Harald trudged out Markarth’s gates and down the stone stairway. It had been a good choice to spend the evening at the Silver-Blood Inn, even if the drinks had been watered and the stone bed made not a bit softer by the thinnest of coverings. Still, he felt a bit more human albeit much more concerned. He’d kept an ear open and had overheard more rumors of trouble to the west. Shipments across the border were being waylaid and people killed, and there was talk of some kind of plague. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard these things, but it was the first time he’d heard them since becoming personally acquainted with the Forsworn in Cidhna Mine. Now, he wasn’t sure what he should do.
What do I do? Do I go back home and report in to Father? Confide in Dardeh and Roggi? Go south and see whether Qara will forgive me for being a tongue-tied idiot? I feel useless. And there may still be people out to kill either Father or me.
The notion of seeing Qara was definitely appealing. He smiled, remembering how she’d looked in that almost iridescent black armor. The memory had him so distracted that he almost ran face-first into a wagon parked just opposite the local carriage. He flung out a hand to catch himself and then glanced ahead, flushing in embarrassment.
“Whoa there, youngster!” The man at the front of the cart looked amused but also had an aura of concern about him.
“Sorry. I was reminiscing.” He tried to put on a grin, but his sense of humor had taken a beating in Nchuand-Zel and he suspected his expression was more grimace than anything else. “Hmm. Are you the one they were talking about in the inn? Merchant trying to head over the pass and looking for help?”
“What gave it away?” the man said, heaving a sigh. “This rugged face or my tired gaze? Crossing those valleys will give ye both.”
Harald chuckled. “That, your carriage, and the fact that you neither sound nor look like someone from Skyrim.”
The man nodded, looking him over. “I’m Loke. I’m going to make the return journey once I’ve got… well, I’m… short of a bodyguard. The fool who escorted me here got himself lost in the wilds somewhere after leaving the inn in a drunken stupor. I thought about tying him to the cart until he came to but ultimately, if you’re going to put your life in someone’s hands, it better be someone you trust.”
It sounded like a plea, a poorly-disguised one at that. This time Harald did grin. “But you’re willing to trust me, someone who just happened along?”
Loke tsk’d. “Alright. I’m desperate, you see. Happy now? I just need a body tae take the hits in case we get into any trouble. Which we won’t, of course, don’t worry.”
“And I just happen to be in heavy armor and look like I can take the hits. Well it’s true. I can. And I hear that there’s ample reason for you to need a bodyguard.”
“Ye’ll be paid handsomely – that is, if you don’t drop the venture halfway through.”
Harald studied Loke’s face. He didn’t want to open himself up to more assassins, and he’d learned the hard way not to be too trusting. But he saw no reason to doubt Loke’s motives. While the man was not exactly terrified he was clearly loath to travel alone.
I don’t need money, but I’m surely interested in taking some solid information back to Father instead of just rumors. But I should at least let them know where I’ve gone.
Who needs assassins? They’ll kill me themselves if I make it back alive.
He nodded. “Alright. I need to find a courier and send a message. Hitch up your horse. I’ll be right back.” As he turned to leave, he smiled. “I’ve never been to High Rock.”
“Well I don’t want to give you the wrong idea,” the merchant said. “This is the east of High Rock. Worlds apart from the west, and don’t expect us Breton folk to resemble the people you meet down there.”
“Trust me,” he said. “I’ve had enough experience with nobility to know the difference. That’s actually why I’m interested in the trip.”
“Right. Thought you sounded highborn. Oh, and bring your own rug. That hard wood’s gonna be a real pain later on.”
Loke snorted. “On the doorstep of the kingdom, yet the gods ordain that we run into trouble now?”
It had been a largely uneventful trip south from Markarth and then west and up. That was the hardest part, the horse earning its keep hauling the cart up through the steep pass. Harald had jumped down for the crossing and just as well, given the bears and saber cats that came to investigate their passage. He’d earned his keep taking care of them.
