Harald watched Raemonn turn and leave the church, then heaved a sigh of relief. Kalaman Jorus arched one distinguished brow.
“Is something troubling you, young sir?”
“I don’t mind saying that I’ve never been so pleased to be rid of someone who was supposed to be a companion. I just really don’t trust him.”
“Don’t blame you, mate,” Ulkarin said quietly. “If you can’t depend on someone to show up when they’re needed I don’t know why you’d trust ’em.”
“Especially not when one’s life hangs in the balance,” Kalaman added. “But what next? I still have questions about the plague, and our visit with the creature only raised more.”
Harald nodded. “Agreed. We need more information. We also don’t want to look obvious about it.”
“Good choice,” Ulkarin said.
The priest was bent over his alchemy table intently grinding ingredients in a mortar. Harald approached him again and cleared his throat.
“Excuse me,” he said, “but is there anything else you need help with? All of us are agreeable, if you do.”
Matthew turned his head slightly and smiled, even while maintaining his methodical grinding. “Glad to see you’re still willing to help. Though if you’re looking for a journey like the one you’ve just returned from, I’ll have to disappoint.”
Harald snorted. “Looking for? No, as much as I enjoy looking at ancient architecture I have to admit that I’m not. But whatever helps.”
The priest chuckled. “I wouldn’t have you doing something like cleaning, so worry not. But I do have a more pressing need.”
“Tell me.”
Matthew sighed. “Our Lord, Mortifayne, has been scheduled to meet with an advisor from the Divide, not more than a half hour from now. Merosa dares not attend herself, lest our Lord brings out her worst.”
Harald smirked. “A wise choice. I gathered that Merosa is not at all fond of Mortifayne.”
“This small conference will be our opportunity to mount pressure on Mortifayne to forego his tyranny.”
“That’s a hopeful outlook, but in my experience tyrants aren’t inclined to forego a damned thing. Still, I’ll do whatever you need.”
“With fresh faces like yours, Mortifayne should understand that a world outside this town still exists and is weighing his actions. A final word of advice: should Mortifayne become enraged, don’t interrupt him. In fact, I advise remaining quiet entirely. I only need your presence.”
Harald silently checked with both Ulkarin and Kalaman, and both of them nodded.
“Stand in silent judgment? That seems simple enough,” he told Matthew.
“I’ll meet you there.”
As they left the church and made their way toward the castle, Ulkarin chuckled. “I have to hand it to you, Harald.”
“For what?” Harald asked, confused.
“You’re pretty cagey for a fresh face.”
“Indeed,” Kalaman added. “This is a perfect opportunity to observe some of the more important personages interact. I would also agree that one should keep one’s hand close to the vest around Mortifayne. My brief interactions with him were, how to put it…”
“Unpleasant?” Ulkarin asked.
“Yes. Quite.”
After the oppressive gloom and dread of Subject Realm 137, the blue sky and abundant sunshine outside the church was nothing short of glorious. The fresh air smelled of recent rainfall, and Harald breathed deeply as they approached the stairs up to the palace. He was struck by the oddness of the place, though. At the bottom was a likeness of Talos, only half the size of the one in the great Temple of Talos in Windhelm, if that. Higher up the stairs was another, much larger statue: a griffon with outspread wings.
As if eavesdropping on Harald’s mind, Ulkarin spoke up.
“It’s the symbol of this part of the Reach,” he said. “If you pay attention you’ll hear the knights telling each other to carry the griffon. Can’t tell you why there’s this tiny Talos, though.”
“Perhaps they hope to send a message to both the Empire and the Aldmeri Dominion,” Kalaman observed.
“They’d be fools, then,” Harald said.
“Well, you may have noticed that the Lord of the land here isn’t exactly level-headed and wise,” Ulkarin answered. “I wouldn’t put much of anything past him.”
At the top of the stairs, Harald was met with a familiar sight – the twin giants in the blackest of armor, though it was impossible to tell which was Mek and which was Sek. He inhaled, about to greet them, but Ulkarin grabbed him by the arm and stopped him, shaking his head no.
Ah yes. I need to keep my mouth shut.
And to think how often I’ve been the one accused of being too quiet. Qara sometimes gets really annoyed at me for not talking.
