Kalaman Jorus rested just outside the city gates of Solitude, once more wondering whether he was doing the right thing. It had been weeks since his cousin Rumaril visited the College of Winterhold to alert him that strange things were afoot in the West. Natural disasters were happening in High Rock, but natural disasters had happened before and would continue to happen. Various groups of increasingly-restless people were converging on the area; but that wasn’t unusual, either. People wanted land, resources, and wealth. People didn’t like being controlled by others. People would, at various times in their histories, revolt against whichever group was in power. It was concerning, but only to the point that Skyrim should keep its eyes on the West.
It was other things Rumaril had told him that bothered Kalaman. He’d taken the weeks since to think, and research, and consult with Urag gro-Shub, the College’s Archivist, who was immensely older than he was. And because he was Kalaman Jorus, a scholar born and bred, he’d read as much as he and Urag could find about the history of those lands just to the west of High Rock’s border with Skyrim.
When people talked about “the Reach” here in Skyrim, they meant the part of it on the eastern slopes, where Markarth was the hold capital and where tiny mining towns and ancient Dwemer ruins dotted the landscape. When “Reachmen” spoke of the Reach, they included those parts of High Rock just over the mountains, areas that had once been the Kingdom of Jehanna and the Kingdom of Evermore, where the river Bjoulsae reached northeast from the Iliac Bay, forming a slim and precarious border with Hammerfell. It was the land where Urag’s own ancestors had tried time and again to create their own Kingdom of Orsinium – always to fall to other races that considered them abominations. It had also, in days long since faded into legend, been under the sphere of influence of the Direnni, those high elves said to be half-ancestors of the Breton race, and thus of much of the current population of the Reach.
That was the part that worried him the most. Rumaril had spoken of strange magic stirring in the West. But Rumaril, while he was a talented mage, was not a scholar. He hadn’t the patience for it. Rumaril wouldn’t have connected the magical stirrings to the Direnni and their Adamantine Tower. If that ancient power was stirring, somehow, potentially foul things were afoot.
There was also the matter of a plague spreading in that part of the world. Kalaman had encountered a number of the “Afflicted,” people whose skin was red from disease and who could spew a toxic green poison if threatened. They’d been in Skyrim for decades, tending to stay hidden in the old Dwemer cities and posing no real problem. But Rumaril had said that the plague was spreading quickly in the West, threatening portions of High Rock – including the ancient portions of it known by its natives as the Reach.
Thus, Kalaman had taken his time to research. He was a bureaucrat, and an aristocrat, and the Archmage of the College of Winterhold. If he made a pilgrimage to the West he’d be damned if he would make some clumsy political misstep out of sheer laziness.
So here am I, weeks later, full of knowledge but still wondering whether I shall be bold enough to insert myself into the affairs of a different land. It seems fitting that I should. If the concerns are valid, we mages may be called upon to do more than enchant armor and produce floating balls of light. I absolutely must know how to deploy our strengths to their greatest effect if there is anything I can do to prepare.
He rose to make his way to the carriage driver. Because he was a bureaucrat, he wasn’t an athlete. He would far rather spend a bit of gold than to reach Markarth exhausted before even beginning the climb through the pass.
It was an uneventful stroll up through the foothills to the pathway at the base of Hag Rock Redoubt. He stared at the daunting climb before him and wondered how merchants coaxed their draft horses to haul heavy carts up it. There were a few open areas where a cart’s wheels might roll easily beside the ancient stone stairway, but other spots were too narrow, leaving no choice than to traverse the stairs.
I’d protest, if I were the horse. It must be simply torturous to have a heavy load jumping around with each step.
Well, I suppose there’s no help for it. I’ve procrastinated long enough.
As he trudged slowly up the mountainside it occurred to him that many of the Nords he knew would assume he could simply conjure a pair of wings, or perhaps a horse. He couldn’t. He could summon an assistant, and his usual slate of weaponry was all made of conjuration magic, but he had no flight.
