Kalaman carefully passed under the red roots into a rocky but otherwise nonthreatening tunnel, the end of which was obscured by water rushing down from above. He paused, wondering whether it would be safe to step through the falls – but since he hadn’t yet found Lord Mortifayne’s amulet he felt obligated to continue.
Beyond the falls was a wet but solid passage, safe as long as he watched his footing, leading toward a large cavern. Peering down from the tunnel’s end he saw another ledge, large boulders packed together with the stream flowing through the openings between them. Feeling confident, Kalaman allowed himself to drop down onto the ledge.
Then things went sideways, briskly.
The boulders that had looked firmly wedged together collapsed, unceremoniously dropping him another two Altmers’ height into a freezing pool and battering his legs as they fell. As he struggled upright he spotted another Witchman construct: an unappetizing assemblage of ribcages, leg and arm bones and antlered skulls held out a stone basin as if waiting for offerings. Inside the created pelvis was a collection of something that he couldn’t identify from across the room, but which glistened, red and moist, like intestines. On the wall were more of the Witchmen’s spiraling red markings.
Those impressions took only a moment to register, and just as well. The more pressing issue was the threatening growl from a shape barely visible before a vine-covered stone pillar. It sounded like a cave troll. Kalaman was no match for such a beast in close quarters. He made for the nearest bit of land above the flooded floor, behind the roots of an old Direnni column, and conjured a wraith to serve as a distraction.
“Embrace the ugly!”
Wonderful. Not only is there a troll, there are more insane Bretons down here.
He produced his bow and started attacking the beast across the way while using the pillar as cover, and had landed several decent shots by the time the wraith died. It was odd, though; the shape of the troll wasn’t right, somehow. Then arrows began clattering against the rocks beside him. The Witchman had finally caught sight of him rather than his wraith, and was doing his best to end Kalaman from one side while the beast approached from the other.
Damn. Only a fool lets himself get surrounded. And it seems I’m the fool today.
He conjured another wraith and leapt to his left, praying fervently to his chosen god Jephre that the landing would not be his last. He landed in water, but it only covered the tops of his boots and the ground beneath was solid. The creature saw the wraith and engaged, but she had already done it enough damage that with one more arrow from Kalaman its soul left its body, exploding toward him to be absorbed by an empty gem.
Then it was time to address the Witchman. He tried, twice, to reach the man with an arrow; but the skin blind that had been placed there at the edge of the water was the same color as the Witchman’s armor. It was just too difficult for him to make out where his target was. He tsk’d and raised his hands.
I may well regret this, but fire is my strength and so fire it shall be.
As the Witchman rose behind the blind Kalaman stepped out from cover and flung a dual-cast fireball across the room. It struck the blind, setting it ablaze; but the pained cry that echoed across the space told him that fire had also spilled over to damage the Witchman. Kalaman followed that up with three more fireballs in quick succession, hoping that he was striking the man but completely unable to see.
Finally he heard a pitiful moan. “Mother…”
He lowered his hands and breathed a sigh of relief, listening for further threats. He heard only the rush of falling water and the sound of his wraith dissipating after having done her duty. Then he waded over to the corpse of what he’d assumed was a troll.
It wasn’t a troll. It was roughly the same size and shape as one, but it definitely was unlike any such beast he’d seen in Skyrim. Like a troll, it had four deadly-looking fangs in its mouth, but that was where the resemblance ended. It had but one eye, huge and central on its forehead, with a malevolent glare even in death. The beast’s lower body was covered in fur; whether it was naturally red or simply reflecting the reddish mists in the cavern, he couldn’t tell. Its ears were very long and pointed – Kalaman reached up to touch his own pointed ears and shuddered. Atop the creature’s head were two spiny protuberances and one deadly horn on either side. Its upper torso and shoulders were of thick, leathery hide with horn-like growths making for an excellent shield.
This is some kind of – golem!
But who created it? The Witchmen? Namira? The Direnni? Could it have been here that long?
