putting an end to one of the servants.
Harald frowned, realizing that everything had gone quiet again. He trotted back up toward Nepos’ house but stopped as he reached the bottom of the last stair.
Nepos, the housekeeper, and the other male servant lay dead in a grisly pool, alongside one of the city guards. It didn’t take much imagination to see what had happened. Whoever was casting the flames must have gotten a guard as well, and he’d attacked, drawing in the other guard from below.
Damn it! There goes my chance to learn anything else about the Forsworn from these people. I guess there’s nothing left to do but talk to Eltrys at midnight.
He followed the guard patrolling past the shrine of Talos at a discreet distance, slipping through the doors once the soldier started up the stairs at the far side. There was something wrong. He saw movements, and heard breathing and a sword being drawn, and had just registered that Eltrys’ body lay in a pool of blood at the statue’s feet when a city guard stopped him.
“We warned you,” he said, “but you just had to go and cause trouble. Now we have to pin all these recent murders on you, silence witnesses… work, work, work.”
“What did you do to Eltrys?” Harald cried, even though he could see perfectly well what they’d done.
“Same thing we do to all the other natives who want to change things around here. We had a nice little deal going between Thonar and Madanach until you and Eltrys started snooping around. Well. You wanted to find the man responsible for those killings. You’ll have plenty of time with the King in Rags when you’re in Cidhna Mine.”
Harald thought furiously for a moment. He could run. But if these men in his father’s colors were really traitors working for the Forsworn, probably others outside were, as well. Even if they weren’t, they’d see fellow guards chasing him and assume the worst. There wasn’t any real chance he could outrun them. Plus, if they were right and the King in Rags really was in the mine…
“I’ll come quietly,” he murmured, sheathing the sword he’d drawn.
The soldier sneered. “You’ll never see the sun again, you hear me? No one escapes Cidhna Mine. No one.”