More’s the pity. I am simply not cut out for manual labor or long hikes. And I don’t like horseback riding. No wonder Rumaril used to make fun of me when we were children.
Well, that and the fact that I’m half-Bosmer.
It took hours to arrive at the Imperial border checkpoint, but only a few moments to learn that the rumored tensions were real. Not more than a dozen steps inside the gate Kalaman passed a small group of Orcs heading west. He must have looked as curious as he felt, because one of the Orcs met his gaze and spoke up.
“You’re wondering why we’re heading into Skyrim, right? We’re getting out of here before things turn sour for my kind.There’s another disaster coming. Dushnikh Yal and Mor Khazgur are near the border and if they won’t take us in, maybe we can set up near Markarth. Has to be better than this. My only question is why anyone would be heading west.”
Kalaman opened his mouth to reply and then shrugged. An explanation would take far too long, be far too involved, and would give away far too much. “Best of luck to you,” he told the Orc. “I’m sure one of the strongholds will be happy to accept you.”
“Right,” the Orc replied sarcastically. “Well, thanks anyway. Appreciate the good thoughts.
Kalaman turned back toward the west, startled to find an Imperial guard with his sword drawn. But unlike tall mountains, a man in arms was something he could deal with.
“Excuse me?” he said, hoping that his cultured tones would work to his advantage. Just to be on the safe side, though, he quietly prepared to conjure his sword.
“What were you doing talking to those Orc scum?”
So I see that prejudices against Orsimer are alive and well even among the Empire’s best. Or perhaps these are not their best, here in a backwater sort of post. I wonder what this man would do if I informed him that one of the most brilliant souls I know is an Orc of some 600 years’ experience?
“As you saw, my good man. They happened to pass by; I thought it might be civil of me to say hello. Is there some problem with that?”
“Um… ” The man snorted and harrumphed for a moment before sheathing his sword. “No. But there’s been trouble, closer to the Divide. Witchmen. Watch yourself. We have our eyes on you.”
Kalaman glanced around at the encampment, noticing a great many wine bottles on tables or on the ground near tents. He doubted that their eyes could be very sharp under the influence of that much liquid courage. He gave the soldier a nod and a smug smile, and continued on his way.
After the climb to get here, he was grateful that the next stretch of well-established roadway meandered over flat terrain between hills: first southwest, then northwest, and finally due west past an old Imperial watchtower and a wooden lookout. Beneath the roadside lamp post nearby was a large blood spatter, not much more than a few days old as best he could tell. Frowning, he moved closer.
More blood. Something grisly happened here not long ago. I’m grateful the bodies have been removed.
It was disturbing to see such obvious evidence of whatever had been making the Orcs nervous. It was even more disturbing to see and smell large spatters of green liquid at the top of the Imperial tower.
Poison. This looks like what the Afflicted produce. I don’t much like the look of it. Not at all.
Kalaman pondered what he’d seen all the way to the northern gate of the Divide. The guards called down to him, challenging his passage, but when he told them he was a scholar in search of information about the plague – for that was certainly one reason he was there – they let him through.
“Hope you find something,” one of the guards called down to him. “We certainly need some help, and maybe a smart guy like you will be able to get to the bottom of it.”
“I shall do my best,” Kalaman said, smiling up at him. Then he stepped through the gate, frowning. He’d harbored a secret hope that Cousin Rumaril’s dramatic foreboding had been just that – drama – but the evidence of bloodletting and the clear indications of fear from the locals didn’t look like simple drama at all.
Straight ahead, north of and separate from the town on the bridge, was a sturdy building with an inn’s sign swaying outside. Kalaman smirked.
Nords. It has to be. They would definitely place themselves apart from the Bretons and Imperials.
He’d dealt with more than his share of Nord unpleasantness as Archmage, particularly given that he was an Altmer-Bosmer mix. He tried his best to be fair and pleasant, but…
What’s this?