That thought made him frown, but he needed to pay attention to what was happening around him. Opposite Harald was a man in the armor of the Divide, undoubtedly the advisor Matthew had mentioned. One of the twins was staring at him; the other twin looked back toward the palace, where a figure slowly descended. Harald couldn’t make out much detail at this distance but in spite of rich robes and a noble bearing this man seemed – small. It had to be Mortifayne, and yet Harald had expected something more, someone with a larger presence, like his father Ulfric. He turned to Kalaman, silently questioning, to see the mer nod carefully without changing his expression in the slightest.
Mortifayne passed between the twins and Harald had to fight to suppress an inappropriate snicker. Mortifayne didn’t just seem small, he was small. The Lord’s balding pate didn’t quite reach the bottom of the twins’ pauldrons.
So this is the ‘great man.’ Even I am taller.
The more Harald looked around, the funnier Mortifayne seemed. After the horror of the Dwemer ruin and the fatigue from their trek back to Arnima, Harald’s exhaustion had him perilously close to laughing and offending everyone present. He was grateful, then, to see Matthew, Priest of the Nine, climbing the steps to join them.
“Well,” Mortifayne said, “what is it, Advisor?” Harald found Mortifayne’s voice with its tone of superiority grating and unpleasant. “The hag couldn’t speak to me herself?”
The hag? I see the lack of fondness goes both ways, then.
The advisor didn’t so much as blink. He merely opened a folded parchment and began reading. “Merosa has become increasingly distressed following the rumors of supposed activity within this town. She has discussed the claim of this fiefdom, and your position in it, with the royalty of Evermore. If you do not cease the disruption of trade, your privileges will be relinquished.” He re-folded his missive and looked up at Mortifayne, calmly.
Harald had watched the Lord’s nearly-bald head becoming more and more flushed as the proclamation went on. When the advisor looked up, Mortifayne exploded.
“Enough! You’ve barked well past your merit. Tell that dog-faced, shriveled old bitch that if she meddles any further with this town…”
Harald fought to keep his expression neutral. Insults like this were not at all what he expected to hear from nobility, at least not in full hearing of the ordinary people walking around. Mortifayne wasn’t amusing anymore. It was a good thing Matthew had warned him to hold his tongue.
Matthew, however, did not. “Please, Mortifayne,” he said calmly. “Consider what you’re saying.”
Mortifayne glared at him. “Did I grant you the luxury to interrupt? Address me with my name again and your neck will be kissing the axe!”
Matthew bowed his head. “Yes. I am sorry, my lord.”
Mortifayne pointed eastward. “And you, advisor. Relay the message to that crone that if she dares poke her nose into Arnima again, her bridge will fall into the current below!”
The advisor looked away, but nodded. “Understood. I will depart with your words, so she may hear them.”
With that, everyone began to scatter. Mortifayne turned on his heel and stomped off toward his palace. Sek and Mek closed ranks behind him. The Advisor scampered down the stairs. Harald tried to catch Kalaman’s attention, but the Archmage was scowling at Mortifayne’s departing back. Matthew descended the nearer staircase, his posture hinting at resignation. Harald ran after him.
“Wait. Just a moment, Priest. I don’t quite understand what’s happening.”
Matthew turned to face him and smiled sadly.
“It was exactly what I expected – an attempt to squeeze blood from stone. Mortifayne, in all his wisdom, has deemed it fit to sever ties with our neighbors. Now we wait for Merosa’s response. And be assured, it will not be pretty.”
Harald frowned. “I’m not an expert on local politics, but maybe it’s time to ask Evermore to step in?”
The priest’s eyes opened wide and he looked around to see who might be near. “Quiet! Have the sense not to call for such sabotage while we’re watched!”
“I’m sorry,” Harald said quietly. “I didn’t quite realize it was that bad.”
Matthew rubbed his chin, looking thoughtful. “Hmm. Though your proposition, and your retrieval of the gauntlets, brings another idea. There is a descendant of Mados, who resides not too far west from Evermore in a hamlet called Tebandra.”
“Mados is the old hero whose remains are in the church, yes? I don’t understand. How is this important?”
Matthew grinned. “Image, my friend. The armor we’ve maintained from Mados’ fatal excursion still shows its majestic craft after all these years.”
Harald shook his head. “If it was good armor and you’ve been maintaining it, of course it would still look good. But can’t just anyone wear it?”
“Anyone can wear the armor, yes. But none can trigger the runes marked in its metal. We’ve tried. We’re fairly sure the trigger is blood. You see where this is leading?”
