The market, quiet; dead of night.
Strange, misty, aqua light.
A man in black with amber eyes
From swarm of bats in midnight skies.
A girl with hair of fiery hue whispers “what am I to do?”
“You’ll come to me,” the young man said.
“We’ll rule the living and the dead.
But you must change,” he whispers back and moves in closer to attack —
And you, the watcher, can only scream – but silently, within your dream.
As tired as he had been the night before, Harald expected to drop like a stone and sleep like the dead once they’d reached the Heart of Her Walls inn. Instead, every time he drifted off, the same dream had happened, a confusing mix of random visions centering around Riften’s marketplace, and Qaralana. And the man, the bats, the malevolent presence he felt each time he sank into the dream without being able to pull himself free – there was only one person it could be and he’d seen that person kissing Qara, right in front of him. Dale Perdeti.
But this dream was clearly about a vampire. And while Dale Perdeti had seemed predatory he had blue eyes, not amber, and he certainly hadn’t come into town riding on a cloud of bats.
Thus Harald had spent the least restful night in many a moon. Once he’d jerked awake to find his pillow wet with tears.
I’m an idiot. Dale Perdeti is far too old for Qara. And besides, even if he’s not, Qara is just my…
My very best friend.
And I’m just having this dream because of that poor girl, Denize, and what happened to her. The poor thing’s entire life is just wrong now, and there’s nothing I can do about it. That must be why I’m dreaming about Qara. I don’t want her to be taken advantage of.
Ulkarin kept casting sideways looks at Harald as they ate a small breakfast and left the inn to trudge slowly across town. After about the third or fourth glance, Harald snorted.
“What is it? You’ve been looking at me like you expect me to explode or something.”
“You tossed and turned and moaned all night.”
Harald nodded. “Yeah. Bad dreams. That poor girl we rescued. There was just something about her begging to be ended that got to me.”
Ulkarin was quiet for a moment. “Yeah. That was rough. Makes me happy that we at least got her out of there.”
They walked the rest of the way and entered the church in silence. Harald’s mouth fell open for a moment; there was an open coffin with a corpse on full display in the center of the nave. He cast a glance at Ulkarin, one eyebrow raised.
“Mados the Great,” Ulkarin murmured. “Known as the Hero of Grey Belmore. He died in 174 and many believe he still watches over Evermore.”
A robed man prayed at the altar beneath elegant, ceiling-to-floor stained-glass panes. Harald assumed he was looking at the priest, and approached quietly.
“Are you Reamonn by chance?”
The man turned and smiled, nodding. “Yes. Though in Cyrodiil they pronounce my name ‘Raymond.'”
“Oh, you’re from Cyrodiil?”
“I studied there. Thought it was my ticket into the good life, only to end up back here. In retrospect, I wouldn’t have it any other way. As we speak here a lot of innocent blood is being spilt. If I want to do something about it there’s no point in staying where it’s safest.”
“You must go out on a lot of missions, then?”
“Until recently I used to, yes. Now you need a bloody armed escort.”
Harald nodded. “I don’t travel anywhere unarmed, so I understand. Speaking of that, I was told that the Lord of this city was very anxious to retrieve some sort of artifact and I’m here to volunteer my help. Do you have any idea where the Witchmen might have taken such a thing?”
“You must be the sixth mercenary he’s sent after his baubles. Three of the others dropped the venture entirely once I told them what they were going up against. The other two never returned. Let’s hope you’re the exception. The cave is up the valley, past the Exile camp and close to the falls. Also, I must ask a favor of you,” he added.
“Of course, what can I do?”
“If you do manage to return, could you tell me of anything you find within the cave that relates to the Direnni or Daedra worship? We’re stumped as to what’s making these Witchmen so feral and any information will greatly help our research.”
The cultured, haughty tones of an Altmer speaking from behind him suddenly had the hair on Harald’s neck rising. His defenses went up, horrified that a Thalmor might have overheard.
“Excuse the interruption, but I can shed some light on this situation and save this young man a potentially dangerous trip.”
Harald swung to lock gazes with the most distinctive-looking mer he’d ever encountered. This was no golden-skinned creature like the Thalmor, Naruman. This person had darker, nut-brown skin, shorter ears, and wavy hair that was the same shade of silver as the trim on his elaborate robes. A mage, no doubt: but not a Thalmor.
