Harald nearly collided with the smug Orc woman guarding the first of two cage gates. He turned to glare at the guard who’d pushed him. It was bad enough that they’d taken everything he had and put him in rags; there was no need to shove him as well.
“Eyes front, prisoner,” the Orc said. “You’re in Cidhna Mine now, and we expect you to earn your keep. There’s no resting your hide in a cell, in this prison. Here, you work. You’ll mine ore until you start throwing up silver bars. You got it?”
“Sure,” he said calmly. There were a great many other things he’d have liked to say, but he didn’t. “So when do I get out?”
“You won’t,” she sneered. “The Jarl has ordered a life sentence for you.”
Harald’s mouth fell open. “For asking questions?”
“No,” she snapped. “For killing Nepos and his people.”
For the first time, Harald felt fear creeping up his neck where before there had just been annoyance. “But I didn’t…”
“Get in there! And be grateful we didn’t toss you out to deal with the werewolves.” She sneered. “Alright, open ‘er up!” she yelled to the guard behind her.
“Werewolves?” the guard asked, swinging the gate open.
“Yeah. There were attacks the other night, out to the south. Might have been a bunch of ‘em from the looks of what was left behind.”
“Sure it wasn’t just a pack of regular wolves?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. No wolf I’ve ever seen eats as much of a body as that. This guy would have made a tasty snack for ‘em, I’ll bet.”
She pushed Harald through toward the second gate. The guard opened it and followed her example, shoving Harald forward onto a broad wooden platform.
“Nah,” the man said. “We need this one to mine. He’s got some muscles on him. At least for now.” The two guards laughed as though that was the funniest thing they’d ever heard. Harald winced as the gate clanged shut behind him.
He looked around, dismayed. A life sentence was ridiculous. Nepos and his men had attacked him; they’d been dead when he returned. He was just going to have to wait it out until his father pulled strings.
Surely he’ll do that, yes? He has power over even the Jarl of Markarth.
If… he ever figures out that I’m here.
Great. Just great.
He didn’t bother telling them that he’d taken care of the werewolf problem already. He’d encountered three of them, prowling along the shore of the marsh near Morthal; and he’d helped some local guards deal with them. They would find the pelts in amongst his things.
And probably confiscate them. Along with anything else valuable. Damn it all, how did I get myself into this? All I did was walk into the city to try to learn something about Father.
There was nothing to do but to go down into the mine. This large cave was like the hub of a wheel, with mining tunnels fanning out like spokes. One was blocked by another cage door and guarded by a sizeable Orc painted up like a skull. A skinny Breton sat on the ground near the firepit. Harald wandered over to the seated man.
“Hello,” the Breton said. “I’m Uraccen. What are you in for, new blood?”
“Nothing,” Harald said. “I was looking for information to help someone out. I’m innocent.”
Uraccen snorted. “Innocent? So was I – for the first one. The other murders were all me, though. My advice? Serve your time with a pickaxe and get out. You don’t want to end up getting a shiv in the guts over a bottle of skooma.”
Harald frowned. “A shiv? What’s that?” As soon as the words left his mouth, Harald groaned internally. I’m not exactly conversant with prison terms. This guy’s a killer. And now he knows I’m really green. Good for me.
Uraccen grinned knowingly at him. “Small blade. Easy to hide. I mean, sure, you could just swing a pickaxe into someone’s face, but people tend to see that coming. Got a problem with a prisoner? Get a shiv. I hear Grisvar’s got a spare, if you could get him to part with it.”
Harald nodded, and looked around. It was oddly quiet, aside from the clunking of pickaxes from down one of the tunnels.
“Huh. Where are all the guards?” he asked.
“They come in once a week. Clean out the bodies, grab any ore we’ve mined and beat down the troublemakers.”
“So I should expect a visit from fists,” Harald murmured.
Uraccen chuckled. “Oh yeah, that’s the only time we get food, too. And if there’s not enough ore mined up, we don’t get any.”
There were several pickaxes on the ground near Uraccen. Harald bent down and picked one of them up. “Both of my uncles were miners, and they showed me how. I’ll do my part to make sure we don’t starve. So why are you in here? You don’t look especially dangerous.”