“So this descendant of Mados might be able to trigger the runes and serve as…”
“A rallying point, so to speak,” Kalaman said from behind Harald. “A warrior to bolster the confidence of the local muster. So who is this descendant?”
“He goes by the name Rados. Reportedly a large fellow. Comes from being a blacksmith, no doubt.”
Harald heard Ulkarin snort. “Some of us are just tall,” he muttered, not quite under his breath.
Harald pondered for a moment, thinking of home. He didn’t necessarily want to spend more time here, but he really didn’t have a good enough understanding of what was happening to leave quite yet. “Alright, we’ll see whether we can fetch him.”
“Evermore is a very welcome change of tone from the dreary scenery here,” Matthew told them. “Been a long while since I’ve made the journey there myself. Don’t get too comfortable, though. There’s a gathering of Witchmen to the north, engaged in some communion.”
“Not that encampment we saw up by the Dwemer ruin?” Ulkarin groaned. “Please tell me we don’t have to trudge all the way back up there!”
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” Matthew said. “Nothing before has been quite like it. And if whatever they conjure comes marching down the valley, then we’ll need all our allies. Blessings for your future journeys.” With that, Matthew smiled and turned back toward his church.
“Damned Witchmen again,” Ulkarin grumbled. “I’d hoped never to face another one. Should have known better.”
“I think Kalaman is right about shoring up the local defenses, though,” Harald told him. “I have a terrible feeling about Mortifayne. That sort of behavior is just unacceptable in anyone, much less a ruler. And after that creature made those remarks about royalty…” He trailed off, once again shuddering as he wondered whether that creature – Ambition – might have been referring to him.
“If my suspicions about the local lord and his amulet are correct, then there’s a definite connection among his household and the Witchmen,” Kalaman added. “And that would mean that everything is connected to Namira.”
“I don’t know about all this Daedric mess, but if we can get Rados to come wear his grandfather’s armor, it would certainly help rally the locals,” Ulkarin said.
“Alright,” Harald told them. “Looks like a good long trek to this Tebandra place. Let’s get going.”
At Evermore, Ulkarin took the lead and led them around and under the city, through the drainage system, to avoid its swirling magical barrier. When they emerged just outside Evermore’s far gate it was still daylight. Birds chattered in the light breeze and the faint rushing of a large cataract dropping down from the mountains extended all the way to where they stood.
“There we are,” Ulkarin said, pointing toward a roadway just ahead. “Tebandra should be up this way. Southeast, across the water.” He put his hands into the small of his back and stretched with a satisfied groan. “You know, if I were the cynical type, I would say these priests are using us to do their dirty work.”
Harald looked at him in surprise. “I’ll confess the thought has crossed my mind as well.”
“We’ve put our very lives on the line several times now, on their behalf,” Kalaman agreed. “But this is just – an errand. As much as I concur that it’s important to get to the bottom of the situation, it seems a bit beneath us,” he said, shaking his head. “Forgive me. I did admit that I have my pride.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Harald told him. “I’m feeling pretty irked, myself. But increasingly worried about the situation here. It makes me very concerned for the future at home.”
Kalaman nodded. “Agreed. Some issues we may have no way to control, only defer for a time – for which of us is capable of defeating a Daedric prince? And what of this plague? What if it manages to cross the mountains and we find ourselves faced with more than the smattering of Afflicted already there?”
Harald motioned them to follow. He trotted across the bridge and turned right, toward the rooftops he could barely see through the trees. “I haven’t thought as much about that as I probably should, Kalaman. We do have Afflicted in Skyrim, but about the worst they do is get defensive about their appearance if you meet them on the road.”
“True,” Kalaman said. “It seems to me, though, that there is more to this local variation of the disease. Its poison is truly virulent, like those poisons the Witchmen use on their weapons.”
“Namira again?”
“Namira or Peryite – or, Divines forfend, the two of them working in concert.”
Harald would have spent more energy on the horror of that particular thought, but just then they reached the sturdy gates overlooking a tiny village. This had to be the place, nestled in a hollow in the forest with the well at its lowest point. From Harald’s left came the sounds of a smithy: hammering, clunking, and the hiss of hot steel plunging into icy water.
“That’ll be our man,” Ulkarin said.