He’d been a bit nervous passing through the Imperial checkpoint at the border; but it was clear that these Imperials had never seen Ulfric Stormcloak. They paid Harald no heed. They knew Loke, though, and waved them through.
Once past the gate they ambled along slowly, recovering from the strenuous climb. Harald took that time to drink in the views of sharp, craggy mountains, lush vegetation, and ample water. The road turned back to the north before swinging west again, and it was at this turn that they stopped. Perched on a hillside ahead was a tall Imperial watchtower with a bright green banner hanging outside – and a badly injured Breton guard slumped at the base of the banner’s post.
“Look over there!” Loke hissed. “The man’s gasping for life! I’m not going any further until you find out what’s going on.”
“I’m on my way,” Harald said, pushing his helmet down onto his head.
“Don’t blame me if you see this cart halfway to the horizon when I hear yer screams. I have to protect my interests.”
Harald harrumphed. What isn’t he telling me? I knew there had to be a catch. He’s not the assassin I was worried about but he surely knows something I don’t.
Mother would have my hide stretched out on one of those nasty torture racks in Roggi’s playroom if she knew I was doing this. But here I am.
He readied his shield as he heard the man’s moans. The guard lay in a huge – and spreading – pool of his own blood. The eyes peering up at Harald from inside a full-face helm said that he knew he was dying.
“What happened?”
“Those… damn… Witchmen,” the man said, gasping between words as he fought to stay conscious. “In the… tower. Ambushed us when we were… changing shifts.” He moaned and shuddered. “Warn the Divide. Get them to… send men. Please.”
“I will,” Harald said. The guard never heard it. The effort of giving Harald the warning had been all he could manage; his eyes closed and he slumped backward onto the ground, dying in slow motion.
Harald took a look around. One fork of an overgrown pathway up the hillside led to a wooden lookout post, and at the end of the other fork was the Imperial tower. He made for the lookout platform first, trotting up the steps before coming to an abrupt halt at the top.
There was another guard there, sprawled out prone across the platform. The thick wooden railings were splattered with blood, the source of which was obvious: the body lacked a head.
Harald turned to stare at the smoke drifting up from the stone tower. He had no way to know whether there was someone up there or it was simply the remnants of an existing cooking fire, but he wasn’t going to take any chances. He hopped down from the platform, drew his sword, and crouched down into the tall grasses to slink up the hill. It soon became obvious that there had been a true massacre here, just as the guard had told him: at least one body – also headless – lay sprawled across the stone stairs, blood dribbling down toward the ground.
This is barbarous! I know the Forsworn are dangerous and set on their revenge but I’ve never known them to purposefully behead people! Accidentally, maybe – like the heads I took back in Markarth – but this is deliberate.
He crept forward into the tower, scanning its lower level. Bedrolls and a storage chest lay on the floor opposite the stairwell, with no indications of a struggle; the other side of the room, however, told a different story. Dark red splatters covered a once-beautiful green rug and the surface of a large table holding papers and potions. Baskets lay overturned. Blood saturated a small wooden shelf. Worst of all were the heads. There were two of them, and their expressions said they’d died in fear. Harald glanced up the circular steps and saw the torso that had belonged to one of them, sprawled and dripping as the one outside had been.
He snarled, silently. It was desperately hard to move quietly in his armor but his life might depend on it, so his progress upward was painfully slow. As his head reached the top of the tower, he stopped, startled. There was an uncommonly pale man kneeling over a burned, bloody corpse. The man wore what Harald recognized as Forsworn armor, and the distinctive wound on his chest said that he was a Briarheart.
Then the man spoke, and Harald nearly tumbled backward down the steps in shock, the hair on his neck rising. It was an eerie, very deep and guttural voice, almost croaking as though his throat had been squeezed nearly shut. “Another fleshling assails us? The King will have his towers, he will have his subjects, and he will have your head! The Dark Mother assures this.”
