Harald’s mind was racing as he pushed the massive Dwemer doors open and entered Markarth. He stepped out of the way as a man in drab miner’s clothing pushed past him and turned right.
I’m not going to have the truth about Father today, for certain. So. I need to find Calcelmo. I want to learn about the dwarves!
The marketplace was buzzing – literally, in the area around the meat stall, where flies were very busy. The place was covered in plant life: huge root-like vines climbing up the walls and hugging the pathways, clusters of fungi, and patches of flowers here and there. It was noisy, with people chatting in the market square and greeting each other from various levels of the old city.
“Do you want a nice piece of beef or mutton? Of course you do,” he heard the butcher call out. He had to grin. This man had a good sales presence.
He looked up the city’s central avenue, trying to get a sense of where the main keep might be and marveling at the ancient architecture he saw. City guards patrolled the steep path alongside a rushing stream. About halfway up, people were jumping the stream and picking their way down its far side, to avoid a robed man standing outside one of the old Dwemer houses. Harald almost caught what the man said as he approached yet another citizen but a flash of red hair on the walkway above him drew his attention away for a moment and then disappeared. He looked back at the robed man, intrigued, but then a woman’s voice closer by him drowned him out.
“Oh what a lovely pendant! That would look so good on my sis-“
She cried out in anguish. The man in drab miner’s clothing who had pushed Harald out of the way had suddenly rammed a knife into the woman’s back.
“The Reach belongs to the Forsworn!” he shouted.
Harald didn’t know what – if anything – he should do. He pulled his sword, more from reflex than anything else. He raised his spiked shield. But before he could move to where the man was, a city guard rushed past him and engaged the murderer.
“You’ve stepped on us long enough!” the miner howled, blasting the guard with flames.
Harald drew away from the altercation in confusion. The guard bashed the assailant with his shield, staggering him.
“Is that all you’ve got?” he shouted, leaping at the off-balance man and running him through.
There was a moment of stunned silence in the square before everything erupted in shouting and confusion.
“Another fight!”
“By the Divines, the Forsworn are back in the city!”
The guard looked around at them and shook his head. He raised his voice and declared that the city guard had everything under control.
“Well clearly not,” Harald muttered under his breath. “Or we wouldn’t have dead people next to the meat stand.” He found himself staring down at the two bodies, wondering why he hadn’t been able to react quickly enough to help the woman. He stepped back out of the way of the activity, and was about to leave when a man wearing green worker’s clothing tapped him on the arm. His brow was so furrowed that the vertical lines of his heavy face tattoos nearly met.
“Are you alright? Did you see what happened?”
Harald nodded. “Kind of, yeah. I looked over when this man started shouting about Forsworn.” He frowned at the memory. “I should have moved faster. I might have been able to stop him! But I was just so startled.”
The man shook his head. “Forsworn? Again? I thought we’d handled that problem fifteen, twenty years ago!” The butcher had wandered up beside them and nodded in agreement.
The man in green shrugged. “Well I hope the rest of your visit treats you more kindly, for what it’s worth. By the way,” he added, passing a small piece of parchment to Harald, “I think you dropped this. It might be important.” He gave Harald a slight smile and turned away, walking briskly out of the market and toward the street that hugged the cliffside to their right.
Harald was about to read the note when the butcher approached him.
“Did you see that madman? I can’t believe it.”
“What’s this about the Forsworn? I’ve heard of them, but I thought…” Harald didn’t finish his statement. He thought they’d been taken care of before he was born, to hear everyone else talk of it.
“I think he worked down at the smelter. A lot of the laborers there are sympathetic to the Forsworn. They promise the people that they’ll kill off all the Nords who rule over the Reach. Nothing but murderers and saboteurs.” He shook his head and tsk’d. “This has ruined my entire day.”
“Um…” Harald wasn’t certain how to proceed. He wasn’t familiar with Markarth except as it existed in stories his father had told him, and he certainly didn’t want to step into the wrong side of local politics. “I had some questions about the city….” he said, feeling a bit foolish.