The substantial Breton bent over the workbench scowled at them as they approached. He was big, as the priest had suggested, with thick brown hair and an equally full short beard. “Yeah?” he said, his voice low and gravelly.
“Hello, Rados. My name is Harald, and I and my companions have come with a message from Arnima.”
One of the big man’s eyebrows rose, but he didn’t pause in his hammering. “Nice to see you people haven’t been overrun by plague. The moment I hear you cough though…”
Harald chuckled. “No, we’re all quite healthy. It’s actually about your grandfather. Or, more precisely it’s about his armor. You see, the priest was thinking…”
Rados tsk’d loudly, interrupting Harald’s attempts to ease into the issue. “Oh by the Eight, not again!” he spat. “Will my children be expected to become fabled heroes, too?”
Kalaman cleared his throat. “So may I assume that you’ve been approached on this matter before?”
“Bah, a dozen times at least, and my father before me. Each time someone’s horse is stolen or some Exiles mug a merchant…”
“Somehow I doubt Mados bothered with such things,” Ulkarin said.
“Tell me about it!” Rados snorted, clearly happy that his fellow Breton fully grasped the situation. “They claim to respect him, yet they put him on display in death, deny the old man burial for years!” He rose from the workbench to face them. “Ah, you seem alright, and I do hate to make you a bearer of bad news. Let me fetch you some wine for your trouble…”
Harald saw Ulkarin’s eyes light up at that, and moved to cut off that possibility right away. They didn’t have time to sit around enjoying drinks.
“No, Rados. You need to come with us. You’ve heard of the Witchmen?”
“Who hasn’t? Why?”
“As bad as they have been to this point,” Kalaman said, “they’re becoming increasingly dangerous. There’s dark magic afoot, possible Daedric influences, and as closely as we can determine they’re preparing for some kind of assault on Arnima.”
Harald nodded. “We don’t know whether it will involve magic, or poisons, or basic warfare, or maybe some combination of all of them. They also seem to have, for lack of a better word, creatures at their disposal. The situation isn’t dire, yet, but it’s very dangerous.”
Rados frowned. “Dark magic? That actually sounds worthy of Mados.” He stroked his beard for a moment and then nodded, pointing at Harald. ” You know what? You’re right. Last thing I want is to go down in history as ‘Rados, twice as tall and twice as yellow as any.’ I’m in, friend. Lead the way.”
On the way back to Arnima, Rados described the area’s troubled recent past involving Orcs, Witchmen, Nords and Bretons all trying to exist in the same place. “And it’s not like the Bretons themselves get along,” he told them, sketching the outlines of a nasty armed conflict between Evermore and the neighboring kingdom of Wayrest. “We were outnumbering them six to one but the skirmishes were so fierce our Aventuriers had set the countryside ablaze with their spells. Those were windy months, so by the time my unit reached the city of Wayrest the smoke was everywhere, and let me tell you, war is hard enough even when you can breathe. Today, Wayrest is not even worth conquering anymore, and half our military has to guard the border against those who blame Evermore.”
“And what of Arnima?” Kalaman asked. “Or should I say, Raven Spring. Why did you leave when you have friends there?”
Rados snorted. “I wasn’t leaving them, I was leaving the town Raven Spring had become. There was nothing too special about it, but there was a real sense of community back when Mados was still alive. Back then Mortifayne seemed like the finest lord the place has ever had. Strict but fair, blunt but honest, a terrific swordsman on top of that. Then came the ‘Siege of Raven Spring.’ An awful two months that was. Mados died, and Mortifayne lost his wife. That alone made the man fearful for his life, secretive and cruel. Soon, the bodies on the pikes made a return.”
“So he did go mad,” Harald said.
“And perhaps influenced by a Daedric prince. We’re seeing evidence of that now,” Kalaman added. “In my dealings with Mortifayne I saw a man I would never entrust with a kingdom.”
“And nobody dares speak out against him,” Ulkarin said. “That public execution stage isn’t just for show.”
“I thought things were tense back home,” Harald muttered. “This place is an explosion waiting to happen.”
Rados scowled. “And all of it under the watchful dead eye of old Mados, hoisted like a deer carcass. It was sickening. So I left, simple as that. Some would say I should’ve tried to be the big damn hero; Jackos had a plan ready, no doubt, but it’s the soul of the town that was gone, and bringing that back is no task for a blade.” They were rounding the corner of Arnima’s church when Rados looked around and sighed. “It wasn’t called “Arnima” back when I left. Some might disagree, but I appreciate the name change. This way, the Raven Spring I knew has remained unsoiled. But time hasn’t been kind to it.”
