The pen is mightier than the sword. – Edward Bulwer-Lytton
Harald Stormcloak frowned, looking back toward the volcanic tundra far below. He should have been dashing up the steep mountain stairs behind him, where Kagrenar beckoned. He was excited to get inside, even if a little concerned about what he might face. After all, he was tracking a dangerous man, someone who’d taken out a whole bandit camp and left one of its occupants frozen in a block of ice.
What bothered him, though, was what he’d seen on his way here.
He hadn’t really had time to ponder the momentous news about Qaralana being Dragonborn. He’d then been far too preoccupied doing errands for people in Little Vivec to think about her. She hadn’t even crossed his mind while preparing to come south to Kagrenar. But as he neared the place where his path climbed into the mountains, he’d heard a sound out over the tundra.
It had started as low waves of sound akin to the wind blowing, except that it didn’t stop. It grew louder as he went, and took on a vast, angry, echoing quality. He turned his head this way and that trying to locate its source; but it wasn’t until motion caught his attention that he realized what was happening.
There was a hill in the tundra west of the giants’ camp, topped by one of the ancient Dovahzul word walls. He’d been there before – that was where he’d learned the first word of Frost Breath. But he’d never seen what was there now, circling around the top of the hill and disturbingly close to the giants and their mammoths.
It was a dragon. It couldn’t be anything else.
Harald couldn’t help himself; he dropped into a crouch as the great beast banked and began soaring directly toward him. He should have been brave and faced the creature. He knew from Dardeh and Roggi that Qaralana had not only fought but absorbed the souls of two dragons, not long before. His uncles had taken many over their years together. His father Ulfric had told stories of how the huge influx of them had been a significant factor in the outcome of the civil war. Harald knew all this. He knew, objectively, that dragons could be defeated.
And yet he’d never seen one himself. He hadn’t been able to fully appreciate how imposing one was, nor the enormity of the voice shouting out challenges in its own language. Harald didn’t understand most of what this particular dragon was proclaiming but he understood the fearless, reckless arrogance in its roars.
He had a bow, but he was not really an archer. He had power in his arms and in his shield but he couldn’t use that power on a massive enemy flying overhead. He had a few words of Dovahzul; but the dragon would simply roar with laughter if he tried to fight it with those weak, partial Shouts. Harald was afraid. So he knelt, watching, waiting for the dragon to turn away, and wishing that Qara was beside him.
And then the dragon had turned back over the giants, screaming its taunts, daring anyone within the sound of its voice to come to its wall. Harald rose to his feet and took that opportunity to rush south, the sour disappointment in his own frailty rising up into his throat.
Here I am, in front of the most exciting place I’ve ever been, and all I can think about is how ashamed I am of my cowardly behavior. If Qara had been here –
He tried to picture her Shouting a dragon to the ground and killing it alongside their Uncle Roggi and couldn’t, quite. She’d always been bubbly and funny, but never loud. The idea of her making a sound to equal those he’d heard from Dardeh was unsettling.
He sighed. It had been a long time since he’d seen Qara. Months, probably; and the more time that went by the more he missed her. Harald and Chip had always referred to each other as their best friend, but the truth of the matter was that Chip felt like more a big brother. Qara, on the other hand, was his own age. Qara had a quick wit and wry humor; he tended to be more solemn and formal. They complemented each other. They enjoyed each other’s company. Thinking about her made him smile. Of his two Riften “cousins” she was the one who was truly Harald’s best friend.
He turned back toward the ruin and began trudging slowly up the steep pathway toward its doors.
I wonder what she’d say about what happened to me in Markarth. I’d love to get her opinion on that. Chip’s, too. But Chip’s never killed anything aside from an animal unless it attacked first, and he would probably hate me for what I did.
I wonder what either of them would think about me running away from a dragon. Maybe they’d think I was wise to avoid a fight I couldn’t possibly win.
He shook his head as he reached the doorway. I need to stop fretting about it. I need to focus. This might also be a dangerous fight, if what Hlaalu told me is true.
He slipped through the doors into the Dwemer ruin, on alert but excited to see such a thing for the first time. It was magnificent. There were places where the floors had cracked and toppled the occasional decorative pillar; but the hall seemed in much better condition than what little he’d seen of Nchuand-Zel and was apparently without spiders.
Or at least without living ones. As Harald turned left into the first chamber he found the remnants of broken-down Dwemer constructs scattered across the floor. There were several mechanical spiders and one or two deadly spheres, now dismantled. He approached the first of the disabled spiders and knelt down, grinning from ear to ear.