“Do I look like a tour guide? Only thing I do is sell meat. Are you going to buy some, or not?” The man stepped back behind his stall, which was piled high with cuts of some animal Harald didn’t recognize. And he still didn’t know where the keep might be, although the movement of people through the area suggested that it was up the mountainside. Harald nodded to the butcher, feeling more than a little unsettled by his first few minutes in the city. Then he turned and walked away, downhill.
He paused for a moment, once he was out of the marketplace, to look at the note. It was a simple, concise message: “Meet me at the Shrine of Talos at midnight.” Harald frowned.
I suppose I should do so. He must have had an important reason for going to such great lengths instead of just talking to me here and now. He glanced up at the sky, squinting. It was still a long time before midnight. Guess I’ll stick to my original plan and go find Calcelmo.
It didn’t take long for the eerie feeling that had settled over him to dissipate. There was just too much to look at, and the day was too beautiful for the emotional cloud to hang over him for long. He wandered past the entrance to the local mine, the smelter outside it surrounded by busily working men. Not far away and one level up was a forge, where a female Orc gave a dark-skinned Imperial man scathing reviews of his smithing attempts. Harald, trying to hide a grin, passed them and continued upward. There was an apothecary’s shop cut into the mountain at the top of the next short flight of stairs, its entrance flanked by planters full of mushrooms, deathbell, and other alchemical crops. He couldn’t resist the urge to go in.
The aromas from inside the store were sharper and more concentrated than those he was used to from the wooden alchemists’ shops in other cities, where cold Skyrim air seeped through. He stopped to savor the rich odors for a moment, grinning as he pictured how excited his mother would be in such a place.
“It’s downstairs, dear. Come right in,” an old woman called out. Harald took her at her word and made his way down the steps. A young woman near the counter complained about how much there was to memorize and learn about the shop, and he had to agree. It was a dizzying place; he saw many fungi and herbs that he simply didn’t recognize, lining the shelves alongside more familiar ingredients.
He stepped up to the counter and smiled at the old woman standing behind it. She wore the same sort of heavy face tattoos as the man who’d passed him the note.
I’ve heard about these old Reachmen and their tattoos. It’s more elaborate than basic Nord war paint. I wonder…
“The Hag’s Cure is here for all your discreet needs,” she said to him. “And what might those needs be today?”
Harald smiled. “Nothing in particular. I’m just exploring Markarth and trying to learn about the area. It’s my first time here.” He picked up a potion flask from the countertop and examined it idly. He returned it and looked back up at the woman, who was staring at him with a piercing gaze.
No, I’m not trying to steal anything.
“Hag’s Cure is quite a name. What does it signify?” he asked.
The woman harrumphed. “Comes from living to a ripe old age. People start thinking there’s something magical about you. Then the insults start. So, if I’m a hag in their minds I might as well be a hag and enjoy it. Besides, Bothela’s Cure doesn’t have the same ring to it,” she grinned. “Not that anyone likes to admit buying things from me.” She looked down at the shelf beneath her counter; and Harald saw her eyes light up. “See, I even have a little potion for the steward. Would you mind handing it over to him? Just say it should solve that problem he has,” she added in a conspiratorial whisper.
Harald chuckled. “Sure. I’d be happy to. I’m heading that way anyway, assuming I can find the keep.”
“Turn left when you leave here. Go up the stairs, across the bridge, and turn left again.”
He nodded. “Got it. Thanks. I hope you don’t mind my asking but what do you know about the Forsworn?”
Bothela’s eyes flickered a bit but she didn’t miss a beat responding to him. “Only that they break an old woman’s heart. So many friends, so many kin trying to rebuild a past that was over long ago.” She sighed. “But we’d be better off without the Silver-Bloods, too. I don’t know. It never seems to end. Now I’ve got to get back to work. Come see me if you need a cure. Or anything else,” she added, winking at him.