“You are…?” he asked, not wanting to be rude but too surprised to be polite.
“Kalaman Jorus,” the mer said calmly. “Like yourself, I am from Skyrim. More to the point, I have just returned from retrieving a pendant for Lord Mortifayne, from that very place you were describing, Missionary.”
Reamonn’s eyes lit up. “And? Did you discover anything else?”
Kalaman nodded. “Yes. There are definitely Direnni ruins there. What was troubling, though, was their desecration. These Witchmen had erected all manner of horrifying assemblages of bodies – or, more accurately, parts of bodies – in and around the stonework.”
“Flesh?” Harald muttered. “I keep running across headless corpses and Witchmen saying ‘released from the flesh’ when they’re just about to be overpowered. It seemed important to me somehow but I didn’t know why.”
“Yes, I heard it too,” Kalaman said.
“And Daedric influences?” Raemonn asked. “Anything along those lines?”
“I’m afraid so,” the mage said, nodding. “Let me preface this by saying that the cavern where Mortifayne’s amulet had been taken was simply crawling with Witchmen. They had golems of several sorts, including one in the shape of a huge spider covered in human faces. Many of the Witchmen, as I defeated them, called for ‘Mother.’ But most disturbing was when one of them cried out at me: ‘scurry away, the tendrils of our mother will find you soon enough.'”
Harald frowned. He felt as though he should be able to piece all this together easily enough but he couldn’t. Raemonn, however, had no such difficulty.
“Namira? Do you think so?”
The mer nodded. “It’s a distinct possibility. I was of the impression that the displays of bodies were artful, meant as acts of devotion.”
“I see,” Raemonn said, frowning. “This is not good news. Let me ponder what we may need to do next.” He nodded to Kalaman. “Thank you for the information. You put yourself into a situation of danger to do this.” With that he left the church.
“At least we won’t have to do that trip into Witchman country,” Ulkarin said.
“True enough. I’m not sure what we should do instead, though.”
“If I may,” the tall mage said, “I have a suggestion. When I returned the amulet to Mortifayne he mentioned that the clergy here was looking for assistance with finding artifacts and working on possible solutions to the encroaching plague.” He gave a self-deprecating smile. “As you can see, I am not much of a warrior. I was actually fortunate to make it through that barrow alive. I wonder if we should pool our resources and see whether we might help.” He shrugged. “I’m here primarily to observe, and to see what the College of Winterhold might do in the event of trouble creeping over the border.”
Harald nearly jumped. “The College? You’re from Winterhold? Wait. You’re that Kalaman Jorus?”
The mer grinned. “There aren’t that many of us, though my cousin has been in these parts fairly recently.”
“Care to fill me in?” Ulkarin said.
Harald nodded, and waved Ulkarin closer. “This is Kalaman Jorus. He’s not just ‘from Winterhold,’ he’s the Archmage of the College.” He looked back at Kalaman. “Am I right about that?”
Kalaman smiled. “Yes, for whatever it is worth. I am usually not a working mage. My magic served me well enough finding that amulet, but depending on whom and how many others we might face, well let’s just say that I’d much prefer to have one or two large men in heavy armor at my side.”
Ulkarin was staring at Kalaman, who grinned at him.
“Is something wrong?”
“Oh!” Ulkarin said, jumping a bit as though he’d been deep in thought. “Sorry for staring. You just don’t look like most Altmer I know.”
Kalaman sighed. “I don’t, it’s true. I am half Bosmer. Thus my unusual appearance.” He grimaced. “It has led to years of unfortunate encounters. This is partially why I keep to myself, work behind the scenes, and so on.”
Harald rubbed his chin. “Behind the scenes but not so hidden that I hadn’t heard of you.”
Kalaman nodded. “I might say the same of you. I can’t help but notice a similarity to a certain someone who was in power when I first arrived in Skyrim.”
“Observant. And I forgot for a moment how much longer mer live than men. I’ve only ever known my father as an old man.” He held out his hand, which Kalaman shook. “Harald is my name, and like you I’m here to observe and plan. So let’s talk to this priest over here, shall we?”