With that, the creature rose to his feet, drew a sword, and bolted toward Harald. Harald reflexively raised his shield, and a good thing, too: the Briarheart was incredibly fast. Before Harald could fathom what to do next he could see the man’s red tattoos and the details of the briar heart in his chest, and could also see that this was a huge man, much taller than him.
If he’s fast, the only chance I have to save my life is if I’m also fast.
Harald only knew a few Shouts, but one of them was a combination of words that allowed him to strike like the wind for a few moments, and which might make the difference between his life and death here in a strange land. He inhaled deeply and summoned up that part of him that was the Dovahzul.
“SU- GRAH!”
Then it was a blur of motion as Harald blocked the Briarheart’s sword, slashed with his own in a flurry of blows, and bashed with the spiked shield as he drove the man back and reached solid footing on the platform. He was making good progress when the Briarheart opened his mouth and croaked more words.
“The maggot comes forth! Make them rot!”
Then, to Harald’s horror, it spewed a fountain of green liquid. In spite of a quick dodge sparing him from the worst of it Harald couldn’t avoid breathing the fumes as the poison splattered onto the rooftop. He immediately felt sick. He had to kill the creature or die himself.
Then he stopped thinking. The blind fury he’d unleashed on the Falmer in Nchuand-Zel rose once more even as the effects of his Shout waned. He swung twice – the first blow a sideways slice and the second an overhand power attack – and followed by smashing the spikes of his shield into the Forsworn’s face. He lowered the shield and stabbed upward with his sword, skewering the Briarheart through its chest.
“I am Hers,” the creature belched as it collapsed onto the decking. Harald stood panting for a moment as his rage subsided, and downed a small healing potion to counteract the poisonous fumes.
“So,” he said to the deceased Forsworn, “you’ve got me at a disadvantage. I don’t know how you spit poison. Your skin’s not red; you’re not one of the Afflicted. I don’t know who the King is. And I surely don’t know who the Dark Mother is. Not the Night Mother, I assume. So what is your story, I wonder?” He looked around in disgust at the bodies, and the torso-less Imperial head flung to the side. Then he peered back down the road and saw Loke’s horse and cart still where he’d left them.
“I guess I’d better go check in. He’ll want to know that the path’s clear.”
He dropped to his knees for a moment, thanking Shor for his strength in battle. When he rose again, he felt somehow stronger than he had before entering the tower.
Maybe Roggi’s shield techniques will be easier to use now. It feels as though they will. Thank you, Shor.
“Alright?” Loke asked as Harald neared him.
“I am, but there are no survivors. The Forsworn butchered them all.”
Loke’s eyes widened, and he wrapped his arms around himself, shuddering. “No, friend. Not Forsworn. Witchmen. Didn’t I tell you about these devils already?”
“No. You must have forgotten. It doesn’t matter, though; tell me now. I need to understand what’s going on here. That’s why I came with you.”
“You’re right, believe me. These aren’t the type you want to be ignorant about. Treat them like any ordinary scoundrel and the next sight you’ll be seeing is that of your gods.”
Harald frowned. “I came close just now, as it happens.”
“Bastards coat their blades and arrows with this vile poison, a resin so foul giants fall to an agonizing death with just a brush. I’m not sure how you came out of there alive, to be honest. You’re tougher than you look.”
Harald nodded. “I was taught by some of the best and have a few tricks up my sleeve. You heard my Shout?”
Loke’s eyebrows rose. “Is that what that was? I heard the noise and couldn’t fathom it. One of the old magicks.”
Harald was surprised to hear the Thu’um referred to in those terms, but that was, after all, what the Voice was – an ancient form of magic that had begun with the dragons. That was likely why so few of the magic-shunning Nords truly trusted the High King who, legends held, could Shout a man to death. As far as Harald knew, only Dardeh had actually done such a thing during their lifetimes, but the rumors and distrust persisted.
“Yes. I’m not very good at it, frankly, but I know enough to get myself out of some tight spots. And that was tight. That man – or whatever he was – he was fast. I needed to be faster.”