He cast his mind back to what he’d read about the various Daedric Princes. Namira was, if nothing else, devoted to the grotesque for the grotesque’s sake. She undoubtedly had other purposes but, like those of all the other Daedra, they were inscrutable. What was more important, he thought, was the fact that the Witchmen thought they understood her desires. “Embrace the ugly” was more than just an odd statement: it was a cry of devotion, potentially a declaration of war.
He shuddered.
Rumaril was right. It’s magic, but it’s magic at a level none of us have experienced. If it becomes organized through contaminating the masses of once-sane Witchmen…
Well, it won’t be just the easternmost parts of High Rock that will need to worry.
He leaned closer to examine the golem’s body. It wore crude armbands, wrist guards and boots. In the armbands were two things: a key and a pendant, tucked under the folds of leather in such a way as to keep the items safe and close.
So it’s not completely simple-minded, either. That’s terrifying.
He examined the pendant: a simple-enough locket on a chain. This was what had motivated Mortifayne to send him, and others before him, out into a dangerous cavern in search of it. He could feel the energy of it. There was some sort of powerful magic at work here. He turned it over and over in his hands until the light caught the edge of engravings on its back.
Hmm. I can’t read it, and the brazier’s up on that ledge, which I can’t reach. How do I get back out of here?
He wandered across the cavern, toward a dirt ramp near the last Witchman he’d killed, and found a locked gate blocking the path up. Clearly, the golem hadn’t been trusted not to attack, so they’d kept it out. Someone must have dropped the key, the golem plucking it out of the water and saving it the way birds saved shiny objects for their nests. He was certain it would open the gate, and was pleased when the lock clicked obediently. Once under a brighter light, he examined the pendant again.
“May your stomach never sour.”
“Huh,” he said aloud. “That’s a strange sort of blessing. Was all this just to aid Mortifayne’s digestion?”
Then it dawned on him. Namira not only encouraged the appreciation of the grotesque: she encouraged cannibalism.
“By the gods.”
Being half-Bosmer himself he had, of course, had ample opportunities to witness cannibalism. Being half-Altmer, he’d never wanted to indulge that part of his heritage. The concept did, in fact, sour his stomach. What an appropriate blessing to bestow on someone who might practice cannibalism in a land where there was a plague.
Kalaman shuddered. He had to find out what effects the pendant might have. It was important to know what, if any, powers it would give the already-dangerous Mortifayne before he returned it. Perhaps he would need to keep the thing for himself.
He lifted the carefully-reforged Gauldur amulet over his head, tucking it into a pocket. Then, with some foreboding, he put Mortifayne’s amulet in its place.
For a brief moment his vision went completely red. Then, as the flash of light faded, his vision blurred at the edges. The air was ruddy, his skin crawled with a sensation of power; and when he approached the corpse of the last Witchman he’d killed he was nearly overwhelmed by the impulse to seize the man’s flesh and consume it. Worse still, the human heart he’d so carefully stowed in his pack called to him as though it was the most delectable morsel ever devised by god or mortal.
He blinked, and found himself kneeling next to the corpse, his hands free of their gauntlets and poised to begin peeling the flesh from its bones. With a cry of revulsion, he leapt back to his feet and yanked the amulet off his neck.
He held it in one hand, staring at it, panting as his mind settled and his heart rate and vision returned to normal. He put the Gauldur amulet back on, and then stared at Mortifayne’s pendant again.
I vowed I would never consume another mortal, man or mer. Animals only. And I nearly did.
It wasn’t that he hated or was ashamed of the Bosmer side of his ancestry, nor that he was overly proud of his Altmer side, superior though they thought they were. He’d simply believed that he was, somehow – perhaps because he was a half-breed – outside the old traditions of either Valenwood or the Summerset Isles. But he wasn’t as strong as he’d imagined.
A shudder rippled out from his core. It’s not that the amulet has any particular benefit. It’s that it makes you lose yourself somehow. And that is important to someone – or something.