Harald left the shop happy. It was good to have a reason to be in the keep besides just curiosity, which would mark him as an uninformed newcomer ripe for the picking. Of course that’s what I am, but why advertise it?
At its first landing, a ramp rose from the staircase to the left, toward a pair of Dwemer doors set deep into the surrounding stone. He was tempted to go try the doors, but the area was deserted and he could hear voices and other activity higher up, even over the roar of the mountain stream that rushed down through the city. He instead crossed the footbridge, as Bothela had directed, and followed a citizen up and to his left.
The second landing was at a flat path that cut across the front of the mountainside and led back into a veritable maze of stairways, passages, and gardens. A tall pillar inset with metal-clad reliefs of heavily armored faces marked the area one level above him as the aptly-named Understone Keep. The Dwemer door at the top of the stairs was flanked by banners bearing the Markarth sigil and by a pair of guards. Harald felt his excitement growing. This was where he would find Calcelmo, the expert on all things Dwemer.
He entered the keep and looked around to get his bearings. The large chamber he was in wasn’t completely clear of fallen rubble, though he could see three exits from it that seemed clear. A guard was stationed at the landing of a short staircase to his right. Straight ahead but through several archways were well-lighted, fully-excavated staircases leading up. He watched an armored man stride purposefully in that direction and decided that must be the Keep proper, where the Jarl and his advisors kept court. He would make Bothela’s delivery before trying to locate Calcelmo.
Harald thought the Jarl’s throne looked like a lonely place, connected to the stone walls and as far away from the court as possible. Even his father’s throne, raised several steps above the floor, was an integral part of the court; his father was always within easy reach. Thongvor Silver-Blood, though, sat apart from anything and anyone aside from his steward. Harald had been given enough training in Skyrim politics to know the steward’s name: Reburrus Quintilius, an Imperial man who knew his job and kept his nose out of most other things. Harald approached and was greeted, if not with a smile, at least with a friendly voice.
“Good to see you!” Reburrus exclaimed.
Hmm. He must think he recognizes me because I look so much like Father.
“Thank you. It’s good to see you as well. I have a delivery for you, from Bothela,” Harald said, handing over the flask. The man’s reaction was immediate. He flushed, his eyebrows rose for a moment, and his mouth formed an unspoken “oh.”
“I, uh…” He stowed the flask under his cloak and pulled out a small coin purse. “So. Accept this as payment.” He turned away from Harald, clearly embarrassed. Harald was about to leave when he noticed that the Jarl was staring at him.
“Greetings, sire,” he said, bowing slightly to the older man. “I’m not sure whether you’ve heard yet. There was an attack in the marketplace.”
Thongvor and his steward exchanged a glance. Harald saw an entire conversation in that glance, though he didn’t know what it held. The Jarl returned his gaze to Harald.
“Again,” he said. “This has happened before, but it has been a very long time now. Since before you were born, Harald Stormcloak. Yes, I know who you are. You favor your father a great deal.” He sighed. “It’s unfortunate that we live in such violent times. But there you have it.”
Harald nodded. “The attacker claimed to be a Forsworn.”
The Jarl frowned. “Nonsense. More likely he was just… sick in the head. After the war, the militia cleansed the Reach of the Forsworn. Any remnants of them are where they belong: in the mines. Bringing us wealth. So don’t concern yourself with it. Markarth is safe! You have my word.”
Harald smiled. “I have no doubt of it. I just wanted to be sure you knew what had happened. Thank you, sire.”
“Fare well, kinsman,” the Jarl said as Harald turned to leave.
He was puzzled by much of the conversation he’d just had. He’d never heard his father speak of “cleansing the Reach,” or even sending militia here, though it almost had to have been the case after Tullius’ defeat. But that was, as Thongvor had said, before he was born. It was recent, to the older people; but to him it might as well be ancient history. As he approached the great entry chamber once more, Harald saw a robed figure turning up the slope to his right, and followed him around the piles of stone rubble.
Looks like a wizard to me.