Not far from the inn’s yard, in a clearing just to the north of the roadway, stood something he’d only seen in book illustrations. It resembled the standing stones in Skyrim, but was perhaps shorter and darker. Older. And in its center a blue sphere humming with energy – impossibly, deeply, mesmerizingly blue – sparkled and called out to any passers-by to approach, to touch.
I’ll be. A Direnni travel stone?
He reached out toward the structure but snatched his hand back as he felt a pull from the ball of energy.
These work by harnessing one’s essence and reconstituting it in a different location. I would assume that an accomplished mage, even one as unremarkable as I, might have enough energy to activate the stone. I absolutely do not want to test this theory. I’m fond of this body and have no desire to have it somehow reassembled elsewhere from its constituent parts. I’ll limit my work with souls to those I find in soul gems.
Direnni magic, though. I wonder if that’s what Rumaril felt.
Deep in thought, he approached the inn. He’d gleaned a fair amount of information in a short time, and it didn’t bode well for what was to come. Orcs feeling threatened, guards enough unsettled by a spreading plague to welcome help, and…
“Scuse me,” came a distinctly Nord voice behind him. “Don’t want to knock you over by mistake.”
He stopped in place and turned to look at the man. He was unremarkable, but large-bodied as was typical of Nords. He looked up at Kalaman and grunted again.
“You was weaving all over the place. I was afraid I’d run into you. You drunk or something?”
“Certainly not. But I was preoccupied and not paying attention to my path. I beg your pardon for blocking your passage.” He mustered up a brief smile at the man. “So am I right about this being a Nord inn?”
“Aye, that it is. And that’s my home over there,” he said, pointing at an attractive little cottage just north of the inn. “Though it’s not really my home, if you catch my drift.”
“I take it you’re from Skyrim?”
“Aye. Originally. Name’s Dalor.”
“And I am Kalaman Jorus; pleased to make your acquaintance. So what brings you to this end of the Reach?”
The man sighed. “Got evicted from my home in Whiterun for ‘running a skooma ring.’ None of that was true but my neighbors thought otherwise. With not much to my name I packed up and moved out here. The land is cheap and the food is even cheaper for all the trade that runs straight through. So here I am.”
“Interesting. The plague doesn’t worry you? I’m trying to find out more about it.”
“I keep well away from them Witchmen, and the Exiles, and all the various collections of lowlife near Arnima and Evermore. If you’re not next to them you won’t catch it.” He paused, furrowing his brow. “At least I hope not. Anyway, I heard the local clergyman, you know, Fenig: well, he’s been making a bother about a potential cure. Grab his attention and ask if you can help. I ain’t going wandering around for ingredients for him.”
Kalaman nodded.
“I thank you, my good man, for the news.”
The Nord looked him over again. “Fancy robes. You one of them magician types?”
Kalaman couldn’t help but chuckle. “As it happens, yes I am. I currently live in Winterhold. I’m here looking into ancient magic.”
Dalor shuddered. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Magic, ugh. If you’re looking for a bunk for the night, though, we run a good inn here.”
Kalaman watched the man return to his home, pleased to learn that this was a good inn. He was ready for a meal and a room. He took another step or two but then stopped, tsk’ing as he realized he wouldn’t be able to rest while his mind was racing.
The priests may know something. I should go find them before I rest my head.
Kalaman received a few pointed stares as he climbed onto the ancient bridge, but he was used to being stared at given his dusky skin and silver hair. Many distrusted mer to begin with; a mixed-race mer was hard to ignore. He’d long since given up trying to blend in, and had even adopted his silver robes to accent his appearance.
A man holding a broadsheet stood outside a blacksmith’s work area. As Kalaman approached he cleared his throat.
“Hear ye, hear ye! The Affliction threatens to engulf the Reach, as more and more fatalities are reported, even witnessed at times. Pray to the N… pray to the Eight for good health!”