Uraccen smirked. “A Nord nobleman I served was stabbed in the night. Wasn’t me, but I knew I’d be blamed. So I ran. Joined the Forsworn, started killing, got caught. Now I’m here.”
“But why did you join the Forsworn?” Harald asked.
Uraccen’s tone became harsh and angry. “Because life was better under the old ways. No Nords and their laws. One day the Forsworn will paint the walls of Markarth in your kinsmen’s blood. Best you not be there on that day, Nord.”
Harald gulped. He wanted to protest – they weren’t his laws, after all. But they were his father’s laws. Not many people were more obviously Nord than he was. But he couldn’t let them know who he was or he’d be one of the bodies the guards would drag out on their next visit.
“Ok,” he said slowly. “So tell me something else. Where’s Madanach? I want to talk to him. He’s more or less the reason I’m in here.”
“If you’re asking, that means you’re the new lifer.” Uraccen snorted. “Tough luck, friend. Those guards sold you out good. No one talks to Madanach, I’m afraid, without getting past Borkul the Beast.”
Harald glanced over at the Orc standing near the cage door. He was solid. Healthy-looking. Something tells me he doesn’t miss a meal regardless of what else is going on in here.
“That’s Borkul?” he asked quietly.
Uraccen nodded. “Madanach’s guard. Heard he ripped a man’s arm off and beat him to death with it. He’s old-fashioned like that.”
“I see. Thanks for all the information.”
Uraccen sighed. “I left behind my daughter Uaile when I was taken,” he murmured as if to himself.
Harald froze. Uaile? I know that name. He frowned as his mind raced, trying to place her. She was… the maid? At Nepos’ house? And now she’s dead.
He stepped away from Uraccen, moving toward the Orc. He couldn’t afford to say anything. Not only was he a Nord, but he’d been directly involved in the fracas that killed Uaile. He’d definitely be dead meat if he spoke.
Borkul was smirking at him. He was a good bit taller than Harald, but now that they were side-by-side Harald thought he might actually out mass the Orc by a bit.
“The new meat,” Borkul drawled. “So soft. Tender. What was it like killing your first one, huh?”
“I’m… not a murderer.”
“Liar,” Borkul spat.
“Well, believe what you like,” Harald answered, annoyed. “I need to see Madanach.”
Borkul crossed his arms and sneered. “You wanna talk to the King in Rags? Fine. But first you gotta pay the toll. How about you get me a shiv? Not that I need one.”
“So I’ve heard,” Harald answered. “But I don’t have a shiv.”
“So find one,” the Orc growled. “You serve your time by digging. So dig.”
Harald stared at him for a moment trying to imagine how to talk his way past, but it was clear that wasn’t going to happen. He nodded sharply and headed for one of the tunnels. There was an outcropping of silver ore right in the middle of the floor; so he spent the next few minutes digging it up. There were more small deposits here and there as he investigated the area. He dug those up too. It seemed the least he could do for himself at this point. If he helped ensure that they all ate properly, maybe it would help offset the fact that he was the son of a Nord’s Nord.
Down one dead-end he found a couple of partially-uncovered stone columns, long since toppled over. These must be in some way connected to the same complex as the ones he’d seen while going to find Nimhe. It made sense, given the place’s history. He stood staring at the carvings for a moment.
If there are Dwemer ruins here, and ruins there – maybe there’s a way to tunnel through to the other exits? Maybe?
What am I doing? Planning a prison break before I’ve been in here an hour?
He shook his head and continued down the tunnel to where a short, stocky Reachman was leaning on a pickaxe, staring blankly at the wall. He looked up as Harald approached and shook his head.
“Other prisoners get suspicious when we talk to each other, so keep your voice down.”
“Ok, sure,” Harald said quietly. “How long have you been in here?”
“Year seven, I think. I’m Duach. Surprised I haven’t cut my own throat out by now, but something keeps me going.”
“What have they charged you with?”