Loke looked him over again and nodded. “And a bit of a berserker you are, too, highborn or not. Well, I thank you. These scum are a whole new low for the Reachmen, carving up man, woman, child and babe alike for their rituals. Then they hoist the bodies they harvest in that dense woodland up north. Foul. Simply foul.”
“Yes. They beheaded all the guards. I’ll need to look into this while I’m here,” Harald said. “So am I likely to run across any more of these ‘Witchmen’ on the road?”
“You shouldn’t, if you don’t take any detours. First town that you’ll come across is the Divide, perched up on a great, hulking stone bridge. From the top of it you’ll have a vista of the Reach – most notably Arnima, and if you squint hard enough, Evermore itself.”
Harald frowned. He’d heard that name often enough. “I thought Evermore was a kingdom.”
“Semantics, eh? Evermore is the kingdom and the capital city. Used to be just a backwater, but recent times have spoiled the city with wealth, and power that they’ve used to conquer their less ‘civilized’ neighbors.” He looked around and sighed. “Well, my clients are probably waiting with bated breath. I’ve taken long enough to get here already. I’ll need to skip on any indulgences on the bridge and head straight to Arnima.”
“What happens there?”
Loke grimaced. “Nothing pleasant, I assure you. Most everyone considers it to be a stain on the kingdom. Most of the guards are nothing but thugs waiting to shake down us humble merchants, and they routinely terrorize those unfortunate sods that don’t have the means to leave. And the governor is a strange character, Mortifayne.” He tsk’d. “Lord Mortifayne, to be correct. Never call a lord by his name.”
Harald couldn’t help but chuckle at that. It was bad enough trying to keep ahead of “my Jarl” or “your Majesty” or even just “ser” in Skyrim, but he was used to it. “I’ll be careful.”
Loke peered at him again. “Highborn. I knew it. But do take care. I’ve heard tales of strange punishments for those beneath Lord Mortifayne who weren’t wise enough to escape. Most ignore these tales because they’re hard to imagine happening in a civilized place, but I never risked finding out for myself. It dampens the mood, which isn’t good when you’re traveling on your lonesome.”
He reached into the cart and pulled out a fat coin purse, handing it to Harald. “Here’s yer pay for getting me through the pass. You should talk to the governor when you reach the Divide. Merosa. Frumpy little woman, but don’t tell her I said that. She’ll normally be in the temple, ‘praying’ to Mara.” He winked. “And with that, I’d best be going. Hopefully the guards are knockout drunk as usual. They’re meanest when they’re sober.”
“Thanks, Loke. Take care.”
“I’ll see you around, friend.”
Harald nodded and started trotting down the road as Loke returned to his wagon. Ordinarily, such a lovely day might have put all concerns out of his mind, but the encounter with the Witchman had been too unsettling. The power situation in the Reach had him deep in thought, as well, to the point that when the huge shadow moved overhead and raced down the road in front of him, he nearly jumped out of his skin.
Dragon?
He reflexively grabbed for the bow the Nerevarine had given him; bad shot or not he couldn’t very well use sword and shield to fight a dragon. He looked up and gasped.
It wasn’t a dragon, though it was the size of one. No, this had feathers on its wings and around its head – a griffon. It flew ahead of Harald, crossed the road, and landed atop a cliff nearby. Harald slammed his helmet down and took aim. His arrow landed – he saw dust fly from the creature’s feathers – but seemed to do no damage. The griffon launched into the air for just a moment, but then settled back onto the rocks, watching the passage of a seemingly-unconcerned party of Orcs heading toward the border.
Then, to Harald’s utter astonishment, it began to speak.
“And the clouds gather again. How futile. Your tears will not wash away the roots. The feast draws near, little wolves.”
With that, the griffon once more leapt into the skies, flying away toward the guard post that came into view as Harald ran. He chased it for a few moments, thinking that he might get another shot at it, but it was far too fast. He slowed to a stop, shaking his head.