Kalaman did not allow his amusement to reach his expression. It didn’t seem to matter how many years, months, or decades passed: some would still praise the Nine out of sheer habit and catch themselves in mid-prayer if an Altmer was anywhere nearby.
Even a half-Altmer.
The sun was beginning its descent as he approached the largest building atop the ancient bridge: an old church, oddly raised over the bridge but still stunning. Where there were churches, though, there were priests; he would most likely find Fenig here.
It didn’t take him long to find the man; Fenig was middle-aged, in Breton-style priestly robes and cap. Kalaman approached and cleared his throat to get the priest’s attention.
“Pardon me, but are you Fenig?”
“I am.”
“I understand that you are a priest in need of help. Is that true?”
“As someone who serves in the light of the Nine it is to be expected,” the old priest said with a smile, squinting as he looked Kalaman over. “The matter is light for someone of your skills, though, I’m sure of it. I’m in need of a particular sap belonging to a spriggan Matron, and, that of lesser spriggans as well.”
“Spriggan sap? How odd.”
“With such sap and the help of other priests, we may be able to concoct some immunity for the pox that spills in from the west.”
“I’ve heard of this. What seems to be the problem?”
“The plague that’s left this land stricken, first sighted among those Witchmen lifeless along the road towards Evermore. We don’t know if it’s of natural or Daedric origin, but it seems to strike hardest with children and the elderly. A handful of the young died in Arnima just last month.”
Even as an alchemist of no particular talent, Kalaman could imagine why spriggan sap was worth trying. If the disease sprang in some way from the land itself, the essence of a powerful being of the land might counteract it.
Kalaman nodded slowly. “There’s something similar in Skyrim, where I hail from. It’s rumored to be Daedric, but who knows whether this is the same disease. In any event I’d be interested in helping find out whether it can be contained.”
“Excellent! A spriggan matron has been sighted just below the Nord’s inn on the north side of the bridge, with other spriggans lurking just beyond.”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
He could easily have just returned to the inn the way he’d come but he wanted to see more of the area before retiring for the night. Wandering down through the rest of the Divide’s buildings and leaving the bridge, he passed more blood spatters and overheard the grumblings of farmers and guards alike.
“At least the stinking thing is finally gone,” one man said.
“I thought we’d never finish carving it up! First the undead, then a dragon? The world’s gone mad, I tell you.”
“And I wouldn’t want to be the first poor sod that comes across that much dead meat.”
“Nor I. At least it’s gone, though.”
“Aye, and the bones and scales should be useful.”
Kalaman frowned as he passed through the town’s southern guard station. Dragons? Here? There were indeed signs of struggle, blotches of blood and gore scattered alongside the roadway. He could only hope they were the remnants of the undead the farmers had mentioned, and not people who had been alive before the skirmish. It truly wasn’t peaceful here. There really were things badly amiss. He conjured his bow as he left the roadway and passed across its grassy shoulder, descending into the river’s stony channel. Just as well, too, he decided; there was a rough campsite overlooking the water, and the people in it glared at his passage.
It’s been some time since I’ve been in any sort of combat. If these men attack, though, I would prefer to take them on from a safe distance.
He was fortunate, though; no attack came. Once reaching the water he dismissed his bow and crossed the river, feeling a sense of security. After all, there was a large, clearly-occupied Imperial tower on an island in its midst. Someone would be looking out this way.
Probably a false sense of security. I’d best pay attention to what’s in front of me, for spriggans can hide better than most other things in this world. Fortunate for me that the moons are full this evening. At least I can see fairly well.
Here, the riverbank was a gentle, grassy slope up to a flatter, crescent-shaped meadow hugging the base of huge stone outcroppings. In some places the grass had been flattened into mud by the passage of many feet. Wary, Kalaman raised his hands, gathering power. He paused for a moment, listening for any movements but hearing none; then he turned west on one of the paths, toward a cluster of trees. That was a place a spriggan might be.