He passed through the archway and caught his breath. Before him was the nearest thing he’d ever seen to a true Dwemer cityscape, an enormous cavern filled with architecture. Towers of beautifully-carved stone were topped with cupolas clad in the brassy-colored Dwemer metal. As in the outside, the space was built almost organically into the mountain, with structures on several levels as the terrain changed. A river ran through the center of it; and across a bridge were more levels, more structures, more doors that teased him to go find out what they concealed. He approached the bridge and gazed up at its towers, each topped by an inert but intimidating spherical construct. A shudder ran up his back; he’d heard tales about these constructs and how deadly they could be.
The door up the stairs at the far end of the bridge was locked. Harald pondered it for a moment, but then turned back toward the robed men he’d seen on his way in. They were moving about a platform set up as a workstation, with both an enchanting table and an alchemy lab. Side tables near them were piled high with books and pieces of Dwemer metal. One of the men sat on an ancient Dwemer bench but the other paced back and forth across the platform; it was him that Harald approached, only to be greeted by a surly snarl.
“I have things to study, why are you bothering me?” The voice from beneath the hood was that of an old person – how old, Harald couldn’t tell. “The excavation site’s closed! I don’t need any more guards or workers.”
Harald blinked. It was a mer under the hood, he could tell that much. That meant this was likely the very Calcelmo he’d come looking for.
“I…I think I’m here to see you,” he stammered. “I’m interested in Dwemer. Everything about them. But… excavation site?” Maybe I could get in on this and really learn something, first-hand!
The old mer snorted. “Nchuand-Zel? The ruins underneath Markarth? The wealth of artifacts that I’ve based two human lifetimes of research on?” His voice rose and became more strident as he went along. Then he launched into a few moments of self-congratulations. This was Calcelmo, and Harald knew that he wasn’t just bragging. He really was the foremost expert on Dwemer in Tamriel, as far as he knew. It still seemed a very long time before the old mer ran out of steam and stopped yelling.
“I’m… sorry,” he said finally, when Harald didn’t react to the ranting. “How can I help you?”
Harald grinned. “Well I’d heard you were the guy to see about Dwemer things.”
“Yes,” Calcelmo nodded. “Their history and culture is all around us in Markarth. They were a race of artists, stone-cutters, and engineers. They invented machines and built elaborate underground cities where they researched powers to rival the gods themselves!”
They talked for a few minutes then, Harald sharing the little he’d learned about the Dwemer, mostly from books. Calcelmo puffed up with pride at that and pointed to the tomes on his work tables. The titles were familiar; Harald had read them all. But as he flipped open the cover of Volume I he realized that the title page bore the name of the person he was speaking to at the moment.
That Calcelmo! This is that Calcelmo! I’m a complete idiot for not realizing it sooner!
“I’ve been interested in them my whole life,” Harald said, trying to cover up his own embarrassment, grateful that it was so very dark inside the cavern. “Such as it is, given that I’m not very old. But I live in Windhelm, and I’ve never had the chance to really explore a Dwemer ruin. I’d love to see the excavation site.”
“Very well. Who am I to stand in the way of such curiosity? I’ll let you in if you agree to do something for me. There’s a giant spider in Nchuand-Zel. My workers call her Nimhe – the Poisoned One. If you deal with Nimhe I’ll let you into both the excavation site and my Dwemer museum. What do you say?”
“Gladly. I’ve never met a spider I didn’t enjoy squashing.”
“Enthusiasm!” Calcelmo laughed. “That’s good. Here’s the key to the dig site. It’s through those doors, across the water.”
Harald had to work not to simply snatch the key away from Calcelmo in his eagerness to get inside the excavation. He did grin widely at the mer, though, before dashing back over the bridge and unlocking the door, entering in a crouch just in case Nimhe was waiting there on the other side.