Deep in thought, he trudged up the tunnel he’d accessed through the locked gate. There was so much to ponder, to weigh, and to cross-reference with other pieces of lore and knowledge. The College relied on Urag to know where the information could be found; it relied on Kalaman to know what to do with that knowledge. And right now he had no idea.
The tunnel emerged into a small cave, its walls decorated with the swirling red symbols that were everywhere in all the Witchman locations he’d seen thus far. He stopped to examine them for a moment, wondering what they might signify.
Suddenly the hair on his arms, head, and neck rose in defensive unease. There was a burst of energy in the room, and a low, almost unintelligible, disembodied voice spoke; as it did, Kalaman’s vision blurred at the periphery, the same way it had while wearing the pendant.
“Little lord, the hour approaches. Yet you stall! If you become an obstacle, then the suffering of your peoples will be unending!” The voice paused for a moment, and Kalaman had the distinct sensation of being studied, scanned, weighed in the balance. He dared not respond, nor make either a sound or a movement.
“No, this isn’t your touch, little lord,” the voice continued. “It seems we have another observer, come to listen in on these affairs. Hear me, fleshy vessel, for the obstruction of what is ordained for your realm will only evoke a more squalid demise. The threshold has been crossed. We no longer need the noose you hold to undergo the ceremony. Come what may, thy kingdom will return.”
The voice went silent. Kalaman’s vision returned to normal. It wasn’t Namira he had heard. He had no idea what other entity might have just warned him, what “ceremony” it spoke of, or whose hands were holding which noose – but all of it was beyond him. It was time to return to Arnima, just as quickly as his feet could carry him.
When he reached Mortifayne’s audience chamber once more he found it empty aside from the lord. Again he wondered how it could be that so important a person was left unguarded in such dangerous times.
“My lord,” he said, approaching slowly, “I have your amulet. I’ve dealt with those who took it. They, at least, will bother you no longer.”
Mortifayne looked up at him, eagerly. Almost hungrily, Kalaman thought, quashing a shudder.
“You look uneasy,” the Lord said. “You’d best give me that amulet before your mind is sundered by the power of it.”
“Yes. I could feel the power, sire, when I picked it up. I felt it best to return to you just as quickly as I could.”
Mortifayne nodded sagely. “For what you’ve done, I’ll spare you some personal knowledge along with the gold you’ve earned. A spell book. Think of it as an extra gift.”
Kalaman took the items he was given and attempted a grateful smile. Between his naturally distrustful expression and his state of revulsion at the pendant, he wasn’t certain he succeeded.
“Thank you, sire.”
“Oh, yes,” Mortifayne continued. “I’ve heard that the missionary in the temple has news of a discovery. Have a word with him, would you? At least he’s finally being useful.”
“Indeed,” Kalaman said. “I’ll take my leave now.” Once again he backed away from the lord and, barely clearing the torture rack, turned and tried not to rush out of the room.
“So how do we get over there?” Harald asked as he stared across the river toward the grey tower on its other side.
“Forlorn,” Ulkarin told him. “It’s on an island but there’s a hanging bridge across.”
“Odd. I didn’t notice it earlier. Well, let’s go.”
“Don’t act so excited about it,” Ulkarin smirked.
“It’s just… I’m…”
He was dragging his feet, trying to think of a good way to get out of this task. The problem was that it would be the very best way for him to learn more about what was going on in the Reach from a wider perspective, as opposed to just hearing the opinions of the local Bretons. He was wildly nervous about it, though.
What if someone sees me and puts two and two together?
After their skirmish with the Redguards they had trudged back to the Divide, leaving Jackos to finish mopping up the Bog and the areas surrounding it. All the way back, Harald had thought about the implications of having Dragonstar raiders arriving via the river. It seemed inevitable that, eventually, they’d find a way to push north and east from the tatters of that part of Hammerfell.
But will they cross the mountains? I think they might. There certainly have been incursions into Skyrim before and with Father having broken us off from the Empire’s military protection we might make for a juicy target. An easy one. At least it might appear that way.
But if I return and report that the Redguards are on the rise in the Reach…
It’s just that some of the most important people in Skyrim are Redguard! Dardeh, for one. And Chip.