What he found instead was another mage. The man hurtled out of the shadows toward him, ice spell at the ready. Startled, Kalaman hesitated for just a moment. He conjured a wraith to serve as a distraction; but he’d been a moment too slow to prevent the mage’s ice spike from slamming into his chest. He yelped and limped his way off the path, back down the slope toward the river, hoping to find some cover while the wraith fought the mage.
It was a short-lived hope. He heard the wraith dissipating a moment or two after he’d healed himself. Grimacing, he prepared Flames in his right hand – for what countered ice better than fire? – and Wither in his left. If he could get that spell off in time, the other mage would be slowed long enough for Kalaman to get out of the way.
He couldn’t.
The other mage – a man dressed in Forsworn-style armor – first struck Kalaman with sparks. Not only did that hurt, it nearly blinded him so that any return spell would have nearly no chance of striking home. He uttered an undignified shriek of pain and turned tail, his healing spell barely able to keep up with the damage he was taking.
This is bad.
“Embrace the ugly!” the man cried out from behind him.
What? Embrace the ugly? What is this man?
“Submit, and let rot consume you!”
“I would prefer otherwise, my good man!” he shouted back, casting a flame atronach spell and making for the river. He heard the atronach tossing fireballs, and then, just as he reached the far shore and conjured his bow, heard it dissolve. The atronach fell and exploded in a ball of flame that should have taken the man down but which did not.
It was a long shot, both in terms of distance and in terms of luck. He took aim, though, knowing that his conjured weapons would continue to drain a foe’s health if he could only reach it. He managed to land a strike on the frost mage just as another ice spike reached him. Even as he cried out in pain Kalaman had to admire the other mage’s skills.
The man has such range!
“The worm will conquer the mountain!” the mage cried.
Kalaman hauled himself behind a boulder, panting and casting healing on himself as fast as he could, one spell after another. Then he realized that it was oddly quiet. He crept out around the boulders; seeing no movement beyond them he crossed the river yet again and found the body of the mage lying not far from where he’d flung his last ice spike. Kalaman’s arrow had done its work.
Witchman, I take it.
With a nod of respect for his fellow mage’s prowess, Kalaman started back up the slope and into the meadow.
He came so close to ending me. I wonder whether it would be a badge of honor to him to know he so thoroughly bested the Archmage. I’d better be paying closer attention to what I’m doing, particularly now that it’s getting dark.
The Witchman had been at the west end of the meadow, but the priest Fenig had said the spriggans were spotted “just below” the inn. That likely meant he needed to turn east, closer to the Divide and the nearly-impassable mountainside that was directly behind the inn.
With a renewed sense of purpose and fresh humility, Kalaman crept uphill with his magic at the ready. The rapidly-fading light revealed a structure at the far eastern end of the meadow. And because Kalaman was looking that way he also spotted the subtle green glow of spriggans; they had seen him coming and roused themselves into activity but were, most fortunately, still quite a way off.
This enemy Kalaman knew how to handle. They were wood, and wood was easily consumed by fire, his specialty. He conjured a flame atronach just a moment after he spotted the beasts, and then readied flame spells of his own, basic flames in his left hand and a rune in the other. The atronach threw two fireballs at the spriggans, catching the first directly and ending it almost immediately. The second, wounded but still very much alive, floated down the meadow toward Kalaman, close enough that he could feel the pull of its magical poison. As the atronach continued attacking, Kalaman circled around behind the spriggan and tossed a rune onto the ground at the spriggan’s feet. It triggered the magic and exploded into flames, dropping harmlessly to the ground where Kalaman harvested its sap and found its fellow to do the same.
That makes me feel better. I may not be a fighter myself but I do have weapons at my disposal. Now then. A matron to find.
He studied the area carefully. It was indeed a wooden structure that he’d seen, the ramshackle bones of an old farmstead, with a mostly-overgrown, moss-covered well outside and the precarious remnants of a watchtower just behind it. There was no sign of movement near it, either from spriggans or from any other creature, man or animal.