He rolled his eyes. “Charged? I’m a Forsworn. One of our raids went bad, and I got captured. Would have been fine dying for the Reach with my kinsmen, but the Silver-Bloods want their ore mined, so they threw me in here.”
Harald nodded, and pointed to the silver node the Breton had been staring at. “I’ll get this one. Have yourself a break,” he said, taking a stance and starting to break the rock.
There was something about the man’s last statement, in particular, that really bothered him. He’d heard Ulfric speaking with Galmar and others about how important the silver was to Skyrim. He’d heard it many times, and hadn’t given so much as a second thought to where the silver came from, or how. Roggi had worked in a malachite mine. Dardeh had mined silver, but presumably from one of the smaller mines that dotted the Reach; neither of them had ever mentioned prisoner labor. But the man in the Warrens had said the only reason the beds were there was to keep people alive enough to work the mines and the smelter.
And the Jarl said – what did he say? The Forsworn were where they were supposed to be, “in the mines, bringing us wealth.” And he knew who I am.
Harald took a particularly savage swing at the last obvious chunk of silver in the vein, and broke it out of its surrounding matrix. No matter how he looked at it, there was something fishy about this silver operation. He didn’t quite understand, not yet, but he didn’t like the feeling he was getting from it.
I have to talk to Madanach.
He wandered, frowning, back out into the main cavern and down another of the side tunnels. Not too far in was a pair of very tired-looking men staring forlornly at another silver vein. He approached the first of them.
“Are you Grisvar?”
The man nodded. “Yeah. The Jarl decided that I was too much of a problem. Threw me in here with the Forsworn. First it was for six months. Then a year. Then two years! Now I’m in for life.”
Harald frowned again. “What in the world did you do?”
“The first time was thieving. The second time? Thieving. The third time…”
“Thieving?” Harald asked.
“It kind of keeps going like that.”
Harald nodded. “Um, I need a shiv. I was told you might be able to help.”
“Ah, so you need protection! I can get you what you need,” he said, dropping his voice. “But maybe you could do something for me, first.”
“Maybe. What do you need?”
“Duach has a bottle of skooma. I’m shaking just thinking about it!”
Harald was taken aback. Skooma was a thing that wasn’t approved of in his family, as far as he knew. He’d heard his mother and Chip’s talking about it in disgusted tones before. It did help explain why Grisvar had kept thieving – or trying to, at least. Harald wasn’t going to help feed someone’s addiction.
“Sorry. I don’t think so,” he told Grisvar.
Grisvar looked resigned. “All right. But if you change your mind… It’s not like we’re going anywhere.”
The man standing beside Grisvar had been tossed into the prison after being accused of killing someone and had joined the Forsworn later just to make things easier. At the far end of the tunnel, a surly Reachman told Harald he didn’t want to talk about why he was there, and when Harald asked him how long he’d been in the mine, said “long enough.”
Harald sighed. He had to see Madanach. He was going to have to try Borkul again.
The Orc sneered at him as he approached. Harald did his best to sneer back.
“Ok, Borkul. I’ve mined up all the silver the rest of these guys were just staring at. It’ll keep us fed for another week. I need to see Madanach.”
Borkul looked unimpressed. “Ready to pay the toll? One shiv.”
Harald shook his head. “I don’t have a shiv. How about I fight you for it?” I beat the pulp out of Nepos’ thug messenger. How hard can it be?
The Orc smiled, revealing a large expanse of tusks. “That’s what I was hoping you’d say. Come on! Let’s see what you’re made of!” He raised his fists, and Harald raised his.
Harald had in fact beaten Nepos’ thug fairly easily. His muscles were as large as Borkul’s. But he was completely unarmored now; and even worse, Borkul had solid-looking gauntlets – the only thing he wore besides his ragged prisoner’s pants. Borkul beat on Harald’s face, his ribs, his arms and even his kidneys. It took only a minute or so before a solid hit drove Harald down to one knee, gasping in pain.
“Not so tough now, are ya?” Borkul laughed, walking away.
“Ow,” Harald whispered, trying to catch his breath and a little of his dignity. That was one of the dumbest things I’ve ever done. I guess… I guess I need to go see Duach after all.
