A/N: Thank you for clicking on the first chapter of my new story. I don't have a lot to say as we haven't even got started yet, but I hope you enjoy it, and I hope you let me know your thoughts!
"I hate Bretons," murmured Calcelmo as the glittering procession passed through the halls of Understone Keep. "These insufferable fools, that ghastly man who runs the kitchen and the barbarians in the hills."
"I'm not sure if they truly count as Bretons, Uncle," said Aicantar with a small smirk. He watched with arms folded as scholars and soldiers trundled passed, followed by workers in rags pulling carts of tools and provisions. "The men and women of The Reach seem to have an identity all of their own."
"A debatable but astute point," replied Calcelmo. The old Elf's eyes darkened as he recognised someone in the crowd. "Very well, I hate these Bretons. There, do you see him? The one with the greasy moustache? That's the one who started all of this."
"Staubin?"
"Yes, that's his name. Disgusting fellow and more stubborn than those not-Bretons who infest the hills. To think Jarl Igmund gave him permission to tear apart Nchuand-Zel. I told him, I told them that it's a fool's errand and they'll all end up killed, and my work will be ruined."
"They didn't care, did they, Uncle?"
"No they didn't. As brave as they are, they're stupid and stubborn and-"
"And this is the fourth time today I've heard you complain about it," said Aicantar with a laugh, flashing his teeth at his frowning Uncle Calcelmo. The procession of excavators had passed them by, and Aicantar started to follow them down the dark grey, rubble-strewn tunnels of Markarth. A great cavern met them on the far side. Brown earth was cut with great stone slabs, and grey rock created a vaulted ceiling. Tables and carts littered the room, both spilling over with the intricate bronze machinations of the Dwemer. Glowing enchanters and yellowed spell tomes filled Calcelmo's sacred corner of study, and the old Elf starred down anyone who ventured too close.
The procession marched unfalteringly through the cavern where they met the banks of a roaring river which glittered and shimmered in the hazy blue light of the cavern. A stone bridge led them to their destination – an imposing bronze door, intricately decorated with the jagged designs of the ancient Dwemer. It reached entirely to the ceiling, and it was only here that the march ended.
"It seems the whole court has come to watch this insult," said Calcelmo. He pointed to a hollow stone tower capped in bronze. There stood delegations from the many factions that made up the heart of Markarth. In shining metal armour stood Legate Emmanuel Admand, Captain of the Imperial Legion in The Reach. "I don't think the Legate ever smiles," said Calcelmo, not taking his eyes off the tower.
"I don't think you do either, Uncle," said Aicantar in a flash. "Another Breton you hate?"
"A Breton I can tolerate as a matter of fact, as much as anyone can tolerate a shiny tin can with no thought other than Imperial doctrine."
"Don't tell me you hate Imperials too now."
"Not at all, but I expect the best and brightest amongst the Legion to have original thought."
"It doesn't help that he personally supplied half the Imperial soldiers joining this expedition," said Aicantar. As tired as he was of his uncle's constant whining, he did enjoy stirring the pot slightly.
"I can almost forgive him for handing over the soldiers. The orders came from Jarl Igmund, and even if he wanted to refuse he couldn't. A Legate is nothing to a Jarl."
Staubin took his place as the head of the procession. His black moustache tickled the collar of his simple robes. Basic blue design with a yellow hem adorned all researches in the expedition. Staubin stood out only by a gold brooch of a tower on his breast. There was silence amongst those gathered as he ceremoniously pulled out a chunky bronze key from his robes and slotted it into the keyhole of the Dwemer door of the same design. The clang of metal vibrated through the room, and a high shriek filled the air as the door was dragged open. Without a glance back, he and his expedition of researchers, soldiers and workers disappeared into dust and darkness.
As the great bronze doors slammed shut, Calcelmo sighed and floated back towards the Keep with Aicantar at his heels. Those gathered to watch the expedition quickly began to disperse. People filtered down stone walkways from the towers and skirted around inanimate metal monsters.
"Uncle, we may never see those men again," said Aicantar with a frown.
"We may not, but they knew that before they ever stepped foot in Markarth," said Calcelmo.
"I spoke to one of them yesterday. He was old and grey, and he told me that he'd survived countless such expeditions. He told me the trick to getting out alive."
"Sacrifice everyone and anyone. It's almost doctrine in certain academic circles," said Calcelmo without missing a beat.