“They said things were even worse in the West but I surely wasn’t expecting this,” he murmured to himself. “The feast draws near? I hope I’m not in over my head.”
A part of him said “turn back.” He already had valuable information: he could report that it was in fact very strange and very dangerous here, even with as little as he knew. The snippets of local politics he had gotten from Loke would be useful to his father. Maybe Dardeh knew something about a dragon-like griffon. Maybe Esbern did; he was certain the Blades would accept his presence once more if he went with Qara. The thought made him grimace.
If Qara will even talk to me. She sure seemed angry.
If he turned back now, he’d have a chance to make amends with her before the resentment set in too deeply. But if he turned and ran now, he would never know what other threats loomed here in the Reach. It wasn’t far from that Imperial checkpoint to Markarth, after all, and a great many contingents of various sorts still hated his father. He needed to know whether events would threaten the High King of Skyrim any time soon.
Besides, he thought as he trudged forward to the gate, the truth of the matter is that I want to see it for myself. I’m tired of being only the High King’s heir. If I can’t prove myself somehow what kind of an heir am I, anyway?
A voice called down to him as he was about to pass through the gate. “Hold up. I haven’t seen you up here before. What’s your business?”
Looking for trouble probably isn’t what I want to say, is it.
The guard was dressed as the poor deceased soldier at the signpost had been. This was a Reach guard, not Imperial.
“Witchmen have sacked the watchtower to the east. I’m here to inform Merosa.”
“Witchmen?” The man sighed. “Bloody Mara, I never thought they’d get this close. OK. Go through to Merosa. Tell her everything, for the sake of the Reach!”
“Thanks. I will.”
Past the gate, the roadway climbed steeply. To the south, the great stone bridge spanning a deep ravine loomed, a long wooden ramp built atop its steps accommodating carriage passage. Harald saw a small inn set just off the road to the west, two men chatting near its entry. As Harald turned to cross the ramp he could just make out what they were saying.
“’Ave ye heard the news from Skyrim? They say that Ulfric was captured and killed!”
Harald barely managed to contain a loud snort of laughter. The other man laughed for him.
“Ye daft fool, that’s not news! He wasn’t killed. A dragon came to rescue him. That was twenty years ago, at least. And he’s the High King out there, or whatever they call their leader. For years and years now. Ye need to get out more often.”
The first man laughed as well. “A dragon! Ye’re mad, brother!”
Harald trotted into the town, grinning in spite of the somber news he needed to share with its leader. If the news of his father was that muddled out here, it wasn’t likely that anyone would recognize him as the son. Unless the assassins had followed him, he’d be a lot safer.
As he reached the top of the wooden ramp, he heard the well-trained voice of the town crier, standing beside the road with his arms held wide.
“Fresh news for the hearty folk of the Divide! Horrific doom befalls the hamlet of Sabbat, torn to shreds by vile magic! It has been overtaken by dead! Or should I say, Undead. The Orcs still lurk in the countryside and they’re out for blood! Remain within the city walls, or at least don’t travel alone!”
Well that at least seems to be a correct piece of information. I passed by a group of them just a moment ago. They weren’t out for blood, though. They just seemed to be travelling. But – undead ravaging a town? That’s not good.
The bridge and most of the town itself had been built up on a base of heavy stone slabs, probably taken straight out of the riverbed in some distant era. Several secondary archways topped it, creating an odd upper level. The most prominent feature was an imposing church atop the central arch. That was where he needed to look for Merosa; access to the upper level, though, wasn’t obvious.
He jogged beneath the heavy arch, looking for stairs or a ramp, and was happy to spy a set of steps like those at the north end of the bridge. To his disappointment he found that they only led up to a crumbling watchtower. A man in light guard’s armor leaned against the stone archway beneath the tower, speaking to a man in commoner’s clothing.
“Sometimes I yearn for those simpler times, where a cold winter was the worst of our concerns, a rake in hand rather than a sword.”
