My arrival in Markarth was anything but welcoming.
I had come to Skyrim from the Imperial City, taking a boat down the Niben and then all the way across the east of Tamriel. I was under orders of the resident Thalmor ambassador to spend considerable time in Markarth so I could aid the guards in "keeping the peace." Which, of course, meant using me to spy on a city besieged by dissident natives and hemorrhaged by Stormcloak politicians. I also had orders to write weekly reports on what I found; that was unlikely to happen.
My reluctance as I stepped out onto the Solitude docks for the first time was nigh on overwhelming. I was cloaked in the shadow of the gargantuan arch that the city was built on, seabirds crying and the taste of salt on my tongue. I went up the steps to the city, brushing past a rude Argonian and a rushed farm boy. The country was proving rather strange indeed.
The carriage that awaited me was stationed across from a small farm just outside the city gates. I approached the driver, who asked my name.
"Falco Corrius," I said. "Imperial Deputy. I'm on my way to Markarth."
The driver, a bald and bearded Nord, jerked his head. Get in.
The trip was largely uneventful. We passed through Dragon Bridge and early on, and the sight of the immense river canyon astounded me. In Skyrim, beauty did not come from silver towers or inside the houses of nobles. The clear, biting air, the craggy peaks, the mercilessly swift rivers; in the North, rugged wilderness was pristine majesty. I slept most of the way.
I awoke a few hours later, the grim stone of Markarth staring me dead in the eye. The huge brass gates barred my passage, a warning to any that dared to intrude. The smell of cooked meat wafted from just inside the gate, and I hastily approached as the sun dipped lower and lower behind the craggy mountains.
One of the guards nodded to me as I approached. "Welcome to Markarth, traveller," he said. "Safest city in the Reach."
How wrong he was.
I stepped into a labyrinth of stone. Multiple levels had been carved into the rocky cliffs, and waterfalls roared among them. Shouts of workers from the lower levels mingled with the polite yet firm speech of traders, whom I faced. I later learned that there were two districts; the one I was in housed the Nord nobility, the shops, and the establishments owned by the Silver-Bloods, Markarth's resident hotshots. From the gate, if I took a left turn down a cobblestone street, I would end up in the lower district, where the native Reachmen labored, little better than slaves.
Before me was the marketplace, all stone and bronze doors. A street led up to a series of stairs that could take you three directions: Understone Keep, the jarl's palace; a winding street upon a cliff to my right; or a large spire of rock to my left, with more buildings. Further left were the workers. I worked my level gaze over to the market.
I saw a Breton woman at a jewelry stand, appraising a Redguard's craft. A workman—he appeared to be a native Reachman—approached her. Then time stopped as he silently pulled the unseen dagger from his belt and sheathed it in the woman's back, completely running her through. She groaned and fell.
Reality came back to me. People were screaming, and the worker yelled with them. "Markarth belongs to the Forsworn!" he cried, then turned on his heel to make good his escape.
Something snapped in me then.
I lunged and tackled him, gripping his throat. He slashed me with his dagger, and I fell back. Now he was on top, poised to stab me. There was a fire in his eyes, but it was not the haphazard flame of a madman; it was a cold, determined ember, one that had long been stirring in his heart. I could smell fear on him, and yet a sense of justice, as he brought the dagger down.
But it never found my flesh. My attacker screamed and fell to the side, crashing into a meat stand. A huge gash was now evident in his side, blood dripping onto the stone floor like grim wine. A guard stood above me, his shield proudly displaying the ram-horns of Markarth, his iron axe coated in blood. He had hewn the murderer before he claimed me as his next victim.
The streets were in chaos. People were gaping, screaming, crying. One of them shouted, "By the gods! The Forsworn are here in the city!"
Intrigued, and ignoring my own pain, I listened closer as a second guard hoisted me to my feet. They were all clad in the same cloth raiment, pine green sashes and cloaks behind them, axes and Imperial swords at their sides. Their helms were enclosed, with two dark eyeholes.
"There are no Forsworn here," one said. "Stay calm. The Markarth city guard has the situation under control."
More green-clad guards arrived at the scene, less sinister than carrion birds at a kill but with the same purpose. One took the body of the murderer; but as the guards herded the people out of the way, I was left untended. I approached the woman. She lay on the ground in a pool of her own blood, vermillion hair a tangled wreck.
Something caught my eye. Beside her was a small key, brass and simple. I knelt down and picked it up in my gloved hand, examining its cool surface.
"Sir, you have to clear out. Guard business."
I turned and saw a guard standing there. I stood up, albeit with some pain in my chest from the dagger wound, nodded, and walked away, disappearing into the crowd.
I ended up in the Silver-Blood Inn, a very large building on the far end of a trickling canal just across from the attack. I sat in a chair next to the fireplace and listened to tales of old sung by a hearty old Nord with a stupendous beard.
The dagger wound had been tended to. To the left of the keep, looking over the workers, was the Hag's Cure, a small Apothecary, where a Reachwoman, Muiri, healed me with a crimson salve that tasted like sweet water.
Now it was around 8:00, and the shops were closing down for the day. News had spread like wildfire through the city of the attack. The guards said he was a madman, and yet I had distinctly heard references to the "Forsworn", whoever they were. The name escaped the frightened lips of the locals here in either hushed, angry tones, or screams of terror.
Embers from the fireplace ascended lazily to the stone ceiling, like the calculating eyes of the madman—the Forsworn.
"You're thinking about it, too, huh?"
A Reachman was next to me. He was muscular and well built, and had tattoos covering his entire face. Dirty blond hair fell about his head in a mop, and his eyes were clear.
"Hard not to," I said, and took a sip of Nord ale. The locals called it "Rotgut."
Then the abnormalities began.
The Reachman handed me a small slip of paper, his eyes innocent. "Hey," he said. "I think you dropped this."
Very suspiciously, I looked it over. "Uh, is this your note?" I asked.
"My note? No, that's your note. Must've fallen out of your pocket. Well, I'd best be going." With that, he vanished.
Looking about the room, through crowds of disgruntled patrons, I couldn't locate him. My gaze turned back to the note. I unfolded it, and what I found, written in spidery letters, would change my life forever.
"Meet me at the shrine of Talos tonight."