"It's vile."
"It's work. I can't stand it myself if simply for the lack of logic. If one can't survive a situation with an armed guard, one isn't going to survive by themselves. Keep as many people alive and fit, and the expedition should be a success," said Calcelmo with a stern, lecture-like voice. "I've met countless academics willing to sacrifice anything for a trinket. I've seen first-hand what those kind of men and women do. It's the workers that go first – the miners and labourers. If food runs low, then they starve. If they're injured, then they're left to die. No use wasting valuable potions or magic on someone barely human."
"Uncle!" said Aicantar, grabbing his uncle by the arm and stopping him in his tracks.
"It's not my opinion, my boy. It is simple observation. Argonians, Khajiit, Dunmer. They go first. Not the strongest, not the fastest, never the most useful in the eyes of blind fools."
"Uncle, did you never challenge these-"
"It's the Orcs that academics prize. Strong, loyal, tough. They can survive for days on bloodlust alone, and the right Orc is worth ten good men."
"Those skinny fools won't be nabbing themselves this Orc," said a new voice.
"I'm sorry you had to hear that unpleasantness, Moth," said Aicantar with a slight bow.
The Orc, Moth gro-Bagol, held up a meaty green hand in forgiveness. His tusked face was black with soot and his arms bulged with muscle. "Your Uncle's right. Many good Orcs leave their strongholds to work for weak men."
"You left your stronghold to work for the Empire. I see little difference," said Aicantar. There was a pause while Moth towered over him, his tusks turning into a frown. Aicantar raised his entire slight frame to meet him. The showdown only lasted a few seconds before they both cracked a smile and Moth slapped Aicantar hard on the back.
"Those days are well behind me, and I distinctly remember you preaching your support for the Empire."
"I had no choice. It's not like the Stormcloaks will welcome an Altmer with open arms."
"Or you could not meddle in war or politics, two things you have no business with," Moth said sternly but kindly.
"Leave the boy alone, Moth," said Calcelmo with a gentle hand. "He's young and wants to know the world still. Moth is right, however, do not distract yourself from research with silly notions of glorious war. We are Elves. We have no business involving ourselves in this war, nor are we welcome to do so."
"I have no wish to fight, Uncle, but I hear Stormcloaks are travelling from city to city ousting and murdering any Elf they find. I cannot help but be appalled."
"I would be careful, Aicantar. Jarl Igmund may sell himself to the Imperials, but the Stormcloaks do not lack friends in this city," said Calcelmo.
Their meandering had found them in the great hall of Understone Keep. Thick stone steps led upwards to levels of the keep with doors and passages leading to more doors and passages in the labyrinth. Brass statues of Dwemer automatons rested on plinths and platforms, frozen in time. Metal skeletons brandishing swords and crossbows rose from spheres and hulking giants of imitated muscle crashed hammers into the stone. It was grand, if not dark and intimidating.
Giant burners protruded from the ground and hung from the ceiling, lighting the room with an orange glow that glittered off every surface. A thick haze of smoke added mystery to the grand design.
Through the haze, shapes of people could be seen, from lowly kitchen girls carrying laundry to glittering Imperial soldiers dressed in steel that shone like silver. The rich and noble minced across the stone with furs and gowns flapping. The keep was busy with echoes of a well-oiled autocracy.
Aicantar stared for a moment at the soldiers and the nobles and the commoners, thought briefly about his place somewhere on the outside of it all, and wondered idly about how many people in this hall longed for rebellion while bowing to the Jarl and dutifully paid their taxes.
"Factions within factions…" he whispered to himself.
"Moth gro-Bagol?" asked a timid servant boy as he skittered towards the trio. "Calcelmo?"
"Court Wizard Calcelmo, but yes you have the pleasure," said Calcelmo looking down at the boy. A Breton.
"Jarl Igmund requests to see you both in the war room. A matter of urgency," he said rather hurriedly.
"It's always a matter of urgency with Jarl Igmund. We misplace a bar of silver form the treasury and Markarth is under siege," said Moth with a huff.
"It is still not wise to ignore such summons," said Calcelmo. His eyes glanced to the highest level of the keep, behind which the haze hid the Mournful Throne and the war room. "Aicantar, do whatever it is you do when I'm busy," said Calcelmo as he drifted up the stairs. Both Aicantar and the servant gave graceful bows, glanced at each other and scattered.