The Priest was working at the alchemy station as they entered the church. He turned and smiled as Harald approached.
“I’ve brought Rados back.”
“You’ve succeeded where many before have failed. I was right in sending you. It may be that we rekindle the fighting spirit here – make us strong again. And who better to lead the way than you heroes.”
Harald smirked. “I’m not sure I qualify quite yet, but thank you.”
“Sure you do, mate,” Ulkarin said.
“Thanks, Tiny.”
Matthew nodded. “Humility is a valuable trait; cherish it. Yet, for what’s to come a humble hand cannot suffice – we need you to be strong. The Witchmen have struck terror into the Reachmen. But you are not a Reachman. Unburdened by our faults and fears, you’re exceptional. I’ll pray for your victory.”
“Don’t worry, Priest. He’s got plenty of that strength stuff going on as well.”
Rados nodded. “I served in the Evermore Pikemen militia, and helped with the occupation of Wayrest, so I know how to face down a foe at the least.”
“Good. Put your armor on, then, mate,” Ulkarin said, gesturing toward a cabinet across the church, “because apparently we’re facing them head-on.”
Rados opened the cabinet, mumbling under his breath. “Let’s see what we’ve got. Ebony armor? This stuff’s worth a fortune! But I suppose Mados deserved no less. Soon as I put it on, we’ll be off.”
Rados certainly looked imposing in the armor, as large a man as he was. It had a deep, rich burnish and was adorned with intricate but inert gold designs, intriguing to Harald given the priest’s insistence that only Rados could “activate the runes.” He didn’t have the leisure to ponder them, though, as they’d reached the old Nordic ruin once more and things got very busy.
An arrow tore past, barely missing Harald’s throat before slamming into the ground between his body and Ulkarin’s, just behind him. Kalaman dashed ahead to engage a frost-wielding mage. Harald followed, but he was tired and his armor was heavy, and he was moving slowly enough to spot the Witchman coming for him from the side. He didn’t even pause, merely turned and Shouted at the man, Ice Form stopping him long enough for Rados to step forward and put an end to him.
Then there was the explosion of magic that Harald had come to recognize as an aspect of Shor. He also realized that the spirit’s presence meant there was something large and malign about. Harald turned left, up the incline behind the ruins, and gasped when he saw what they were facing.
This was indeed a mustering of Witchmen. There were at least a dozen there that he could see, and who knew how many others. Maybe those they’d eliminated over the past days had been part of this gathering army. But they were still at a disadvantage, even given that they were the Prince of Skyrim, the Archmage of Winterhold, Ulkarin the Reachman, and Rados, grandson of Mados the Great.
Especially when the Witchmens’ secret weapon came lumbering up toward them.
It was a golem, ugly like a troll but twice the size of a fully-grown Nord man. Behind him, Harald heard Ulkarin and Rados battling Witchmen. Before him, Harald heard Kalaman shouting warnings to be careful, that he’d fought one of these before and they were horrifically strong, to attack from a distance. But Harald’s focus shrank to encompass nothing more than this terrible creature; he ran forward to join Shor’s spirit in close combat with it. A few moments later, he looked down at the huge carcass at his feet and blinked in surprise that he’d beaten it.
From beyond the ruins, near a firepit topped by a huge scaffolding, poisoned arrows flew out toward them. Harald heard Rados grunt, and shout “I’ll give you that one!” but didn’t see him slow for a moment. Harald sprinted past to attack the Witchman archer. Kalaman shouted “I’ll end your miserable life!” and at the same moment Ulkarin fired his bow, Rados struck the archer from behind, pushing him forward, and Harald brought his sword up from hip level, skewering the Witchman and then tossing him to the ground.
Harald fought to catch his breath and looked around to make certain they were all still intact. Kalaman had taken up a position higher up the slope, as he’d suggested, his hands still crackling with energy as he approached.
“What is that thing?” Harald asked him, pointing at the scaffolding as he panted.
“Based on what I saw in the cave farther down this valley – well, perhaps a support structure for one of their gruesome effigies. I hate to imagine it.”