I can’t believe this! Look at it! It’s so… intricate. And what’s this? A soul gem? Well. Hmm. There’s nobody else around, so I’m going to take that and assume it’s not a problem. If it becomes an issue I’ll give it back.
He winced as the metal clanked at his touch. It was hard to be quiet in heavy armor to begin with; but he didn’t need to add to the noise. As the spider’s parts settled back onto the floor he realized that there was no accompanying cloud of dust. There was no dust on the other constructs, either. Whoever had taken them out had passed by very recently.
It’s time to focus on the threat, then. The criminal definitely came this way. I don’t want to be caught by surprise.
More metallic glints caught his attention. There was a podium just in front of him, with three stone tables just behind, each holding a different object. Harald examined them: a short-handled dwarven hammer, a Dwemer-make gauntlet, and a dagger. On the podium was a Centurion core. There was obviously some significance to these items, a meaning that danced in his mind, tantalizingly just out of reach. Then he remembered where he was.
Kagrenar! Of course! Named for Kagrenac. And these must be Kagrenac’s Tools! Or, well… wait…
Legend had it that the great Dwemer tonal architect Kagrenac created the Tools to use energy from under the Red Mountain – the Heart of Lorkhan. He’d been attempting to create a new god for the Dwemer, housed in a gigantic mechanical golem called Numidium.
But I thought the tools were long lost, somewhere in Morrowind. These must be replicas. It makes sense that they would be, here in a place on the wrong side of the Velothis and named in honor of Kagrenac. I guess I’ll know for sure if I take Keening without the gauntlet on.
He couldn’t help giving himself a grin at that. It was said that someone trying to wield the weapon without the gauntlet would die. He would know the truth – but only very, very briefly.
Harald took a deep breath and grasped the blade’s handle.
Nothing happened.
He admired it for a moment before slipping it, and then the other replica items, into his pack. They deserved study. If it developed that they belonged to someone living he would immediately give them back, having no wish to be called a tomb robber.
Around a corner from the entry room, another short corridor led to a long ramp downward. There was much more damage here, with broken stonework everywhere and sections of ceiling hanging down precariously. He had to wind his way through rubble to get to the bottom of the slope. Once he emerged, however, he was rewarded with a sight the likes of which he’d never seen.
A circular dais in the center of the space held a Dwemer-make chest. Weapons racks and shelves lined all but the one wall filled by metal doors. Most notable, though, was a large stone vessel at the back of the room, holding a large chunk of glowing stone; and above the stone was the shimmering image of a short blade. Harald stared at it; but rather than approach, he turned right and worked his way around the room.
A functioning alchemy station was tucked into the nearest corner. Harald took the ingredients scattered across the table, but frowned; for the ingredients were fresh, and that likely meant that his target was nearby. He left the staves of courage, sparks, mage light, and healing hands he found on the nearest shelves. He didn’t have the skill or the desire to use staves. Still, seeing the Dwemer-make shelves and cabinets and stone furnishings as well as the lanterns that gave off bluish-white flames had his heart dancing with excitement.
The workmanship! The detail! It’s all so amazing! And to think how long these stone halls have withstood the passage of time. It’s beyond amazing.
Harald approached the central dais. The chest he’d seen from the entryway was unlocked, open, and empty; but there was a book just beside it. Oddly, all of the pages were blank save for the first – and it had just two entries in a strange, angular text he didn’t recognize.
Daedric? No, it’s not Daedric. I’d recognize that even if I couldn’t read it. This is more like runes. Is this – Dwemeris? Calcelmo would like to see this, I’ll bet. Wait. What’s this?
He held the book closer to his face and squinted at the faint markings beneath each line. Someone had made a rough translation of the entries; and even though time had faded the scribbling, Harald could make out what it said.
Powerful magic given form; two souls it binds with an ancient force.
Hmm. This reads like a riddle.
He scanned the room again and noted the round structures set into it here and there. The iris covers on them were closed, but it seemed to Harald that they would be perfect places to hide weapons – particularly since they were the same general size as the Dwemer spheres.
So I need to be careful, lest I set off this trap.
Just to the left of the glowing rocks was a table covered in soul gems. He couldn’t see anything special about any of them, but took one or two to look at later. Farther along, a shelf suspended from the wall held a couple of chests and an open display case, full of identical pendants save for one open spot in the center of the case. He picked a pendant up and examined it closely.
A…Dwemer marriage pendant? Am I imagining things? I’ve heard of these, but I’ve never seen one before. Hmm.
Another shelf had potions, and yet another held a variety of scrolls, one of them a Soul Trap scroll that he looked at for a long moment. Then he tried the metal doors. He suspected that he would need to solve the riddle from the book in order to open them; and sure enough, they were locked with no visible keyhole.
