Dale trudged up over the snowdrifts, happy that, as a vampire, he had some natural resistance to cold and frost. As an Imperial from the warmer end of Bruma County, that resistance helped, especially when he’d been in the comparatively warm surroundings of the Solitude docks a few minutes before. Just up the hill and over its crest, though, some weather boundary changed. Vyctyna hadn’t been exaggerating. The wind was icy, the air was full of snow and the road was mostly buried; he stumbled over a drift and found that he’d left the road entirely.
Before him, though, downhill at the base of the hill he was on, was exactly what he’d come looking for. There was a small mausoleum with an arched door, lighted by a pair of braziers. A gargoyle perched on the decorative cornice above the door and a collection of ancient headstones huddled, leaning together, between the building and the snow-laden pines clustered along the ridgeline.
This must be the place.
He opened the door with the key she’d given him and walked slowly down a wide, steep staircase. And then he looked around and smiled. Yes, the old mausoleum contained a living space – he could see shelving, bookcases and a table, and perhaps an enchanting station, all on a balcony roughly at ground level. But this building was built much deeper into the ground than it appeared from the outside. It was also much wider down here than the structure visible outside would suggest. Rooms extended from the entry on all sides. The chamber he could see directly across from him through a small archway held an elegantly-upholstered coffin. Dale yawned, just looking at it. It was wonderfully warm here, and he was very tired after days of travel. But even though the resting place beckoned him, he wanted to see the rest of the mausoleum.
He spent some time just wandering around, getting the layout of his new home fixed in his mind. A door to the right of the entry room opened to a full kitchen, which Vyctyna had thoughtfully stocked with both normal food and blood potions. He whisked one of those off the table and drank it down gratefully. It had been a long trip from Falkreath to Riften and then back across the province; and the road from the docks to here had been deserted. He was hungry.
Across from the kitchen was the source of most of the building’s heat: a smithy. Anvil, workbench, and smelter – just about everything he might need was available. He gratefully unpacked the supplies he’d brought with him into the chests, and then moved his tired shoulders around to get his cold blood moving in them again. He hadn’t brought many things with him, but ingots were heavy regardless of how many there were.
He’d been right about the balcony. It held a study, an enchanting station, and an alchemy table, as well as plentiful storage. The study area – if he ever had time to use it – looked comfortable. Now he wouldn’t need to leave interesting books behind.
In the foyer just before the master bedroom another door opened to the right; behind it was a small bedroom. It wasn’t much more than a closet, really, but it had a bed and a wardrobe, and would accommodate a companion or a thrall.
Finally, he reached the master bedroom. There were cabinets to look in, and he had other things to unpack and organize; but he tossed his bags onto the floor and stepped into the coffin, closing the door behind him. The little cellar in Falkreath had been fine; but this was downright opulent – comfortable and silent. He fell into a deep sleep almost the instant he closed the door. It was probably the best sleep he’d had since coming to Skyrim.
At some point he dreamed, his mind reviewing the odd conversation he’d had with the older Nord – Brynjolf – back in Riften. The man had been downright shaken, at first, and he’d even apologized for it.
“Sorry, lad. I don’t usually fall apart when I meet people for the first time. It’s just that…” and he had trailed off for a moment before breaking out into a grin. “When I met your Da, I did the same thing. He reminded me so much of a friend of mine who had died long before, and I almost thought I was seeing a ghost. But you look almost exactly like your Da, lad. It was a shock and déjà vu all at the same time.”
Dale smiled and chuckled. “I can see how that might be the case. As I told you, I never met the man. You worked together?”
Brynjolf had seemed almost relieved by that question. “Aye. We did, for a couple of years. Went from one end of this province to the other together and…”
Again the man had trailed off, his gaze drifting down toward his hands on the table. He’d run a thumb over a ruby ring he wore on one finger, and sighed. This time Dale had seen a brief moment of genuine, sharp sorrow cross his face before he spoke again.