“Sounds like an idea to me,” Ulkarin said.
Harald found the man in full priestly attire at prayer.
“Excuse me, Priest. I couldn’t help noticing that you seem worried.”
“Not only worry, but also curiosity. We’ve recently had artifacts from this very temple stolen, and I’ve no idea why. The thief took no gold, only the artifacts.“
“Hmm. Is someone perhaps selling them rather than robbing coin?”
The priest shook his head. “We’d have gotten wind of rusted jewelry circulating in the markets if that were the case. The frequency of the thefts suggests that our suspect can’t have gone far. We’ve asked the guard for help and they’ve spared some eyes to watch over the temple. But nothing – neither beggar nor vagrant – has appeared.” The man sighed. “So, failing that, our temple’s missionary, Reamonn, has taken up the pursuit. He’s quite the prodigy in alteration.”
Harald frowned, confused. “Alteration magic? What good is that?”
“If I may,” Kalaman said. “One of the more useful and yet least-used exercises in alteration is the great search. Scrying. Scouring the land through projected arcane vision. I’m not particularly good at it, myself. Anyone who can do this is a valuable asset indeed.”
The priest nodded. “Yes. And while he was doing a search for our most recently vanished item, he found it.”
“So a few extra bodies and sets of eyes might be useful,” Harald said. It wasn’t completely clear to him what finding artifacts might have to do with either curing the plague or understanding the Reach’s politics, but he might well learn something important from the missionary. “I’d be willing to help if you want.”
“If you’re as curious as I am, maybe we can share in this mystery’s unraveling.”
“I feel the same,” Kalaman said. “I may not be one for bashing heads and standing in shield walls but when it comes to curiosity, you’ll not find a more active mind.” He grinned. “Tell me, what should I do?”
“I would suggest starting with the missionary who just left. He’ll be able to direct you to whatever location the artifacts are in.”
“Very well,” the mage said, turning to face Harald. “Are you amenable?”
Harald smiled. “I don’t see why not. I seem to have already gotten myself involved in the Reach’s affairs, far beyond what I’d expected. If nothing else I can bash a few heads for you. And Tiny here is the best.”
Ulkarin snorted. “Tiny’s actual name is Ulkarin. Pleased to meet you, Arch…”
Kalaman cut him off with a finger to his lips. “Best we keep that little piece of information in the same pocket as Harald’s lineage, yes? I don’t expect any trouble here but one never knows.” He headed toward the door. “My cousin Rumaril will be most amused to learn that I’m doing something active for once.”
“Hmm,” Ulkarin said as the heavy doors closed behind them. “You’ve mentioned this ‘Rumaril’ several times. Do the two of you have some conflict?”
Kalaman stopped short, giving Ulkarin and Harald an odd look. “I’d never thought to put it quite that way. Ours is a family of – oh, how should I put it. Less than forgiving notions of propriety. Both of us have our own issues with it. He was the full-blooded Altmer, but a dissolute playboy who refused to study, preferring drinking and the company of any lovely maiden he could cajole into spending a night. I, on the other hand, have been the obedient son of the family, toddling off to the various colleges of magic as I was told to do.”
Harald gave him a quizzical look. “I sense a ‘but’ in this.”
“But I’m a half-breed, as I told you. Not full Altmer and therefore not good enough to take up the family’s mantle in the Thalmor cult.”
Harald’s hackles rose. “You’re a Thalmor?” He had blurted it out before he had a chance to stop himself.
“Yer Highness,” Ulkarin murmured.
“I’m sorry. That was terribly rude of me. But you must understand that…”
Kalaman waved a hand in the air. “I do understand, and you should not be concerned. That is the one thing that Cousin Rumaril and I have in common.” He turned to face both of them, a serious look on his face, and dropped his voice to a whisper. “We both hate the Thalmor. Desperately. That’s one of the reasons I left to settle in Skyrim. I would not have sought out the least friendly province on Tamriel in which to exist as a mer if not for that. Rumaril has led a more nomadic life but he, too, has done everything in his power to avoid and undermine them.”
“Well, good on you in that case,” Ulkarin said.