He stood, slowly and painfully, and shuffled his way across the space to the tunnel where he had met Duach. The beating he’d taken had him trembling; he must have looked perfectly miserable by the time he reached the man.
“I… hear you have some skooma,” he mumbled shakily.
Duach glared. “You give me one more look, and I cut you open. That skooma’s mine.”
“Please,” Harald said. “It’s important. I need it badly.”
Duach’s expression changed to one of sympathy, and he looked Harald up and down. “Getting the shakes, huh? I’m sorry. Alright, take it. Old Gods keep you.”
He reached into a barrel next to them and rummaged around for a moment, at last pulling out a small bottle and pressing it into Harald’s aching palm. Harald wanted to be sick. He’d never had such a thing on his person before, had never desired it, and in fact didn’t want to be near it. But the man had been so kind, thinking that he was in pain from addiction, that he could do nothing but clasp his hand with both of his own, shake them, nod, and whisper “thank you” before leaving to climb back out of the tunnel.
By the time he found Grisvar again, he was truly angry. He’d learned from his father, though, that anger was best contained until you had as complete a picture of the situation as possible. He didn’t have that, yet, and wouldn’t until he talked to Madanach. Still, he found it hard not to hiss at Grisvar. The man had gone back to work digging for silver. He looked at Harald and sighed.
“If I ever get out of here, I swear I’m giving up thieving. Really.”
No you’re not, you piece of dirt. You’re an addict and you’ll keep stealing other people’s things to pay for your habit.
Harald almost reconsidered. But then he thought about his parents in Windhelm, and his uncles in Falkreath, and his cousins in the Rift; and the words “life sentence” crowded into his mind like a dark storm cloud.
I have to get out of here. I can’t do that to them.
“Here’s your skooma,” he whispered. “Now give me the shiv.”
Grisvar snatched the bottle away, eagerly, and pressed something not quite as small into his palm in exchange. Harald looked down at it. It was, as Uraccen had said, a small blade, wickedly sharp but easily concealed. He nodded to Grisvar and scurried back up to where Borkul stood, smirking at his approach.
“Here’s your bloody shiv,” he said, passing it to the Orc after checking around for guards. “Now open the damn gate.”
“All right,” the Orc said amiably as he opened the gate. “Head on in. But don’t try anything in there. Madanach is smarter than you think.”
Harald snorted. “I don’t have an opinion about Madanach one way or the other. But you’ve got the shiv now, and I don’t. Given how sore I am right at the moment,” he said, wincing as he shifted his shoulders, “I wouldn’t dream of trying anything.”
Borkul chuckled and stood aside.
Madanach had his own private area, down a long, twisting tunnel. Harald passed the toilet alcove, and another with a locked gate behind which a headless skeleton sat in repose. Then there was Madanach’s quarters. There was a real bed, situated on a raised platform covered with a rug, and a chest, and a table. There sat an old Reachman with fading blonde hair; he continued writing in a ledger and didn’t look up at Harald’s approach, but he did clear his throat and speak.
“Well, well. Look at you! Your kinsmen have turned you into an animal, Nord. A wild beast, caged up and left to go mad.”
“Yes. Well as it happens, I’m plenty mad already.”
Madanach chuckled. “So, my fellow beast, whaddya want? Answers about the Forsworn? Revenge for trying to have you killed?”
“You do have a lot to answer for,” Harald said as calmly as he could manage.
“Do I? What about you? What right did you have to meddle in my affairs? Kill my people?”
Harald made a sound that was nearly a growl. “You keep saying that, all of you! I killed nobody! I tried to run away when Nepos tried to kill me! All I was doing was trying to find answers to help out a guy who asked!”
“Was it worth it, your truth?” Madanach asked. “You’re one of us now, you see? The boot of your kinsman stepping on your throat! Maybe if you understood that I could help you.”
“Understand what, exactly?” Harald asked. But inside, he was beginning to wonder whether he really wanted to find out.
“There’s a man named Braig inside these mines,” the old man said. “Besides me, he’s been here the longest. Tell him I sent you. Ask him why he’s here. I want you to know how widespread the injustice of Markarth is.”