What he found, instead, was a long, tall corridor with platforms along its sides. It was easy to see how the movements of the mountain over time had affected the ancient city: some of the elaborately carved pillars stood at crazy angles with tons of stone pushing at them from behind. The area was mostly clear of rubble, but not completely excavated. Hand carts half-filled with stone debris, chunks of metal and scattered tools bore witness to the fact that work had stopped in mid-stream with the threat of the spider.
Harald explored every spot he could reach, marveling at the metal that clad the corners of pillars and the elaborate lantern-like structures that rested atop many of them. He clambered up the gigantic stones at the farthest end of the corridor and could only wonder how much farther the passage must stretch beyond the end of the excavation.
Finally he turned back and headed into the one open passage. Beyond a toppled decorative column was a long, narrow corridor. Even with piles of recalcitrant rubble still blocking parts of the passage, Harald could see the decorative carvings in some of the stone floor panels and the tattered remnants of ancient runners that had adhered to the stone so long ago he marveled that they still existed. He pushed forward, grinning from ear to ear.
This is the most exciting thing I’ve ever seen!
At the far end of the passage was a huge drop. The space beyond was circular, and very deep, almost like a water cistern or a mine. The long ramps down to the bottom were littered with shovels and pickaxes, and there were spots where ore deposits had been uncovered but not yet mined out. It was hard to say what this place might have been used for by the Dwemer, but it seemed very odd to Harald, not much like a city at all. He peered at one such deposit, wondering what sort of metal it was, and then grabbed a pickaxe and dug out a few pieces of iron.
A sound around the corner to his left caught his attention. He dropped the pickaxe and grabbed his sword and shield – a small thing, but sporting deadly spikes on its front side – and stepped as quietly as he was able into the rough-hewn passage.
He was greeted by a gob of spider venom in his face. Swearing quietly to himself, he wiped his eyes with his sleeve and held up the shield. At least the spider wouldn’t be able to get its fangs into him. His vision cleared slowly but he could make out the creature before him, and he was puzzled. This was no enormous, deadly beast, just a common-variety frostbite spider, big but not terrifyingly so. He alternated sword strikes with bashes of his shield. Between his muscle power and the shield’s spikes, it didn’t take long before the spider dropped to the cavern floor and was still.
He was about to congratulate himself when not one, but two more spiders of a similar size scuttled around the corner to attack him. The first of these went down easily. The second, though, was slightly larger; and Harald was feeling his lack of practice as his shield arm fatigued. This battle went on much longer and required him to retreat up the wooden miner’s ramps for a moment to heal himself. At last, though, he timed an attack perfectly and brought his sword straight down into the spider’s brain, killing it.
He caught his breath for a moment, shaking his head. “You… are not… Nimhe,” he said quietly between breaths. “There’s no way you’re large enough to have stopped an entire crew of miners and architects in mid-excavation.”
Once he’d recovered, he pushed forward through what was clearly just a cavern. There were a few pieces of Dwemer-carved stonework here and there, but this was merely a passage through the mountainside. Besides the stones, there were cobwebs. Many cobwebs, and some enormous spider egg sacks, and even some human skeletons, picked distressingly clean. Harald swallowed hard when he spied them, clustered around a brazier. He hadn’t expected to be at that kind of risk here.
But why wasn’t I? Our ancient Nord barrows are full of walking dead. Why should I be surprised that the spiders down here live on the juices of whatever stumbles in? They don’t care whether it’s a goat or a human.
As if to underline that point, he tripped over something in his way and looked down only to find a very human-shaped package of spider silk. He whispered an apology to the dead person and stepped over the body, cutting his way through more webs into the next space. There was a short drop, and then the passage he was in opened up to what he’d expected to see: the entrance to another part of Nchuand-Zel itself. A set of steps lead up to a platform flanked by many metal-clad pillars. He could see a set of doors mostly blocked by cobwebs, and lying just before them a shape that Harald feared was a body.
He moved forward, thinking to go examine that body, and then stopped short as a rustling from above him caught his attention. He looked up to see the most truly gigantic spider he’d ever encountered, descending from a circular hole in the ceiling, around which were many hanging packages of whatever the spider had caught and killed. Harald felt the hair on his neck and arms rise.