And Qara.
Merosa hadn’t been exactly welcoming when they located her at the Divide Council’s headquarters. “Why are you pestering me?” she snapped in their general direction, not looking at them until Harald cleared his throat and used every bit of authority he could muster up in his voice.
“We’ve returned from Arnima, Lady,” he said. “As you requested, we spoke to Jackos and even helped him eliminate a pocket of Redguard pirates. As to your errand, Jackos told me of conditions there and suggested that the rumors you’d heard – whatever those may be – are true. Here’s his report; and no, I have not looked at it.”
Merosa didn’t apologize for having been short with them, but she did nod in recognition once reminded who they were. She snatched the note from Harald’s hand, broke the seal, and scanned it quickly before heaving a great sigh.
“Mortifayne could very well bring our town down with his if he doesn’t come to his senses!”
“That was the impression I had from Jackos, ma’am. Not in so many words, of course. I can see why you trust him; he’s an impressive fighter and very careful with what he says. But he seemed to have a healthy survival instinct where their Lord is concerned.”
She tsk’d. “I’ll have to have words with the Council to see what can be done. In the meantime,” she added, meeting his gaze for the first time since they’d arrived, “Your deeds are appreciated. Make yourself feel welcome atop our bridge.”
Harald had considered his situation for a moment. What he knew so far was that there were Orcs fleeing the Reach and Redguards making incursions from the south, that between floods and plagues conditions here were disintegrating. But those things could have been said at almost any time during the past hundred winters or more. He needed to have something concrete to take home. So he had spoken up once more.
“Is there anything else that I can help you with?”
She tilted her head to one side and considered for a moment before nodding. “The head of the Imperial Embassy, Drugo, needs someone as disciplined as you. You should pay them a visit. Seems they’re going to make a push against the Orsimer who razed their outpost. Your help could make the difference.”
Harald had all he could do at that moment to keep his expression neutral. He practically had to bite his tongue to keep from hissing and snapping that a Stormcloak would never fight on behalf of the Imperials. It would be an awful mistake to reveal who he was, here, alone in a province that was not his father’s, particularly given the threats to his family that had cropped up in recent months. After a moment of thought he’d realized that this could be the perfect opportunity to see what the Imperials were up to, if anything, and to judge what it might mean to his father.
At the very least I can take the information back to Roggi and get his advice. Assuming he doesn’t flay me alive for leaving.
And so it was that they immediately started back toward Arnima, passing by the corpses of undead and recently dead. Harald was about to ask Ulkarin whether anyone would remove them from the roadside before they started to be a health hazard when shouts from just in front of him caught his attention.
Two Witchmen dashed down the road toward them, moving so quickly that Harald didn’t even have time to put on his helmet. All he could do was draw his sword, raise his shield, and pray that Ulkarin could move as quickly as they could. From the corner of his eye he saw the big man in black rushing in, axe held high; in the next moment he was groaning, having been sliced by the first Witchman’s poisoned sword.
He saw double. Everything looked and felt a sickly green.
“Say your prayers,” Ulkarin growled as he brought his axe around in a wide, sweeping attack that passed through the first man and crushed the shoulder of the second. Ulkarin then lifted the axe over his head and brought it down squarely on that Witchman, ending any campaign of terror the man might have intended.
“Gods,” Harald said, shaking his head and reaching for a potion to help his recovery. “That is the nastiest poison I’ve ever encountered! Just one little scratch and I was practically inside out.” He stepped over to the nearest corpse and lifted its weapon. “I’m taking this. I know someone who will be very interested in examining that poison. He’s…” Harald paused. There was only so much he could say about Roggi Knot-Beard without potentially revealing that one of his closest confidants was also one of Ulfric Stormcloak’s. “He’s a very good alchemist.”