“It was a real shame that he died. I miss him.” Brynjolf had looked up at him again then. “But he never said anything about you. Not a word. Tell me about your mother. He never said anything about her, either.”
“I’d be happy to. In exchange for what you can tell me about my father,” Dale had agreed with a grin. And they’d talked for a good while. He’d come away, though, feeling that somehow he’d given Brynjolf far more information than the man had shared. He wasn’t quite sure how that had happened, but it didn’t bother him. He was just amused that he’d been so easily manipulated.
What he did know, at this point, was that aside from a few superficial things – the shape of his nose, the way he wore his hair – he looked exactly like his father. His father had been quick-witted, and amusing, talented and strong. And he’d been a skooma addict. Learning that hadn’t surprised Dale, especially. His mother had certainly mentioned the possibility more than once; and he’d learned of his paternal grandfather’s reputation from other sources over the years. It was one of the reasons he hadn’t been concerned about becoming a vampire – it wasn’t as though there was family honor to uphold, or anything of that sort. He had no family, not any longer; and he intended to make his own reputation.
The problem, Dale thought later as he opened his eyes and emerged, yawning, from the coffin, was that it didn’t really matter to him what his father had been. It simply didn’t. It was obvious that Brynjolf had been his father’s friend. He, however, just couldn’t bring himself to care much about a man who he’d never met, except as an idle curiosity. And that was fine with him. He existed; he had a job to do. That was all that mattered.
He rummaged around in the various chests and cabinets in his new bedroom and found a set of leathers tucked in one of them. He slipped out of his well-worn, familiar furs and into the new armor and walked around, a bit uncomfortably at first. This was a much sleeker outfit than he was used to wearing: closer-fitting and without so many layers. But it was also lighter, easier to move in, and more like the leathers he’d seen people wearing in all this province’s cities than his old faithful robes had been. Once again, Vyctyna had proved that she was much wiser than her personality might otherwise suggest. He settled his weapons, cast his illusion spell, and left for Solitude.
Agryn Gernic had told him to see what he could do to start building influence in the city. It would likely take many years, he’d said; but there was no point in waiting to start. Elisif and her court were all aging, and Agryn wanted to be ready to take advantage of any future opportunities. Dale, therefore, headed straight for the castle, and mounted the stairs to slip quietly around to a balcony where his enhanced hearing might allow him to eavesdrop on court. There was a man there – Varnius Junius, from the town of Dragon Bridge – who was raising a fuss about noises from a nearby cavern called Wolfskull. Dale listened to the discussions and watched the steward, Falk, deftly distract Jarl Elisif from the idea of sending large numbers of troops to deal with it. He dismissed Varnius after assuring him that something would be done. Dale nodded to himself.
So this is the person who wields the actual power here. I believe I’ll see whether I might do him a favor.
Once the people in the throne room were busy talking amongst themselves, Dale approached the Nord. He cleared his throat to get the man’s attention.
“Excuse me, Lord Falk, is it? Do I understand correctly that you are looking for someone to deal with Wolfskull Cave?”
The man looked annoyed to have been interrupted, but he stared at Dale as if trying to remember where he’d seen him before. Then, with the tiniest shake of his head, he spoke.
“It’s not ‘Lord’ Falk. I’m merely Lady Elisif’s steward. To be honest with you, I wasn’t planning on doing anything much about it. There have been reports over the years of odd things happening near the caves, but I suspect animals or bandits. I don’t think it’s worth our time, but…” He shrugged. “I suppose, if you want to clear out the cave, I’ll be sure you’re repaid for your work.”
Dale nodded. “Very well. I’d be happy to do it. I was looking for some work and chopping wood really isn’t my best thing.” He grinned at Falk, bowed slightly, and turned to leave.
As he was walking back down the stairs he heard Falk speaking.
“It’s nearly time to collect taxes on your properties here in the city, Bryling. We’ll need to visit each home for an assessment.”
“Is it that time again already?” a woman’s voice responded. “Very well, let’s meet this evening and make the arrangements.”