Nimhe. So this is what I’ve gotten myself into.
He backpedaled as quickly as he could, up the rise into the dirt passage that, he hoped, was too narrow for the huge spider to follow him into.
Now what?
Harald took stock of his situation and of himself. He was a decent fighter, but he’d led a pampered childhood if he was honest with himself, and he simply wasn’t up to fighting up close with a beast of this size. Even if the spider wasn’t a match for a sword like the one he carried, it had lethal fangs and huge volumes of poison compared to an average frostbite spider. He sighed. He had no real option. Harald carried an elven-make bow, mostly for hunting. He wasn’t the best archer in the world; his cousin Chip had insisted he learn the basics, though, so he could at least make adequate use of it.
I guess there’s no help for it. At least I can give this creature a taste of her own poison.
Frostbite spiders carried generous amounts of venom. It was their primary means of defense, even against their own kind. Harald had just harvested a fair amount of venom from the smaller spiders he’d killed on the way in. He coated some arrows with it and took aim on the huge bulk of Nimhe. That was the one good thing about the situation: he might not be the best archer ever, but he had an enormous target.
There was nothing whatsoever exciting about the battle that followed. As Harald had hoped, Nimhe couldn’t fit into the tunnel to chase him down. She did spit venom at him at intervals, but he was able to avoid most of it. Harald would shoot a poisoned arrow at the spider and then, while the poison did its work, launch one or two additional arrows at it. Then he’d repeat the process. At one point Nimhe side-stepped to dodge an arrow and, when he moved to find a better angle to shoot at her, caught Harald full in the face with her venom. He needed to heal for a few moments after that or become very ill indeed. But that was the only break in the cycle of shooting that had his arms aching with fatigue. At last he sensed that Nimhe was nearly defeated; at that moment he switched to his sword and shield, dashed into the open, dodged her one last attempt to stab him with a fang and ran the spider through.
He harvested the spider venom from the huge carcass and then trotted up the stairs to the platform to examine what he’d thought was a human body. He’d been right; it was a man in the uniform of an Imperial Legionnaire. Harald frowned. It wasn’t as if there weren’t a lot of old Legion uniforms around, even fifteen years after the end of hostilities. And this close to the border of High Rock it might well have been someone from there just doing business here in Markarth, who ran into the wrong place at the wrong time. Still, it made him uneasy to see that uniform in this place.
There was a note to someone named Salonia next to the dead man, saying that he’d been “saddled with” four researchers: Staubin, Strom, Erj and Krag. The dead man had been named Altheius, if this was his note. Harald sighed. He’d wanted to go through the door and check out the ruins further, but it seemed to him that if a group of researchers had gone missing, Calcelmo had likely been the one to send them.
“I’d better go back and tell him,” he muttered under his breath. Reluctantly, he turned back from the enticing doors and retraced his steps through the spider corpses, the mine, and the outer excavation.
Calcelmo was very grateful to learn that the spider was dead, and handed over the key to the Dwemer museum across the main hall. Harald had all he could do to keep from jumping up and down like a child in his excitement, and in fact nearly forgot to hand Calcelmo the note.
“Oh! Um, I found this note next to a dead man, just past the spider. I’m sure she must have killed him. But it looks like there was an expedition? And I don’t imagine things went well without their bodyguard.”
“Hmm,” the old wizard said, frowning at the page. “This looks like someone from Staubin’s little group. A brave scholar but not very wise. If you find Staubin, it would be good to see any notes he may have collected.”
“You seem fairly sure I’m going back in there,” Harald said, grinning.
“Yes. You have the fire of curiosity about you. About Staubin – well, I’m fairly sure you won’t find him alive.”
“That’s what I think, too. I’ll let you know if I find anything. When I go back in, I mean.” Harald waved and left the wizard to his work. It was late, now; and he intended to find the Shrine of Talos and find out what the man in the marketplace had wanted.