“Ok,” he murmured to himself. “I’m guessing I need to put something in that chest to unlock the doors. But what?”
He looked around the room again. The glowing projection of a shortblade commanded attention. Harald had picked up the replica of Keening in the first chamber, and this projection seemed like an obvious hint. He frowned, though, and shook his head.
“I don’t know. It’s the obvious choice, but… It’s too obvious. It could be just bait. What was the riddle again? Something about souls? It doesn’t seem as though a tonal dagger would bind anything, much less souls. Maybe it’s this scroll of soul trap.”
He was just about to drop the scroll into the chest when something made him pick up the book to read it once again. “’Powerful magic given form; two souls it binds with an ancient force.’ Two souls, not one. Soul trapping only takes one soul at a time. And I know soul gems only hold one. What else? Powerful magic. That could be anything in this room but… none of the staves…”
Harald looked down and realized that he was still holding the Dwemer pendant. A slow smile broke across his face. He couldn’t think of much more powerful magic than the force that joined his mother and father, or Brynjolf and Sayma. He’d never known two people quite as bound to each other as Dardeh and Roggi. And those were only three examples from an entire world’s worth of marriages. He stepped up to the chest and let the pendant slip from his hand into its depths.
“In you go,” he whispered.
For a moment he thought he’d failed. There was a powerful, noisy burst of blue light around the entirety of the dais. He grabbed his sword and crouched, waiting for an attack; but when the blue light faded he looked to his left and saw that the metal doors had flown open. He sheathed his sword, breathed a sigh of relief, and headed through them.
Beyond the doors and down a second ramp was another chamber, ringed by the closed irises and chutes that suggested Dwemer constructs behind them. This chamber held a projection of one of the Tools: Sunder, the hammer. A forge and grinding stone filled one corner of the room. Next to those was a table with paper, quills, and inkpots. Again there was an open chest on the central dais, with a book beside it: but when he read the translation in the book this time he was wholly confused.
“The mightiest weapon in all creation: with it, mortals become gods. For only it can slay time.”
“Slay time?” he muttered. “What on Nirn can slay time?”
I’ve never been good at riddles. This is ridiculous. I’d better check carefully.
There was an entire rack of dwarven bows. Beautiful things, they were; and if Harald had been at all an archer he would likely have taken one. But the bow could only slay physical things, not time itself. Another rack held full-sized dwarven warhammers; these intrigued Harald, being much closer to the idea of Sunder than anything else he’d found in the room. Powerful weapons indeed, but hardly the strongest of all.
A tall rack nearby held swords, shields, and arrows – all tempting, but not as answers to the riddle. Weapons racks just behind the glowing stone had greatswords and battleaxes; they were deadly-looking but couldn’t slay time. A set of corner shelves held war axes, helmets, and maces. And finally, just beyond the sealed metal doors was a rack holding a full set of Dwarven armor in perfect condition. Harald sighed, frowning in frustration.
Slay time? None of these things can slay time. Let me think. What did the books say about Sunder? It was used to harvest a specific amount of energy from the Heart of Lorkhan. So that’s not it.
He wracked his brain. He’d read so many ancient tomes, some of the oldest written not long past the disappearance of the Dwemer, and he couldn’t remember any kind of reference to anything that could slay…
Wait. Ancient tomes. They’ve lasted for Eras. Great swaths of time have passed between the writing of those books and when I looked at them in Father’s private collections. He may not be a true scholar himself, but Wuunferth is; and even as old as he is, he’s not nearly as old as those books.
A slow smile came to him as understanding dawned.
Those old historians even spoke to me. If reaching across several Eras to pass on knowledge isn’t ‘slaying time,’ I don’t know what is! And the others – the books that just tell stories – they make whole worlds separate from this. Creating worlds is what gods do.
He returned to the table holding empty rolls of paper, inkpots, and quills, and picked up one of the quills. I sure hope this is right, he thought. Otherwise I’m going to be a very busy man for awhile.
He hesitated in front of the open chest, mentally reviewing everything in the room, every meaning each type of item might carry, and every possibility. The only thing that made any sense at all was the quill in his hand. He took a deep breath and dropped it into the chest, reaching immediately for his sword.
As had happened in the first room, an explosion of magical energies surrounded the dais. Again, after the cloud dissipated, the Dwemer doors were open.
“That was a lucky break,” he murmured, heading for the new opening.
He was fairly certain he could predict what he would find in the next chamber. As he neared it, what he could see from the corridor told him that he’d been correct. There was a glowing blue projection of the Wraithguard gauntlet at the rear of the room, a central dais holding an open chest, and a book placed next to that chest.