Dale started to grin. He almost laughed aloud when another, woman’s voice chimed in.
“Oh, well done. Very subtle.”
So there are more things afoot here than might appear on the surface. That’s always the way. And I shall be watching, in case it gives me an opening.
Harald’s jaw began to ache from clenching it as he slowly approached Grisvar, who was leaning comfortably against the wall with his arms crossed. The man began staring at him in confusion; Harald feared that his face must be giving away his intentions. Then Harald pulled out the shiv. Grisvar’s eyes widened and he dropped his hands to his side.
He knows. He’s going to run.
Harald leaned forward and did something he rarely did at all, and had never used as an offensive attack before. He Shouted.
“FO!”
“What the… arrrrrrgh!” Grisvar shrieked, running past Harald and trailing streamers of frost. The Shout had struck him, but not squarely; most of the frost energy had hit the floor instead, and thus its power on Grisvar was much diminished.
Harald took a half-hearted swing at the man but wasn’t able to reach him. Grisvar ran back toward the central mine cavern, and Harald followed, slowly. He didn’t want to do this thing and couldn’t bring himself to rush toward it.
But it has to happen.
He raised the pickaxe in his left hand and started walking faster, following Grisvar down the tunnel on the far side of the main cave. He turned the corner and was horrified to find the man crouched on the floor behind a support pillar, huddled with his hands over his head, cowering in fear.
And so now I’m to be nothing more than a butcher?
“I’m sorry.” Harald forced the words out through his teeth and then struck. Grisvar was nearly unprotected. It took only a single pair of blows to kill him. Harald searched his body and discovered two more shivs, which he took.
Anger and disgust welled up inside Harald, and his stomach felt uneasy. Everything about what had just happened went against everything he believed.
I can’t believe I just did that. I can’t believe I had to do it. But I have to get out of here.
He couldn’t stand looking at the dead man any longer. He turned and ran back to Madanach, choking back the sour taste that kept welling up into the back of his throat. The old Forsworn was still writing in his ledger.
“Grisvar is dead,” was all Harald could manage.
“You’ve finally become one of us,” Madanach told him. “Come with me. I think it’s about time I announced my plans to you and your new brothers.” He pushed his chair back and left the room. Harald leaned against the wall for a moment or two, trying to collect his wits and settle his stomach before following the old Forsworn king back out into the cavern.
As he approached the tunnel’s end he heard one of the others, possibly Uraccen. “What’s going on, Madanach? You wouldn’t have old Grisvar killed unless you weren’t planning on needing him.”
“My brothers, we have been here long enough,” Madanach said quietly. “It’s time to leave Cidhna Mine and continue our fight against the Nords.”
Several of them looked at Harald, in that same pointed way he’d always experienced when anyone mentioned his father in his presence. He felt the prickle of dismay working its way up his neck and a vise-grip of anxiety settle around his head.
I thought they just wanted to be free and were willing to kill to get that freedom if they had to. That’s what I thought Madanach meant! Are they really going to indiscriminately start killing Nords again just for revenge?
Madanach waved toward the passage behind him. “Through this gate, just beside my quarters, is a tunnel that leads right through the old Dwarven ruins of Markarth and into the city. Well? What do you say, my brothers?”
They all cried out as if with one voice. “The Reach belongs to the Forsworn!”
Harald couldn’t even open his mouth. How many times had he heard “Skyrim belongs to the Nords!” in his short lifetime? Too many to count. He understood what these men wanted – at least he thought he understood it – but he couldn’t stand the thought of yet another war breaking out in order for them to have it. That made it worse. It would have been easier if he hadn’t understood them at all.
I started this. This is terrible. I started it, and I’m going to have to finish it!
Madanach turned to him. “I say you’ve earned an early pardon. Let’s go.”
“Where did this tunnel come from?” Harald asked him.