Fresh air did not exist in Markarth. Aicantar left the smoke of Understone Keep to breath in the smog of industry. The city rose from the ground in tiers up a high mountain that dominated the area. Many buildings were carved straight into the mountain, and those that weren't were nestled in its cracks and overhangs. A sharp spire of rock dissected he city, upon which the imposing guards tower and radiant Temple of Dibella were held aloft. It was the south side of the spire that spewed the acrid smoke. Water mills, forges, smelters, refineries, factories. All pumped out black dirt into the city and rang with the cries of hammered metal. At the far end of the city, a great cave opened up into the mountain. Cidhna Mine. Grey dust and silver fell from its jaws. It was the source of most of the wealth in the city and acted as the most secure prison in Skyrim.
It was into the smoke that Aicantar strolled. He wandered under the shade of stone pillars and hanging gardens that formed the façade of Understone Keep. Two waterfalls roared their way over the metal statues of the long dead Dwemer that were hammered into the grey walls. They sprayed a cool mist on Aicantar as he passed under them and into the Industrial District. He headed towards the great waterworks in the centre of the district that straddled one of the three blue rivers that flowed through the city. Its wooden walkways housed the waterwheel that powered the entire district with its constant churning. In the centre of it all sat one of the greatest forges in all of Markarth, resting on a stone island in the roaring river. Aicantar smiled and dipped under a low-hanging beam to be greeted a hot blast from the forge.
"Aicantar, hand me the mallet," growled a throaty voice.
"Ghorza, it's about time you found yourself a new apprentice," said Aicantar, obediently handing over the mallet.
"In fact I have, but the boy is useless. It baffles me how the Imperials once had an Empire spanning Tamriel yet their 'best' apprentices can't forge a nail."
"He's learning from the best. If you can't teach him how to forge steel, then no one can."
"Don't let my brother hear that or he'll have a fit. How is Moth doing? I haven't seen him all day." Ghorza gra-Bagol hammered a sword blade into a simple iron hilt. Her leather apron was tied tightly round her thick waist, shaping her hips and breast. She wasn't as muscular as her brother, but Aicantar had seen her throw a punch and he vowed never to be on the receiving end.
"He's up in the Keep. My Uncle and I bumped into him after the researches delved into Nchuand-Zel."
"Those Bretons? A waste of time if you ask me, but they bought up half my stock on their way through. A Breton that's good for business is all I can ask for."
"Ghorza, I have the iron you asked for. Oh," said a voice behind them. "I'm sorry, I'll come back when you don't have company."
"Stay, Tacitus. An apprentice is always welcome at his forge. This is Aicantar, an Altmer and mage," said Ghorza gruffly.
Aicantar extended a hand to Tacitus who grasped for it eagerly, his calloused palms rubbing against Aicantar's soft hands. Aicantar glanced up at the dark face of the young Imperial. Blue eyes poked from under blonde hair and dirty skin.
"There's a little more to me than just my magic or my race, but it's a good enough introduction," said Aicantar with a soft smile that Tacitus returned with dimples.
"I'm afraid I'm pretty much how Ghorza describes me. Imperial apprentice, and a slow one at that," Tacitus said, his eyes drooping slightly. Aicantar felt a pang of sympathy.
"You're damn right, boy, but we can chat pleasantries when there isn't work to be done. Now, Aicantar, you came here for a reason?" Ghorza asked.
"Yes." He cast a glance at Tacitus and pulled a worn leather bag from his robes. He placed the bag on a wooden table strewn with weapons of all description. Lifting the flap, he slid out chunks of intricately detailed metal. Instantly, Ghorza rushed to the table and grabbed a twisted piece of brass metal that may once have been a lever.
"Dwarven…" she admired piece after piece. "You finally managed to make good on your promise. There's possibly two ingots here, maybe three."
"It's not easy smuggling anything out of the museum, but my uncle shouldn't notice these pieces missing. I always come through in the end," said Aicantar, smiling at her excitement over the scraps of metal.
Tacitus stood awkwardly at the side-line. He had met very few people in Markarth so far. Ghorza was tough but kind, and Aicantar seemed interesting. He'd never spoken to an Elf before, nor a smuggler of Dwarven goods. As Ghorza tucked the metal away with glee, Tacitus was staring at Aicantar. From what he could see under the hood, Aicantar had large blue eyes, fat lips, a cut jaw and pointed chin. Handsome, with a mischievous air. Markarth was going to be far more interesting than anywhere else he'd been.