What he hadn’t expected, though, was the Centurion standing silently in its support cage. Harald’s eyes widened and he smiled, excited to finally see one of the huge machines in something other than a museum. But that centurion was going to attack him if he failed to put the proper thing into the open chest, he just knew it.
He walked cautiously up to the dais, watching for any movement from the great metallic creature off to his left; but nothing had happened by the time he reached for the book. The scribbled translations inside this book’s single page made more sense to him than the last one had.
When cold, it destroys; when hot, it creates. Let it encase your heart for what lies ahead.
Well, that one’s pretty easy. A person has to steel their heart to face the worst trials. And cold, hard steel forged in the heat of the Skyforge is what the best weapons are made of.
He grinned at the centurion as he made his way to the nearest of the room’s walls.
“Sorry, my friend. I don’t believe we’ll be dueling today.”
The first table he looked at held pieces of various ore, as well as some quills and paper. Cogs and other pieces of dwarven metal lined the nearby shelves. Another table was awash in beautiful gemstones; and while he knew that either Chip or Qaralana would have immediately swept those into a pack, Harald felt uncomfortable taking them. Still, he did grin at the mental picture of Qara excitedly snatching up all the wealth.
‘You never leave a coin on the table, Stormcloak.’ She’s told me that so many times!
Next to the gemstones was a rack holding a variety of metal items. There were gold, moonstone and silver ingots – all extremely valuable – as well as several glazed Dwemer pots that could bring a good price. Harald wasn’t here for wealth, though. He had plenty of his own. What was more important to him was the collection of steel ingots just below the moonstone.
“Here we are,” he murmured, taking one of the ingots.
There were more examples of Dwemer metalwork around the place, including a perfectly-preserved bust mounted on the wall in one corner. He contemplated taking one or two pieces for further study; but again he thought of the Dwemer museum in Markarth. The artifacts there had already been removed from their places; he could study those. This ruin needed to be left as-is, to the greatest extent possible.
After all, it’s a monument to Kagrenac. Who am I to dishonor that?
Besides, he was convinced that he had the answer to the riddle in his hand already. He strode confidently up to the chest and placed the steel ingot into it; and as expected, there was another explosion of magic.
Beyond the now-opened doorway was a short corridor with two dead end branches. The chamber on Harald’s left was not much more than an alcove, containing only a square table holding a large key. This Harald took, convinced that he would need it later. The second branch was dominated by a circle of stone, four solid-looking gears spaced around the lever in its center. Harald recognized it; the question, of course, was whether or not the mechanism still worked. If the criminal he was pursuing had passed through the riddle rooms, he would have reached this spot. But had he?
Maybe he didn’t even attempt the riddles. Maybe he just left and I’m going to risk dying in a non-functional Dwemer lift for nothing.
No, wait…
He thought back to the case in the first room. There had been an empty space in the center of the line of pendants. If the criminal had just been there to loot Dwemer artifacts the room would have been empty; but only that single pendant had been missing. He must have used it to open the door and come this way as well. Harald nodded to himself and threw the lever, trusting that if the constructs could operate after all these centuries, so could the lift.
He held his breath and closed his eyes, half expecting to crash to some terrible death far below. Only Bal-Ran in Little Vivec knew where he’d gone, and Harald couldn’t imagine either of his parents thinking to visit ‘a village of Dunmer on the water’ to look for him. Happily, though, the lift creaked to a stop, and he found himself safely at the bottom of its route.
Safe from a fall, at least. The sight before him had Harald instantly on high alert. The lift had stopped in the entry to an open chamber; and just ahead was a toppled, but still steaming, centurion. Harald drew his sword and raised his shield.
He’s close.
He took only one or two more steps into the room and saw a second centurion down on the floor. If there was a puzzle involved with the central pedestal, whoever had entered this room hadn’t taken time to solve it. He’d merely taken down these two powerful constructs.
The person in question stepped out from the shadows just behind the second centurion. He was clad from head to toe in heavy armor, likely Dwemer, but Harald wasn’t sure.
Heavier armor than mine. He’ll take more damage. He’ll deal more damage to enemies, as well, including me.
The man didn’t attack, merely watched calmly as Harald approached him. Harald sheathed his sword.
It might be my undoing, but at least I’ll know whether this man is honorable, as Bal-Ran said.
“Ah, at last you’ve arrived,” a deep voice said. “I’ve been expecting you.”
“I see,” Harald said slowly. “That doesn’t surprise me. I assume you know that you were being hunted. But the one who pointed me here said you’re a man of honor. I want to know who you are.”