Harald sighed. He’d already seen the Warrens, and if that wasn’t injustice he didn’t know what was.
“Alright, I will. But I want to know about Thonar. The guards said something about him.”
He snorted. “I had Markarth. My men and I drove the Nords out. We’d won! Or so we thought. Retribution was swift. I was captured, quickly tried, and sentenced to death; but my execution never came. Thonar Silver-Blood stopped it. He wanted the Forsworn at his call, so that I would point their rage at his enemies and spare his allies. And I have. Humiliating at first, but I knew he would let his guard down eventually, that he would come to trust that I was under control.”
And it didn’t hurt having his brother put on the throne at the end of the war, and thus a strong tie to the new High King. Shor give me strength.
“You were right about one thing,” he said slowly. “I do want to know about the Forsworn.”
“This was our land,” Madanach said. “We were here first. Then the Nords came and put chains on us. Forbade us from worshipping our gods! Some of us refused to bow. We knew the old ways would lead us back to having a kingdom of our own, here or in the west. That is who we are. The Forsworn. Criminals in our own land! And we will cut a bloody hole into the Reach until we are free.”
In the entire time they’d been speaking, Madanach had not once looked up at Harald, and for that Harald was glad. He had to have known Father, from when he and Galmar were here. Must have. If he took a good look at me he would know who I am and I would be as good as dead.
Maybe he knows already, and that’s why he never looked up.
He walked slowly back, toward the place where he’d encountered the surly Reachman before. His mind and heart were roiling.
So the Nords came and caged them. That means Father and the Legion, way back when. I’ve heard the tales, and I still can’t imagine Father doing such a thing, caging the Reachmen.
He stopped almost in mid-stride, clenching his hands into fists.
Or can I? Look at how the Dunmer are treated at home! And the Argonians. “Maybe you are just what they say you are,” Mother told him. Is he?
But… what Madanach just said. They – the Forsworn – just wanted to rule themselves. To be free to worship their gods in the old way. Isn’t that exactly the same thing Father and Galmar fought for, against the Thalmor? Isn’t it? Isn’t that why I have chosen Shor instead of Talos?
Is there really anything all that different between what Madanach and Ulfric wanted, other than names?
He found himself running across the main chamber, with both Borkul and Uraccen staring at him with raised brows.
I have to know. Too many people have died already, just since I’ve been here. I have to know whether it’s right to help set these people free or not.
He found Braig where he’d left him. The man looked up as he trotted toward him and said “Don’t pull a shiv around me, or we’ll both regret it.”
In spite of the gravity of the situation, Harald couldn’t help but laugh as he stopped. “Borkul’s got the shiv, no need to worry. Listen – I just came from speaking with Madanach. He wants you to tell me your story. And…” he heaved a heavy sigh. “I really want to hear it. I’m very confused right now.”
“My story, eh? Let me hear yours first. When was the first time you felt chains around your wrists?”
“Me? Never, until they threw me in here,” Harald said. I’m the prince, the heir apparent. Why would I ever have felt chains?
“Well, then you know what it’s like to have your life in someone else’s hands. Why should they get to decide? Isn’t judgment for the gods? Do you… have any family?”
It suddenly occurred to Harald that in fact his entire life was controlled by other people, and always had been. He was destined to be High King after his father, and that was all there was to it according to his family and friends. There was very little that he had in common with these people in the prison but that – that one thing – was something they shared.
“Yeah, I do,” he answered quietly, although he would not say who they were.
“I had a daughter once,” Braig said. “She’d be, oh, thirty eight this year, married to some hotheaded silver worker or maybe on her own, in the herb trade. I might even have had grandchildren. The Nords didn’t care who was or who wasn’t involved in the Forsworn uprising; I had spoken to Madanach once, and that was enough. But my little Aethra didn’t want to see her Papa leave her. She pleaded to the Jarl to take her instead.” His voice quavered, and his eyes grew damp. “And after they made me watch as her head rolled off the block they threw me in here anyway to dig up their silver!”