Harald just followed Kalaman along in silence. It was hard not to be a bit distrustful of the situation, especially given his experiences surrounding Little Vivec and Mandyn Hlaalu.
It’s possible to look reasonable, even friendly, and actually be an assassin. This could easily be an elaborate ruse to get me apart from all my support at home and do away with me, thus doing away with Father’s legacy. It’s very suspicious that we’re both here at the same moment.
“You all right?” Ulkarin asked, poking him in the ribs as they crossed the footbridge into the training yard.
“Yes. Just deep in thought. I’m still trying to sort out the world and my place in it. I suspect our friend Kalaman has been working on his for far longer than I have.”
Kalaman nodded. “Let’s just say that I had already been training in various institutes of magic for many years when your father had his rather splashy moment in Markarth as a young man.” Then he chuckled. “Or at least a younger man. It’s hard to keep human lifespans straight sometimes, especially when you work with an Orc who is already several times older than yourself.”
Harald almost missed Reamonn the missionary. He’d changed into heavy, padded armor, and in it he blended into the population. Reamonn stood near the well, watching some of the city’s fire mages casting flames at a house. Harald frowned. He hadn’t remembered seeing the large vines growing on and in front of the house, before.
Kalaman walked up to the missionary. “Hello again. We were told that you might need further assistance.”
“Yes,” he said. “But before we get into any particulars you should know a little about me. I’m here because the priest requested my Alteration skills. Familiar with that art?”
Ulkarin nearly choked, but somehow managed to turn his reaction into a mere cough as he moved past them to draw some water from the well. Kalaman grinned, his eyes twinkling, as the big man moved past.
“Yes, I am familiar with alteration magic,” Kalaman said smoothly.
I should hope so. This Kalaman is unflappable. I’d have been reminding the man of my position in the world.
Harald wiped the grin off his own face and turned his attention back to the other mages. Then he frowned; this wasn’t simple target practice. They were definitely attempting to burn that house down.
“So you won’t need to hear me blather on. Excellent,” Reamonn replied. “One technique I’ve discovered allows me to scour large areas of land for things both significant and relevant to our interests.”
“So, a variation of scrying, I take it,” Kalaman said. Harald listened, quietly impressed by Kalaman’s easy diplomacy, speaking to the Missionary with all due respect.
“Yes, and recently my focus has been on one such thing: gauntlets belonging to the blessed and venerated knight, Mados.”
“He’s the one in the church, yes?” Harald asked.
“Yes. The item has vanished, and nobody has had any answers as to where. Until now, of course, with the help of yours truly.”
“Where are they, in your estimation?” Kalaman asked.
“Far to the north, beyond this kingdom’s grasp.”
They must use the term “kingdom” differently here, Harald thought. To me, a kingdom is a whole province. Father is a King. He has authority in all of the holds. Here? Who knows. Maybe each city and its surrounding area is considered a kingdom.
“Right in the depths of a Dwemer ruin,” Reamonn continued.
Harald’s gaze snapped to the missionary. “What’s that you say? Dwemer ruin?” When both Reamonn and Kalaman turned to stare at him, he felt himself flushing. “Sorry. I have a very strong interest in all things Dwemer. How did the gauntlets get there?”
“My abilities only go so far, friend. If I were able to peer into the past so far then most of our problems would be solved. Alas, we deal with what we’re handed.”
“Sorry,” Harald mumbled. “I’m not a mage at all, so I’m not sure how it works.”
Ulkarin harrumphed. “I thought that Shouting thing you do was a form of magic, Harald.”
Kalaman nodded. “Indeed it is. A very old magic. But we’ve interrupted Reamonn.”
“It’s quite alright.” He paused, rubbed his chin, shook his head and chuckled. “What were we talking about, again?”
Kalaman smiled. “I believe we were wondering how we might help you in your endeavors.”
“Right, of course. Well, seeing as how you’ve returned unscathed from retrieving the Lord’s amulet, would you be interested in undertaking another journey?”
Harald grinned. “If it’s to the Dwemer ruin you can absolutely count me in!”
Kalaman nodded. “If I have these two hardy fighters to help guard my rather fragile carcass, absolutely. I’m primarily a… researcher, shall we say? Always interested in learning about new places.”