“My birth name lost meaning long ago,” the man said. “To the world, I am known as the Nerevarine.”
Harald’s mouth fell open. The Nerevarine was – at least in legend – a reincarnation of Indoril Nerevar, who had lived so long ago that the Dwemer had still existed on Tamriel. But even his reincarnation had vanished in the Third Era.
“How? How can that be? You’re supposed to have disappeared, left on an expedition to Akavir!”
“I did. That is true. I had a thirst for adventure, and no small amount of hubris.”
The hair on Harald’s neck rose. It was one thing to be named for the first king of the Nords. It was another to be standing in front of someone who’d presumably passed into legends two centuries earlier.
“I arrived back on Tamriel not that long afterward. No one knows, because I willed it so. I could not bear to face any false heraldry. Not after what I’d done.”
Harald wracked his brain but couldn’t imagine what the man was talking about. His confusion must have shown on his face, for the Nerevarine continued.
“When the Red Mountain exploded and the Daedra invaded all of Tamriel, where was I, the mighty Nerevarine? Thousands were slain, heroes among them, and all because I had to satisfy my ego. After I defeated Hircine on the isle of Solstheim, Tamriel seemed so empty. I defeated a Daedra lord! Nothing else could challenge me! So I left. Since I’ve returned I’ve tried to atone in secret, helping where I can. I can’t erase the past, but perhaps I can overshadow it with new successes.”
Harald frowned. “And so why was I sent to track down a criminal? Because of something that happened centuries ago?”
“The answer to that lies in the name of these ruins. Kagrenar.”
“Named after the Dwemer’s chief Tonal Architect, yes,” Harald said. “You’re looking for something of his here?”
“Not just ‘something.’ When Tiber Septim united Tamriel, he did so using one of Kagrenac’s weapons – a giant golem called Numidium. I destroyed a second Numidium two hundred years ago but recently I heard rumors that a third lay dormant in this very ruin. Such a weapon is too dangerous to exist. I’ve come to destroy it. I could use your help.”
Harald couldn’t answer for a moment, frozen in indecision. Here he stood in the presence of a legendary hero. How could he not help? If a Numidium was here, it had to be removed. Skyrim had suffered enough in recent decades. Besides, the idea that events of the distant past should weigh so heavy on the Nerevarine felt painfully familiar. Ulfric still carried the burden of the days after Red Mountain exploded, even though it had been his ancestors who had offered the Dunmer sanctuary in Windhelm. That same weight still hung around Harald’s neck like an albatross around the neck of an accursed sailor. But there was something about this situation that still bothered him.
“I don’t understand why someone would want you dead. When I was asked to come after you I was told I was chasing a criminal, and yet here you are trying to avert a catastrophe.”
“Oh? By whom? And why? An immortal warrior capable of defeating an aspect of Hircine wanders Tamriel helping those in need and someone wants him dead? Think of the kind of person who would wish for that. I suspect I know your employers. I assure you, they are scum and you are but a puppet to them.”
Harald rubbed his chin. He was still confused. “I don’t know enough about your past to know, one way or another. I’ll have to take your word for it. The person who asked me to find you is named Mandyn Hlaalu. His first message was that there was a grave threat from Morrowind here in Skyrim. And if there’s another Numidium here, that’s certainly true. But when I met him in person he said I needed to track down a criminal. Something’s definitely off about that.”
The Nerevarine snorted. “I could say the same about your presence here, given your lineage. The Empire is not what it once was under the Septim line, and I can understand why one would have wished to escape its yoke. But the man who is now High King of Skyrim has oppressed my people. It seems that he hungered for power. I would not have trusted him with it.”
Harald’s temper flared. “So you know who I am, just as Hlaalu did. And why exactly do you suppose I’m here, having agreed to help an entire village of Dunmer? I don’t have first-hand knowledge of what my father Ulfric may or may not have done; I can only act based on what I see. And I see an old man who, like you, regrets many of the things that he did in the past even though he believes he did them for valid reasons. I don’t have the luxury of immortality, and neither does my father. He doesn’t have enough time left him to do what you’re doing, wandering Tamriel to make amends. I, however, have enough to at least make a start.”
The Nerevarine nodded, waiting quietly. Harald finally sighed, and shrugged his shoulders.
“Still, Bal-Ran said you were honorable. I trust his judgment more than that of someone who says he’s from a Great House that isn’t considered a Great House anymore.” He nodded, finally having made a decision. “You have my blade.”
“I’m glad to have it,” the Nerevarine said. “If the golem awakens, let me draw its attention. Then give it everything you’ve got.”
He turned to open the gate behind them.