And why haven’t you used it before, I wonder? Or… have you? According to Nepos and his thugs, Madanach had regular contact with people outside the prison and had done so for years. Almost all of Harald’s lifetime, if not longer, in fact. It didn’t make sense that all the messages had somehow crossed in front of the guards and all the other Forsworn. And Madanach already knew exactly where the tunnel came out.
I’ll bet this thing has been operational for years. What has he been waiting for?
“It’s a little gift from the dwarves,” the man told him. “Who knew they would end up helping our cause? We have to move. We’ll talk more once we see the sky.” Madanach turned and ran back toward his quarters, turning down the now-unlocked tunnel, and the rest of the Forsworn followed. Harald found himself behind Borkul the Beast. He almost immediately regretted setting these things in motion. There were shovels on the ground all along the way that he had to keep leaping over – rusty shovels that confirmed what he’d been thinking.
They’ve been working on this for a long time. He could have left any time he wanted. He just needed someone to set things in motion and he picked me. I was the perfect target. Just like Eltrys said. “You’ll do.”
At the end of the narrow tunnel was a metal door, and as he waited for Borkul to pass through it he stopped, trying to think about what he might do. He could fight with the shivs, but he was far better with a larger blade and a shield. He knew a few Shouts. The frost shout obviously hadn’t done too much to Grisvar, but that was because he’d largely missed his aim. He probably would need to rely on a combination of skills. But somehow, he needed to stop Madanach from getting out into the world. He at least had to try.
Then he stepped through the door.
For a moment or two he was overwhelmed, both enchanted with and dismayed by the carved stones around him. He was in another part of the very Dwemer ruin he’d seen from another location when he fought Nimhe. Exploring these was something he’d wanted to do since he was just a boy; and the thought that it was being tainted by murder made him angrier and angrier. He trotted along the flat stone walkways – much easier on his bare feet than the stones and dirt of the mine had been – and even stopped to look in a chest tucked into a corner. There were a couple of jewels in it, and he pulled them out and rolled them up into his waistband. He’d have a souvenir of his experience, if he survived it.
“No one crosses me!” he heard Madanach shout from in front of him. That spurred him back into action, and he ran to catch up to the others. There was a huge frostbite spider corpse in the corridor; and as he rounded the corner into the chamber where the Forsworn were, he saw that they were up on a ledge, fighting another with blades and flames. He stood for a moment, astonished.
They had magic like this and never tried to escape? Something is very fishy about this. Very fishy, indeed.
I’d better help. I don’t want to look obvious.
He jumped up the back side of the debris and pulled out two of the shivs. Dancing between the flames and the other blades, he helped finish the spider. The group continued out through another narrow tunnel and onto an elevated platform. Before Harald reached the platform he saw that they were facing a Dwemer construct; and while he dearly wanted to see it he knew he was no match for such a thing. Instead, he dropped down over the side of the platform and waited until a piece of Dwemer metal came falling down from above. He started forward and saw the group disappear through a rough opening in another wall of the Dwemer ruin.
Through the opening, there were dirt ramps on either side of a large, leaning, mostly ruined pillar. As he ran up the ramp on the right side, he heard a woman’s voice.
“Madanach, I brought what you asked for.” She was passing out sets of armor and various weapons to the group.
So he was definitely planning this escape for awhile. This is too thorough a job to be a last-minute affair.
Madanach smiled as he and the others dressed. “Good work! Get ready while I have a word with our favorite outsider.” He turned to approach Harald, as did the woman who carried all of Harald’s gear.
“I had Kaie recover all the things the Nords stole from you. You’d better get ready before we break out into the city. And take this.” He handed Harald another set of armor. “It’s blessed with the old magicks. Something to remember me by.”
Harald nodded, donning his own armor just as quickly as he could while watching the Forsworn filter out through the doors. The armor Madanach had handed him was light armor in the Forsworn style, and he preferred heavy gear. Besides, he wanted to remember Madanach in a different way.
“Thank you,” he said as he slipped his spiked shield onto his left arm. “I use heavy armor, but I’ll keep this as well. So what happens now?”