"Aicantar, thank you. I shall call on you when I have made whatever it is I shall be making with this gift," Ghorza said, smoothing down her apron.
"I wait in eager anticipation," said Aicantar with a smile and bowed out of the forge.
"He seems nice," said Tacitus.
"A good soul which is rare in Markarth, but people don't trust Elves. People don't tend to trust Orcs either; it's how we became friends."
"I don't mind Elves nor Orcs."
"Then you could make a lot worse friends than him."
The war room was as grand as any other room in Understone Keep. A large stone table resplendent in copper joining filled the centre of the room. It was complete with a set of unwieldy and uncomfortable stone chairs, each occupied by stone-faced people.
Jarl Igmund stood at the head of the table, hands pressed on the stone surface, his eyes glued to a detailed map of The Reach. His hair was grey and military cropped, and his beard neat and trimmed. Brown furs hugged his neck and chin, and lavish green robes and jewels adorned his body. The twirling horns of a ram, the symbol of Markarth and The Reach, emblazoned his chest. He was dressed as a Jarl, but those in the room saw him as a warrior.
"Another attack," he said simply and gruffly. His voice was deep and weary but spat venom. "The Khajiit caravan was slaughtered on the road." He inked a spot just south of Markarth on the map.
"This is not good news, my Jarl, but nor is it urgent," said Legate Emmanuel Admand, the only man in the room rivalling Jarl Igmund for the intimidation factor. It seemed as if he never took off his thick steel armour. "The Khajiit were of no importance. All they brought was petty trade and skooma. Hopefully now that vile drug may disappear from the streets."
"It's more than that, Legate. The Khajiit are tough and durable. They pay the best coin for the best guards. All of which were slaughtered. If the Khajiit cannot make it to the city, then no one can. Anyone sent out of those gates are dead men. The entire Reach is all but lost to those Forsworn bastards." His emotions got the better of him and he slammed his fist on the table. An audible crack was heard, but Jarl Igmund did not flinch. Calcelmo did.
"I have no men to spare," said Legate Emmanuel simply and without emotion as the sound of Jarl Igmund's broken knuckle still echoed around the room.
"I know, Legate. It would take a whole Century to be safe in the countryside."
"My Jarl, if I may?" asked Calcelmo, steadily rising to his feet.
"Proceed," said Jarl Igmund, sinking into his chair, his red hand clutched in the other.
"How are the Forsworn able to do this? They are barbarous, pelt wearing, animal worshipping Bretons- "
"Watch it," cut in Legate Emmanuel sternly.
"With no central organisation. By all reports their camps and towers operate quite independently from one another. How are they able to defeat a respected mercenary band and our own soldiers?"
"It is because of those traits, not despite them, that the Forsworn are so strong. You destroy one base and there's a dozen more out there to be found. They know this land better than anyone, can strike in a heartbeat and then melt away." Jarl Igmund had stood up once more. "And they have magic."
"Hedge wizards at best, my Jarl. They have no true magical talent," replied Calcelmo.
"True, but no soldier can fight their best with fire raining down on them, no matter how simple the spell. Besides, it's not just their mages. We have increasingly more reports of something worse. Hagravens."
"Surely not," whispered Calcelmo.
"Indeed. Yes, we wiped out many of their nests during our last crusade, but they are back at the head of the Forsworn horde."
Thongvor Silver-blood stood up for the first time during the meeting. He was clad in dull steel, leather and fur. His bald head had started to wrinkle, and old scars had begun to deepen. Of all the nobility in The Reach, his clan was the most powerful. He and his brother owned all the silver in Markarth, half the property and half the guard. "Jarl Igmund, I personally led the raids on the Hagraven nests. I killed many of them myself and lost many, many good men to their foul claws and magic. We didn't leave a single one alive."
Jarl Igmund shook his head. He silently reached to the base of his chair and threw the mangled head of a Hagraven onto the stone table. Bloodied grey hair spewed from the crooked and wart-marked head of an old crone with a nose like a raven's beak. The stench was of death and must. "Found on the road with the dead Khajiit. Believe me when I say we left behind a body with wings and talons. They have returned."