Reamonn nodded. “Well, friends, you can see that I’m ready. I wouldn’t be heaving about twice my body weight in furs otherwise. If you’ll pass me your map, I’ll mark the location of the ruins’ entrance. I’ve got most of the local geography there memorized. Unless the Witchmen have the north covered in frozen dung and bloody pelts, that is.”
Kalaman snorted. “Indeed. I’ve had a close-up look at some of those.”
Kalaman began describing as much of the area as he could to Reamonn, paying particular attention to the layout of the Witchmen’s outpost with its heavy fortifications. Harald tried to pay attention, but there was far too much going on and he found his concentration flagging.
He wandered closer to the two fire mages and watched for a moment as they continued torching the house. Harald was surprised at the armor covering every inch of their skin, including hooded helms completely obscuring face, neck, and hair. Only the tiniest of slits allowed for vision. It must have been ungodly hot. The house’s doors had been sealed with heavy planks, as had the windows. The roof seemed to be nearing collapse. There was also a pungent stench here, one that mingled the familiar odors of burning wood and moss with something else that he couldn’t identify, something organic but foul: perhaps the thick green vines and roots covering the home’s exterior. There was something about this entire situation that set his teeth on edge.
One of the mages recognized Harald.
“You were with the Imperials at the outpost, right? Killed all those damn Orcs off?”
“I was, yes. I take it you were there as well. Sorry to say I don’t recognize you, given the armor.”
“I hope you made them suffer.” The mage turned back to his task at hand and fired another blast of flame back at the building.
Hope you made them suffer? They needed to be taken care of, but purposefully making them suffer? I’m no…
Harald stopped his thoughts cold as he realized where they’d been heading.
I’m no torturer. That’s what I was thinking. And yet one of the most important people in my life is. Or at least was, at one point.
He frowned as he returned to the others. No, he hadn’t tortured the Orcs. But the Orcs had most obviously tortured their prisoners. At other times, in other places, Imperials had tortured Nords, and vice-versa. Everyone who had a decent education knew about the atrocities of the past, one race upon another, including those wrought against the creatures who had come to be known as Falmer.
You might think there was a better way. War, I understand. Torture, I don’t. I’m convinced that Roggi would never have done it except that his Jarl and leader demanded it.
And I still don’t know what’s going on here.
“Are we ready?” Reamonn asked as he reached the group.
Harald nodded. “Let’s get going, since we have to head north up the valley again. It’s a long trip.”
“Unless you’d prefer to use the old Direnni standing stones,” Kalaman said smoothly. “Though I must admit that I’d choose completely wearing out the soles of my shoes before I’d willingly step into the magical sphere of one of those. One never knows how – or even whether – one will emerge at the other end.”
“Yeah. I think not,” Harald said, grinning.
It was indeed a long run, especially given their need to stay clear of any lingering Exiles or Witchmen. The four men decided to hug the eastern wall of the valley; there were places where they’d be out in the open, but any encounter they could avoid would be a good encounter.
The hagraven spotted them first. It was across the bridge near the Witchman’s area, just as Kalaman had described it. They first noticed it when Reamonn cried out in pain, suddenly enveloped in flames. Nevertheless, he accelerated, bolting for the enemy near the gates, with Kalaman hot on his heels.
Harald gasped in dismay and sprinted after them. Neither one of these men was well-enough armored to face down a hagraven, Kalaman least of all in his robes. Behind him, he heard Ulkarin’s heavy footsteps following. Harald passed Reamonn on his right and tried to engage the hagraven, but she had her sights set on Reamonn and simply brushed Harald’s shield aside.
His mouth fell open for a moment, startled at having been so easily rebuffed. He pivoted on his left foot, though, swinging around behind the hagraven and swiping at the mostly-uncovered flesh on her back. Reamonn seemed to have no weapon; rather, he was beating on her with his padded gloves, some kind of spell hovering over him like a tiny sun. The hagraven suddenly burst into flames and Harald, startled, looked past Reamonn to see Kalaman gathering flames into his right hand.
He may say he’s no fighter, but he certainly is good with fire magic!
The creature’s croaks grew louder and more frequent until, finally, Harald landed a blow that ended her. But before he could lower his shield to catch his breath, he heard familiar and unwanted voices behind him.