Harald’s mouth had been sagging open as the tale unfolded; now he stood, stunned, trying to think what to say next. What had happened here was an inexcusable tragedy, but there was one thing, one tiny thing that Harald’s mind latched onto as if it was a lifeline in a flood.
It wasn’t Father, who killed the people who shouldn’t have been killed. It wasn’t! It was the Jarl. The old Jarl, the one Uncle Dardeh told me about.
“I’m… I’m so sorry,” he finally managed.
“My daughter is the one who deserves your pity,” Braig snarled. “I’m just a poor Forsworn whose only regret is not killing more Nords before I was locked up!”
Harald once again found himself with his mouth open. “You would have just killed Nords, indiscriminately? Do you think we’re all alike? Do you think your horrible story justifies all that murder?”
“I’m not Madanach!” he cried. “I was never a leader of the Forsworn! The only anger I can justify is my own. But every family in the Reach has a story like mine. There are no innocent onlookers in this struggle: just the guilty, and the dead.”
Harald turned on his heel and stomped angrily back to where Madanach stayed. Every family in the Reach, indeed. I’ll have to ask Dardeh about that, some day. He was from here. Did he have someone who was guilty? Or dead?
“You’re back,” Madanach said when Harald reached him. “Have you done what I asked?”
“Yes,” he said sharply.
“Yeah. Imagine hearing a story like that over and over. Each time a different family. Each time a different injustice. Your meddling above ground reminded me of how removed I’ve been from the struggle. My men and I should be in the hills, fighting!”
“Oh spare me,” Harald snapped. “You’re an old man, just like my father and his people, always going on about the great battles they fought and won, or lost, so long ago that I wasn’t even alive.”
Madanach stopped what he was doing, for just a moment, and chuckled. “You know, I’m almost starting to like you,” he said. “But you haven’t earned your way out of here, yet. Have you met Grisvar the Unlucky?”
Harald snorted. “Sadly, yes.”
“He’s rightly named. He’s also a thief. And a snitch. He’s outlived his minor usefulness. Take care of him, and then we can leave Cidhna Mine for good.”
“Take… care of him?”
“Yes. And if you can’t figure out what I mean by that you don’t deserve your freedom, boy.”
Harald drew a deep breath. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t needed to dispatch the odd bandit here and there to keep himself alive. Galmar and Roggi – as well as his father – had insisted that he learn how to take a life when it was necessary. He needed that strength for self-preservation, because as they’d all told him his entire life, he was the next High King, and he had to protect his life for the sake of Skyrim itself. But this. This was cold-blooded murder.
But if Grisvar gets out of this place, he’ll just go back to thievery in order to support his skooma habit, and who knows what else he might do. He’ll be nothing but a dead weight on society. Can I do this, in order to get out? In order to protect my own existence? In order to have the chance to make something better, later on? Can I do that? Will I have the strength to do it?
His father would have laughed at him for having any doubts. So would have Galmar. From everything he’d ever seen of him, Chip’s father Brynjolf would have done what was necessary for the sake of a greater good. Roggi had, as far as he could tell, a killer’s instinct and would have had no qualms whatsoever about removing Grisvar. And Dardeh…
What would Dardeh do?
He thought for a moment about all the tales he’d heard of Dardeh, all the talks he’d had with the man over the years. Dardeh had done difficult things, hard things, in order to save the world, or so they said.
Well, this isn’t that kind of decision. I’m not that important. I can Shout, just like Father can, but I’m surely no Dragonborn. But I do think I can be of better use to Skyrim if I am free than if I am dead in Cidhna Mine.
“I can’t take care of Grisvar with my bare hands. Borkul saw to that. I need a shiv.”
Madanach chuckled again. “Ah, so Borkul muscled one out of you on your way in? Fine. Take this one.”
Once again, Harald found himself with a small but deadly sharp blade in his hand. He kept his pickaxe in the other. He trudged slowly down the tunnels, loosening his shoulders, taking stock of his aches and pains, and pointedly ignoring the stares of Borkul and Uraccen as he walked forward into the grimmest task he’d ever had to undertake.