“Uh-huh,” Ulkarin said, peering at him. “Just for the record, yer Highness, I couldn’t help but notice that you didn’t seem very excited to work with the Imperial Legion. And you’re from Windhelm, and…”
“And that’s all correct, Tiny,” Harald said, cutting him off. “Let’s just say that this is not a course of action that I would ever have imagined myself taking and leave it at that, alright? I promise you that my reasons for being here are my own and completely unconnected to…” He didn’t know how to finish that thought.
“To any sort of political wranglings that might be happening with the High King in Skyrim,” Ulkarin muttered. When Harald shot him a sharp glance, Ulkarin grinned. “I may be big and slow but I’m not stupid. There are only so many noble families out east and one of them lives in Windhelm. Your secret’s safe with me, Harald. I want to find out what’s going on around here as much as you do. This is my home, after all.”
“Shor’s beard,” Harald grumbled. “It doesn’t matter where I go, half the population takes one look at me and knows who I am. I would definitely prefer you keep it a secret. It’s not so much that I mind doing what Merosa points me to right at the moment, it’s just that, well…” He shrugged.
“The Stormcloaks and the Empire didn’t see eye-to-eye for a long while, back in the day. I get it. Let’s just go find out what they want.” He reached for his helmet and eased it onto his head. “And this is probably a good idea, too.”
As they approached the junction where one path headed into the Bog, Harald glanced that way and tsk’d. The bonfire that had caught his attention was still burning, briskly.
“Hope someone puts that out soon,” he mumbled. “I guess it’ll run out of fuel eventually, but I’d hate to see the fire spread.”
“Yeah,” Ulkarin answered. “Fire spreads quickly in the water. They’d best be careful.”
Harald snorted and gave Ulkarin a sideways glare. “You’re a wiseass, Tiny.”
“Thanks, yer Highness. I do my best. Um, it’s not down here.”
Harald had taken the first right out of Forlorn, a waterlogged roadway that led to the edge of the river and an abandoned farmhouse. The place had been swept aside by the flooding and only the presence of a few large boulders at the riverside kept it from being completely washed away. It hung over the embankment, part of its remaining structure fully in the rushing water. More important was the fact that, even though the walls of the Imperial fort were right there, not more than two or three dozen paces from where he stood, the deepest part of the river blocked those paces.
“Ok. Not here. Let’s go find the bridge.”
Ulkarin had been right; there was a sturdy log bridge across the river from the banks in Forlorn to the island on which stood the old fort. The remnants of an ancient stone roadway led toward the interior of the island and through an old, vine-covered archway before rising to the closed, and guarded, doors to the fort’s yard.
“Procul Praesidium Reach,” Ulkarin murmured. “It looks more impressive than it is. You’ll see in a moment.”
The Imperial guard at the gate gave no sense of interest or concern at their approach. He merely said “yes?” when Harald neared him and then, when Ulkarin pointed at the gate, waved them through without further questions.
“You know him?” Harald asked as they stepped through the gate.
“Nope. That’s just how they are these days. Doesn’t really bode well, does it?”
“I guess the word ‘guard’ has a loose interpretation around here.”
They stepped into the training yard. Harald had to force himself not to shake his head. There were a couple of soldiers taking lazy swings at a training dummy, and another doing target practice with a bow; but it was clear their hearts weren’t in it. Before him, atop a substantial stone block, was a model ship. It wasn’t a toy, being closer to the size of a fishing dinghy; but it was clearly just a representation of some larger and perhaps significant ship.
He stepped closer to the pedestal to read the plaque on its side. “The Plucky Longfin, East Empire Company’s vessel, famous for rescuing the crown jewels of Wayrest prior to the city’s sacking in 4E 188.” He turned to Ulkarin, one eyebrow raised. “An odd thing to commemorate, especially given current conditions. But here we are.”
“This part of the world has been in and out of other people’s hands so many times it’s hard to keep track.”
They made their way to the door and into the fort proper, where Harald took a few minutes to explore its ground floor. It wasn’t much different than similar ancient buildings in Solitude, but it seemed to be very empty, even if well-appointed. Finally, as they approached the foot of a staircase, he heard voices from above.
“Commander, you must understand.”