“You release my kin to the Void,” one said.
“Embrace the ugly!” another proclaimed.
“Your ends near,” Reamonn shouted.
No! I thought I had him covered. He must have passed me. Why couldn’t he leave well enough alone?
Harald only saw one Witchman. Reamonn must have ended the other. But as the embers of his anger sparked into a full flame, Harald rushed up behind that one Witchman, involved as he was with casting harmful frost at Reamonn. He reached around and trapped the Witchman’s head and torso with his shield, and then with a howl of rage drove his sword into the man’s body as hard as he could. He had to plant a foot against the body to draw his sword back out.
The farther north they went, the colder it got. There were the vivid red stones of a Witchman outpost across the valley to the west, a fact that made Harald very happy they’d decided to hug the eastern wall. They rounded a corner just as it began to snow lightly. He had only enough time to register that there was a Nordic ruin in the valley floor to their northwest when a more immediate issue presented itself. Or, rather, three of them.
Some of the biggest, nastiest-looking spiders Harald had ever encountered came rushing down from the heights and attacked. They might not have been as huge as Nimhe in the antechambers of Nchuand-Zel, but there were three of them. And they weren’t frostbite spiders. Those, he could easily have dealt with. No, these were black, and hairy, and angry-looking.
Harald backed up a few paces, trying to wrestle his shield into place, but the nearest of the spiders leapt downhill toward him.
“Oh, no you don’t!” Kalaman shouted, unloading another of his obviously-potent fireballs at the beast.
The next few minutes were an utter blur in Harald’s mind. At some point he was bitten, only the thickness of his armor saving him from a more serious wound. Instead, he felt the spider’s poison begin creeping through his system. It wasn’t ordinary frostbite poison; that much was obvious. He just wanted to step aside and empty his stomach of everything that had been put into it for roughly the last week. But apparently he fought on, and apparently so did the others; the next thing he was fully aware of was the explosion that meant a flame atronach had exploded.
“Yours?” he asked Kalaman as he rifled about in his pouches looking for the cure poison potion he knew existed there.
“Yes,” Kalaman said. “They usually are quite effective against spiders, and chaurus, and other insects of the like. This one didn’t seem to be.”
Reamonn shook his head. “These are cavern spiders, not frostbite spiders.”
“Bigger and meaner,” Ulkarin added.
“I noticed,” Harald said, grinning at him. “I’ve never been more grateful to my uncle for teaching me how to use heavy armor.”
One of Ulkarin’s eyebrows rose. “Uncle? I didn’t know that…”
Harald held up one hand and shook his head, signaling that Ulkarin should quiet down. “He’s not my real uncle, Tiny. I just grew up with him as an extension of the family. He is, however, my friend Qara’s uncle. Half-uncle, anyway.”
“You Nords and your complex families,” Ulkarin said, smirking. “Just call him your uncle. That’s close enough.”
“That’s what I’ve always thought.”
After a few minutes to catch their breath, the group continued north. Passing around the edge of a large rock outcropping, they came to an overlook where the extent of the Nordic ruin was clear.
“It’s huge!” Harald breathed.
“It’s also not our destination,” Reamonn told him. “We are near, however.”
Harald nodded. “Right. Dwemer. That’s why I wanted to come here in the first place.” He looked around, and down. There was in fact a path leading around the corner to the east, but they would need to drop down from their safe perch into an open and vulnerable position. And he didn’t want to do that; around the edges of the Nordic ruins the vivid red of Witchman totems stood out like lighthouse beacons in the grey, snowy sky. Instead, he led the group directly over the edge of the cliff face.
“Be careful,” Ulkarin murmured. “Some of us have bad knees.”
“Stop whining,” Harald hissed back. “It’s sore knees or Witchmen.”
“I hate to interrupt,” Kalaman said smoothly, jumping down from the last stone to land beside Harald, “but I think we’ve arrived.”
Harald looked up and grinned. They stood before a very obvious Dwemer gate. The last time he’d seen one of these was up in the mountains in Skyrim, just before a Dunmer assassin with an ancient grudge had tried to end the Stormcloak line.
“Yup,” he said. “Dwemer.”