Where would you be?
The grassland directly behind the farmstead wound through a pass, east and farther up the slope, so he decided to continue that way. Shortly thereafter he found another well-trodden path. He paused, listening closely for movement; when he heard nothing, he decided it would be far better to be fully prepared this time and conjured his bow. Maybe he’d be the one to have surprise for once.
It was a steep climb and he moved slowly, slightly out of breath but drawn toward the trees dotting the edge of the meadow at its highest point. He’d almost reached the summit when, out of the completely clear sky, a lightning bolt struck the ground in front of him. As Kalaman jumped back in surprise the terminus of the bolt formed a red cloud from which stepped – a spirit. At least he thought it must be a spirit: it appeared to wear the headdress of a Witchman, but it was semi-transparent and glowing as red as the cloud from which it had emerged.
What in Oblivion?
Even though startled, Kalaman was well-hidden and had the advantage. He raised his bow and took careful aim at the specter before him. He could tell when his arrow reached the mark, as the spirit rocked backward; but it wasn’t defeated, and ran toward him screaming.
“No one escapes!”
The voice of a Dremora was unmistakable. As Kalaman leapt to the side to avoid the creature, it raised its weapon and landed a painful blow. Wearing robes rather than armor was sometimes a vanity of mages that worked to their disadvantage, and this was one of those moments.
He scrambled up the hillside healing himself, knowing that the magic of his bow would do its work. As he had expected, in a moment or two the dremora cried out and dissipated, and its soul rushed toward Kalaman’s pack to be absorbed by one of the gems he carried.
The family propensity for conjuration magic works to my advantage yet again. It doesn’t matter that I’m not the strongest of mages when my weapons bleed the enemy dry.
Once again Kalaman crept uphill, toward an odd structure topped by a burning torch. He frowned, feeling unsafe. He moved forward, his magic at the ready, and had almost reached the goal when red clouds erupted once more. He immediately summoned a wraith and made for the rocky hillside beside the path, conjuring his bow. There were three Dremora, and he was grateful to see them distracted by the wraith; that gave him enough time to take several careful shots at them. Most missed, but one or two struck home.
Suddenly, next to the structure in the distance, he spied his true target: the spriggan matron. He clambered higher up onto the rocks and began firing at her, rather than at the dremora. They could harm him physically; she, on the other hand, could drain his magic as well as his health and he wanted no part of that.
A few moments later the wraith dissipated, without having bested any of the Dremora. The spriggan was making a beeline for Kalaman. He quickly summoned another wraith, hopped back up the rocks, and began flinging fireballs at the spriggan as quickly as he could create them. The fire took the spriggan; the Dremora took the wraith. Kalaman conjured his bow and finished one of the three and continued firing at the other two as they ran down the hillside like glowing red beacons. Some carefully-aimed shots took each of them in turn. After retrieving the matron’s sap, Kalaman trotted back uphill to the structure.
Now then. What have we here?
It was something that he took to be a Witchman shrine. Three skin panels stretched across roughly-constructed wooden triangles, forming a rude pyramid of sorts topped by a totem assembled from parts of deer and elk. The Forsworn made structures like this and so did the various covens of hagraven and witches, in Skyrim. This, though, had a distinct aura of wrongness about it. He walked around the structure and discovered both a coffin behind it and a magically-imbued set of armor inside the “tent.” Nothing, either in the coffin nor near it, told him who was laid to rest there or why. The armor, though, he ran through his hands, eyes closed, sensing the magic.
“Frost and poison resistance. Interesting. And a powerful enchantment, at that.” He opened his eyes and shook his head. “But I’m afraid I’m too vain to put it on. Something tells me I would look quite absurd in feathers. At any rate, it’s time to get this spriggan sap back to the Divide.”
And myself to the inn.