“Now I announce to all of Markarth that I have returned,” the old man said with a smug look. “Don’t worry about your name. They’ll know who to blame and who to fear after today.”
And there it is. Maybe he means he intends to take the credit and the blame himself. But I think I was set up to be the scapegoat. There’s too much that was too convenient about the timing of all this. Heck, he even told me that it was my asking questions that reminded him he’d been away too long.
I think that he did that because he knows exactly who I am, and that my father is Ulfric Stormcloak. He’s going to use me to get back at Father for something that happened decades ago. He may have been planning to escape for some time, but my showing up was just a wonderfully convenient coincidence, and he plans to make the most of it.
I have to stop him. Shor give me strength.
“It’ll take years, but I’ll organize the Forsworn again,” Madanach continued. “We’ll reclaim our land, and then when power is ours, we’ll have peace! A kingdom!”
And now he sounds exactly like Father. I hate this.
I want peace, too. But not like this. Not if it means we have to hate each other and kill each other.
“Until then, let me offer you a warning. Beware the Forsworn. No place in the Reach is safe from us now.”
Madanach turned, his fur cloak sweeping out behind him, and headed for the door. Just beyond the place all of them had re-armored themselves was a long, stone ramp; that’s where Madanach went, trotting up the slope.
I have to do something, right now!
The angle was better, this time. Madanach was uphill from Harald, not downhill the way Grisvar had been. He raised his face up, away from his chest, and Shouted.
“FO!”
The frost flew out from him and completely enveloped Madanach. Harald had inherited his father’s ability to use the Voice, but not his strength. It was only one word of the Frost Breath Shout, to boot; but it stopped Madanach in his tracks for a moment and he cried out, doubling over. He struggled to regain his footing.
As Madanach turned to face him, one of the Markarth city guard opened the door and ran in. Harald heard the sounds of battle beyond the doors. “Someone, do something!” she cried.
“Alright, I will,” Harald said, raising his shield and drawing his sword Penumbra.
And with one solid blow he separated Madanach’s head from his shoulders.
He stood frozen for a moment and took a deep breath, not quite believing that he’d done such a horrific thing. Then the doors opened again and pandemonium erupted. Madanach’s people started flooding back through, casting flame at him and the guard as they realized that their leader, the King in Rags, was dead on the floor before them. She looked at him, terrified; he raised his shield to ward off as much of the flame as he could, thanking his good fortune to be wearing solid, heavy armor. He had to do something. And that thing that he could do, the thing he’d learned from his father and his chosen uncle, came to him as naturally as swinging his sword did. Another blast of sound erupted from him.
“TIID!”
Things around them slowed to a crawl. He reached out and grabbed the guard by the arm, dragging her through the metal doors. He couldn’t slow time for long – he didn’t have that kind of power in his Voice. But it would be just enough, and would allow them to escape into the city where, perhaps, other guards would come to their aid.
He wasn’t sure, afterward, how many other guards had come. All Harald knew for certain was that everything he’d been taught – every swing, every block, every dodge – came to him as if he’d been in war for decades, or even centuries. He slashed, and raked the wicked spikes of his shield against the sparse protection of the Forsworn men’s armor. He gritted his teeth and ignored the flames, ducking behind the shield and reaching out under it with his sword to sweep aside attacks and damage legs. He couldn’t move quickly: he was far too heavy a man, wearing heavy armor, and the best he could do was stand like a rock and let the waves of attack break over him.
And so he did, on and on. Not thinking, not fearing, not second-guessing; simply slaying the enemy, one after another after another. He was vaguely aware of the woman he had pulled from the ruins coming up behind him to hammer away at one of the Forsworn. Harald wasn’t sure which one it was under the huge horned headdress he wore until he fell, and a glimpse of green skin told Harald that it had been Borkul the Beast whom the guard had killed. Another guard, a man, was screaming with pain from the flames being fired by one of the others.