Harald froze. That voice, haughty and determined, was most definitely an Altmer. He furiously tried to gather his wits.
Not just Imperials but an Altmer as well? This doesn’t bode well for me.
“This costly operation you’ve outlined will set you back on your debt with the kingdom.”
“And you must understand, Naruman, that this is our last opportunity to justify our presence here.”
Harald blinked. This was much more complicated a meeting than he’d imagined he was walking into. He took a deep breath and walked up the few steps left, then turned the corner.
Thalmor!
One of the few things that everyone in Harald’s life could agree on was that the Thalmor were foul, despised beings. Many Nords hated them because of the White-Gold Concordat that outlawed the worship of Talos. His mother and most of the people in the court hated them because Stormcloaks hated them. He’d overheard Roggi speak of them with a combination of revulsion and admiration – for they were the source of some of the interrogation techniques most likely to achieve results – but mostly with revulsion. Even Dardeh, who was generally the most understanding and forgiving man to everyone but himself, hated the Thalmor for their unwavering belief that they were superior to all other forms of life. As the former Dragonborn, Dardeh knew otherwise.
And Ulfric Stormcloak hated them because he had, personally, been tortured at their hands and made to fear, for the only time in his life. He’d been kept from his own father’s deathbed and funeral. Harald had seen the deep pain in his father’s eyes when speaking of the Thalmor. They’d scarred him in ways that nothing, not even the love of Harald’s mother, could repair. And therefore, Harald hated the Thalmor as well.
The tall mer leaning on the outside of the desk was, without question, an Altmer. And he was, without question, a Thalmor. Harald struggled with himself for a moment that felt like a year.
It will be alright. It will be alright. It has to be.
In spite of his determination, Harald felt as though his skin was going to crawl away from his body. The Thalmor uniform by itself was enough to make him ill. But he set his expression and stepped forward, toward the Imperial officer seated behind the table. That officer frowned up at the Thalmor.
“Without this, the Bretons’ suspicions of our ineptitude will only deepen.”
The Thalmor leaned forward with a supercilious expression and sneered. “I advise great caution with the occupants of Deepcrag, Drugo. They could hold invaluable information. All you need to do is stay your hounds.”
Drugo leaned forward in his chair, narrowing his eyes. “Keen to see them survive. Why is that, Naruman?”
The Thalmor sneered. “We shouldn’t debase ourselves by imitating the barbarous locals. They’ve already bled the Orcs dry. Why should we add to the slaughter?”
Harald had been standing quietly to the side, staring at the unpleasantly pointed face, trying to memorize its shapes so as to tell this Thalmor apart from any of the others he might meet. It was all he could do to keep from laughing out loud at Naruman’s words.
An altruistic Thalmor? I wouldn’t trust this mer as far as I could toss him with my Voice.
He wanted to share a glance with Ulkarin, to see whether he shared the deep suspicion of the Thalmor, but he didn’t dare draw attention by looking around. He could feel the big man’s presence, though, slouching against a wall so that even with his great height he would undoubtedly seem shorter than Naruman. Whether he did so purposefully or just wanted to rest his legs, Harald didn’t know. It was an excellent tactic either way.
Let the creature enjoy its delusions of superiority and it might not take too much notice of us.
Commander Drugo crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, a posture change that made him look much more in control of the situation. He frowned, and shook his head slightly.
“The plans have been inked. We are not dealing with civilians here; any rights the Empire would bestow are now forfeit. There will be no further delays.”
So the Empire intends to wipe out a contingent of Orcs and the Thalmor… wants to protect them? What is going on here?
Naruman rose to his full, considerable height, and sighed. “Very well, Drugo. Very well.” He turned and left the room at a measured pace, showing no anger or dismay, merely disdain. “All the blood that spills will be on you.”
Just before he passed through the doorway, Naruman spared a brief glance at Harald. Their gazes met, for just a moment, and Harald cringed at what might have been a flicker of recognition in the elf’s expression.
Pray Shor that he does not know Ulfric’s face well enough to know mine. If he does I am sincerely lost.