"Then they must be stamped out," said Thongvor, staring at the head in disgust.
"Hagravens or not, I cannot lend the men," said Legate Emmanuel, his arms crossed.
"No, we have proven that these beasts cannot be eradicated. A lone Hagraven is little threat and can be ignored. A Hagraven at the head of a Forsworn army is the most dangerous enemy to us all. They bolster the forces with dark magic and breed with their most depraved," said Jarl Igmund. Once more he picked up his quill and slowly marked a spot on the map. It was an island in the middle of the mighty Karth River that flowed through the map as it did The Reach. "Karthspire. A sprawling camp on the river. Well defended and filling with more Forsworn soldiers every day. It is one of the few camps we have an eye on and appears to be one of the largest. This could be our biggest blow to the Forsworn in years."
Legate Emmanuel breathed in deeply. "A single Century is all I have stationed in this city. I will not send the men out to be slaughtered and leave the city undefended."
"This threat cannot be ignored, Legate," said Jarl Igmund sternly.
"And why not? Let the Forsworn stay. We do not have the power to wage a war against Ulfric and the beasts. We are safe in Markarth, and it's a fool's errand to chase after the Forsworn."
"That's a very Imperial view, Legate. Hiding behind bigger men and bigger walls," said Thongvor Silver-blood with a smirk.
Legate Emmanuel slowly leaned on the table, pressing his bald and scarred face closer to that of Thongvor's. "That sounds very Stormcloak of you, Silver-blood. I don't know what I'd have to do if I found a Stormcloak supporter in Markarth."
"Hide in your bedroom and ignore them as if they were Forsworn, I suppose," said Thongvor without missing a beat. Legate Emmanuel had almost got Thongvor by the throat when Jarl Igmund smashed his glass on the table between them, coating the two men with wine and glass.
"Enough! That settles it. Thongvor, you and your men shall lead the attack on Karthspire."
"My Jarl-"
"Since you don't like hiding behind bigger men and bigger walls, and since it hasn't escaped my notice that the largest clan in The Reach hasn't sent any men to fight the Stormcloaks, you can put your soldiers to good use," he said.
"Jarl Igmund, as I've told you my men are busy guarding our mines and farms," said Thongvor, panicking.
"Either send your soldiers to Karthspire, or send them to the frontlines. That is final."
Before Thongvor Silver-blood could conjure up another reply, Jarl Igmund straightened himself and addressed the entire room. "The siege on Karthspire will begin in two days. The Silver-blood family has kindly offered to send their troops to fight the Forsworn. Will they go alone?"
This was the part of a war meeting that most people dreaded. At the high end of the table sat Jarl Igmund, Thongvor Silver-blood and Legate Emmanuel Admand. At the lower end of the table sat those with no title like Calcelmo and Moth gro-Bagol. In between was a sea of nobles, advisers, diplomats and merchants, both high and low. Those holding land and men were now invited to speak. None of them wanted to do so. Most had sent their men to fight the Stormcloaks. Those that still had soldiers were reluctant to release them. The table was uneasy.
"My Jarl, I don't know what you think we have to offer," said the first brave voice. Jarl Igmund turned to look at the man kindly. "My brothers, my sons, my workers, all have gone to fight the Stormcloaks. My mine is working on a skeleton force. I rely on the generosity of the City of Markarth as it is to defend my small land." The voice belonged to Lord Skaggi Scar-Face, a lesser noble in the court of Markarth. He owned a small village and iron mine just outside the city. His namesake cut deeply across his lips and up his cheek.
"Lord Skaggi, I know your sacrifices already. I do not expect you to give that which you do not have," said Jarl Igmund with a nod, inviting Skaggi to be at ease.
"And what about us?" asked a harsh, irritated old woman. Her grey hair was in a tight bun, and her thin frame supported a worn lilac dress that was fashionable three seasons ago. "You insult us, Jarl Igmund. The Forsworn killed my husband, killed my son. They burnt my land and took my home, and yet you do nothing? No, I rot away in this keep of yours for over a year, surviving on your pity, but that never extends far enough for you to take back my home. Instead, you set your sights on some sprawling camp. Is my home, my legacy worth nothing in the eyes of the Jarl of Markarth?"