Harald swung around to see Uraccen behind him. “You’re pathetic!” the man sneered, casting a healing spell on himself. Harald laughed – a single, loud bark of sardonic laughter – and brought his sword down in a massive power attack to Uraccen’s shoulder, nearly cutting him in half diagonally.
Then there was one. Odvan, the man who had been accused of murder while asleep at his aunt’s house and joined the Forsworn because it was easier than arguing his own innocence, came at Harald casting flames. Harald ground his teeth, raised his sword, and with a guttural howl slashed horizontally across his field of vision.
Odvan’s head flew into the air, struck the ground and bounced. Then it rolled down one of Markarth’s beautiful staircases.
There was utter silence then, except for the sound of the head randomly striking steps as it rolled and a resounding sploosh as it came to rest in one of the waterways. Finally the guard who had stood by his side spoke.
“Thank you, Harald Stormcloak,” the woman guard said quietly. “Some of us know you, and know who you are. You’ve saved many lives today, and averted a war. Your father should be proud.”
Harald stared after her as she sheathed her weapon and started down the long ramp toward the mine. It felt as though he was coming back to himself from some distant place that he’d never been before – or perhaps from some place he’d always been but had never before seen. He looked down at the utter carnage at his feet, and saw that there had been one guard killed, probably the man he’d heard howling in pain. They were all there – all the people he’d met in the mine – except for Madanach, whose headless corpse was just inside the doors.
I did this. Almost all of this I did. Am I a monster?
He shook his head, attempting to clear it. It dawned on him that he should check Madanach’s corpse, before the authorities found it. He slipped back into the ruin to find the headless body, the head nowhere in sight. The valuable Bosmer-make light armor the old king wore had been completely ruined by being soaked through with the blood that continued seeping slowly out of its wearer’s neck. Harald reached into one of the belt pouches and pulled out a note. He had no qualms about reading it; if it revealed anything important he would take it to…
To whom? The Jarl? Son of the man who killed innocents? One of the Silver-Bloods? I don’t know! Who could I trust, here?
“I promised you all we would escape Cidhna Mine together, and I have found a way. If I die before I can show it to you, then search the cells near my room. Use my key. There is a tunnel that leads into the city that you can use. – Madanach.”
“Well that is of no importance now, is it?” he murmured, rising to leave the ruin once again. Maybe he would turn the note over to the friendly guards and suggest that they lock up the tunnels again if they intended to continue using the mine for slave labor. He found himself growling at that thought as he stepped out into the sun.
There was a man in fine clothing standing at the entrance. He stepped closer to Harald and cleared his throat.
“We haven’t met. I’m Thonar Silver-Blood, and my brother is the Jarl. My eyes inside Cidhna Mine tell me that Madanach is dead.”
Harald raised one eyebrow. He didn’t feel inclined toward politeness at the moment.
“And the pile of bodies out here didn’t give it away first?”
“You’ve done a great service to the Silver-Blood family. I’ve had the Jarl officially pardon you, and taken care of a few other loose ends.”
Harald snorted. “It was you and your thugs who arrested me in the first place!”
Thonar smirked. “And you’ve proven that was the best move I could have made, haven’t you. Don’t give me that look – you’re free to go. Here. How about a little token for your efforts? My family’s ring. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to figure out how I’m going to fill our newly emptied mine.”
Harald took the ring he was offered and stuffed it in a pouch without examining it very closely. He could tell that it was enchanted, but right at that moment he didn’t care.
“You might want to start by clearing out the dead,” he said, unable to keep the sarcasm from creeping into his voice.
“These?” Thonar said. He smirked again. “This is nothing compared to the mess we had to clean up just down the road. Your blade cuts cleanly, even if your shield tears the skin. The werewolves… well, they weren’t quite as dainty.”
I thought that I…
Wait. It couldn’t be the same beasts. We killed them near Morthal.
I wonder what is going on.
Harald wasn’t sure what he intended to do next. There was one thing he knew, though; he needed a good meal and a stiff drink while he tried to sort it all out.