Rados tsk’d. “Godsdamn savages. Can’t even say ‘good witchman’s a dead witchman’ – bastards know necromancy.”
There didn’t seem to be anyone else near the firepit, or lurking behind the red-painted stones. Kalaman pointed up the slope toward a brazier, near where he’d been standing during the fight.
“That way, I would imagine,” he said. “Be on your guard. It’s a cave, and I expect it to be full of Witchmen.”
“Right. Let’s go.”
Kalaman had been right. Past the entrance a narrow, winding, ice-encased tunnel was packed with Witchmen, all of whom rushed out to meet them head-on. The next few minutes were a cacophony of shouting, clanging weapons, spells crackling, and from the Witchmen some strange proclamations.
“Submit, and let rot consume you!”
“The Eternal Spider has marked you!”
That one made Harald shudder. He’d been the one to lead the way through an Oblivion gate, past a spider, only to have the strangest being he’d ever seen declare him the Liberator. Had he actually been… marked?
Can’t let myself be distracted by that! There’s business at hand.
A fireball zipped past his left shoulder and collided with the woman who’d invoked the Eternal Spider. She screamed and crumpled to the floor, just outside the opening to a larger chamber.
“Teach you to mess with me!” Kalaman yelled.
Ulkarin pointed into the next room. “Looks like one of those fancy puzzle trap things.”
Harald led the group toward stone pillars, carved with faces holding familiar animal totems: hawk, snake, and whale. Stairs at the back of the room led up to the rotating plinths, outside a circular barrow’s hallway. He worked as quickly as he could to swing them into position because it was bone-chilling cold, even here beyond the ice tunnel.
Rados shivered visibly. “As far North as I’ve ever been, and I have no intentions of coming here again.”
“Don’t blame you, mate,” Ulkarin said as Harald flipped the lever, opening the barred door to a descending circular staircase.
They were greeted at the bottom by a Witchman and a hagraven. Harald Shouted – “TIID!” – and by the time the passage of time returned to normal he’d sliced the Witchman to ribbons. Behind him, Kalaman had flung several fireballs at the hagraven from one side while Rados had chopped at her from another. She went down shortly after the Witchman.
“Now that’s how it’s done!” Kalaman said proudly.
Rough excavations and natural caves connected one ancient barrow chamber to the next. A simple cave beyond the Hagraven had two more Witchmen overseeing the flayed body of a woman who clearly had died in terror. After dealing with the Witchmen, they filed through yet another long, twisting ice tunnel to yet another living area with wooden platforms holding tents, bedrolls, and cooking fires.
This time, when Harald tried to jump out of the way of the Witchman’s poisoned weapon he fell, catching his foot between the stairs he’d been on and a rock. As he struggled to free himself the others rushed past, thundering up the stairs to swarm the three Witchmen beyond. It was a loud, raucous fight full of taunts and recriminations and ending with Kalaman’s sneer: “That was pathetic.” Harald finally freed his foot by slipping out of the boot and then wrestling his boot free with his hands.
“It’s so cold,” Ulkarin grumbled.
“Tell me about it,” Harald snapped. “I’ve just had my foot stuck in ice for ten minutes. It hurts.”
“Not as much as it would if you stumbled against this doorway in the dark,” Kalaman said, pointing at the vertical row of wooden spikes embedded into the ice. “I suspect they’re not only brutally sharp, but poisoned. Even brushing up against them could be lethal, so take care.”
Sounds ahead told of a bear, in addition to more Witchmen. Kalaman was in the lead exiting the ice, and conjured a flame atronach that broiled the first Witchman. By the time Harald located the bear at the end of a winding side tunnel, the rest of the Witchmen in the area had located him and his party. Chaos ensued. Witchmen and Reachmen alike screamed insults, the bear roared and snarled until Harald killed it, and as the sea of combatants parted Harald fixed his view on an archer wearing an elk-horn headdress. He strode across the space, snarling as he went. He planted one foot and swung, hard, in a wide circle that started on one side of the Witchman’s neck and ended on the other. The head plopped down onto the floor, and Harald snarled again.
“Now you’ll shut up, won’t you?”
He didn’t see the others exchanging looks in the sudden quiet. He didn’t see Ulkarin shake his head “no” at Rados and Kalaman.
“Let’s keep moving,” Rados said to Harald’s back as the Prince of Skyrim headed out toward the next chamber.