The other man smiled. “Nostalgia, sir, nothing but. Yet fortune favors those in your craft. The potential of knighthood! ”
The guard snorted. “Pardon my blasphemy but that title would hold water in any other kingdom, not this one. The recently knighted include vagabonds, scoundrels, and other miscreants. There’s no tradition, no culture – nothing noble left to it.”
The commoner paused for a moment before nodding. “Take comfort in those words not being yours alone. The news from our capitol says that many others share in your anger. After your shift we’ll visit the inn and drown those worries.”
Harald tucked that bit of information away to share with his father and wandered past them, only to find that he was at the end of the great bridge. Turning back toward the north he saw a set of wooden steps almost hidden away at the east side of the central arch and was pleased to find that they led up to a platform hugging three sides of the church. At the platform’s far end was a door, a plaque mounted next to it reading “Mother’s Temple of Grace.”
Mother Mara. Well, I hope they won’t be offended if I continue to worship Shor. He hasn’t steered me wrong thus far.
He stepped into the temple and stopped to take stock of his surroundings. There were lovely, tall stained glass windows along each wall, with three more gracing the curved apse opposite him. Heavy red curtains marked the raised sanctuary, which held a statue of the goddess Mara as well as a shrine to her atop a polished wooden cabinet.
Of perhaps more interest was a raised, circular stone platform below and in front of the sanctuary. A podium faced the array of worshipper benches, but dominating the space was a heavy stone font centered on the stone circle. Harald had no idea what it would be used for: baptisms, perhaps? Even more unusual to his eye were the full alchemy setup and enchanting table arrayed along the left-hand aisle. It was strangely unsettling to see these mundane crafting stations in a church. Harald had seen many temples before, of course, but while this church bore a passing resemblance to the Temple of the Divines in Solitude it in no way had the same ancient, enormous, ponderous solemnity of the Temple. It was probably similar in style to churches farther south in High Rock, but it felt like a poor imitation of whatever it was meant to emulate.
Harald turned his attention to the occupants. One lone figure sat quietly on a bench. A very tall man in dark armor leaned against the wall near the door. To Harald’s left a man in priest’s robes spoke to a mousy-looking woman dressed as nobility.
That must be Merosa. Frumpy.
“You wanted to speak of Mortifayne? I’ve heard news from the council that his seat in Arnima may be put into question.”
“You heard correctly,” the woman answered haughtily. “He and his guards are demanding more gold from the merchants, while also becoming more aggressive. No better than thugs. And that little lord does nothing but encourage it! I despise that unsightly man. Every conversation with him is extremely unpleasant. And his paranoia means we have nobody in town to keep an eye on him.”
She and the priest saw Harald approach and broke off their conversation. She turned to him, a question in her eyes.
“Pardon my presumption, but are you Merosa?”
She crossed her arms and scowled at him. “Have we arranged a meeting? Or is it your practice to address nobility lacking proper decorum?”
Harald felt his hackles rising and fought to keep a calm expression. If we come right down to it, I’m nobility as well, my lady. But I suppose that revealing that would be the height of stupidity.
He cleared his throat before speaking. “My name is Harald, and I’m from Skyrim. On the way here I stopped to help a poor soul at your watchtower and discovered that not only he, but at least three others were butchered by Witchmen. The place was sacked. Nobody survived, including the Witchman, who I dispatched.” Barely. I was fortunate to survive.
Her eyes widened. “Oh! A harbinger of grim news. Never the best first impression. However, thank you for telling me – before my own guards did,” she tsk’d. “I suppose it was only a matter of time before the Witchmen spilled further east. We’ll replace the guard there as soon as possible.”
“As you said, I’m just the messenger.”
“Pardon the introduction. Do understand the need for it. We can’t have just any wandering yokel approach royalty like they’re of the same stock; it’s not good for the kingdom’s image.”
Harald stifled a sigh. So this is how it’s going to be? Very well, then.
Wandering yokel, indeed.