"Lady Sungard, the attack on your home was a great tragedy for the whole Reach. We saw one of our most powerful families fall to barbarians, and with it one of our largest fortresses. That is why I am unable to help you yet. Here we are planning an attack on an open camp, a heavily defended one yes, but only with wooden stakes and men. To take back Fort Sungard would be an impossible task without the full armies of The Reach," said Jarl Igmund, trying to sound as sympathetic as possible.
"And the full armies of The Reach are busy fighting Ulfric Stormcloak, a worthy cause, but the wounds of the Forsworn attack still cut deep." Lady Sungard's eyes glistened with moisture. "I have no love for Ulfric or his Stormcloaks, but I cannot sympathise with a war hundreds of miles away when too many are ignoring the war here at home. I do not blame you, Jarl Igmund, for the loss of Fort Sungard. It was my family's own blindness that lost us our home, but there is yet more blindness in attacking a lone campsite when the Forsworn control some of the strongest forts in The Reach. You will have no help from me, my few guards left remain my own."
Jarl Igmund turned away from Lady Sungard. "Old Hroldan is near Karthspire, Lady Eydis, as is your mine, Lord Soljund. What experience do you have with these Forsworn?"
"Small raids as normal," said Eydis, a tough Nord woman. "In fact, the attacks seem to be easing off. I don't like it."
"I would have thought less Forsworn attacks would be welcome," said Thongvor.
"No, there are more Forsworn than ever. We can see the lights at night. The camp seems to grow larger every day and yet they leave us alone," said Lord Soljund, weary leather armour wrapping his young body. As one of the youngest nobles he had yet to garner respect amongst the others. "That means they're gathering their strength. They're planning something big. I can't speak for Old Hroldan, but my men are with you, as getting rid of these Forsworn from my doorstep would be very welcome."
"Aye, Old Hroldan stands with the Jarl and the Silver-bloods," said Lady Eydis. Neither she nor Lord Soljund had large armies, but Jarl Igmund was relieved to have some support.
"Thank you. Go, now, all of you. I must prepare for what is to come."
The halls of Nchuand-Zel were tall and dark. Pillars held aloft ceilings of unseen heights. Staubin winced at the clanging and shuffling of his team. They had no idea what to expect in the submerged Dwemer palace, but it would be wise to be more cautious. Relics of past excavations could be seen at the edges of the torchlight, including heaps of metal and dusty skeletons. Stone steps led upwards to solid rock walls on either side of the main chamber, and thus Staubin was at least satisfied that they were going the right way, if the only way. Talk was short and to the point along the tunnel as the ominous darkness and depth of the chamber hushed everyone. Scholars skittered across the stone floor to examine this and that worthless artefact or carving. Staubin knew that anything this early on in Nchuand-Zel was the scrap others had left behind. He retained his place dutifully at the head of the excavation, with the dozen Imperial guards surrounding the rest.
It wasn't long before torchlight shone on the end of the chamber. A solid granite wall loomed above them, blocking what once may have been a throne room. For a moment Staubin considered ordering the workers to dig through but decided it was a waste of labour. There had to be something they weren't seeing.
"Captain Alethius," called Staubin, summoning his captain of the guard. He hated how his voice boomed and echoed round the chamber. "Send your men out. We must have passed a side chamber along the way. Tell them to report to me when they've found something."
"Yes sir," said Alethius, dutifully stamping his armoured foot on the ground. The sound made those not paying attention to the conversation wince.
Perhaps an hour had passed before a young soldier ran up to Staubin. His blonde hair was matted with sweat. "Wizard Staubin, sir, we may have found the way forward. One of the staircases leads to a narrow passage, but I could glimpse a larger hall at the end of it."
"Very good, soldier," said Staubin with a relieved sigh.
"Sir, another thing. There were spider webs," said the soldier a little nervously.
"So? I don't care if you're afraid of spiders, boy."
"I don't think your understand, sir-"
"You dare question the intelligence and reasoning of one of the Synod's foremost researchers? There are spider webs, and thus there are spiders. I understand perfectly well soldier, and despite the looming fear of creepy crawlies we shall venture forth regardless. Am I clear?" Staubin was starting to become disillusioned with the might of the Imperial Legion.
"Yes, sir," said the soldier, yet doubt and fear still clung to him.
The research team shuffled their way to the narrow opening in the rock. It appeared natural, unlike the grand architecture of the city. White webbing clung to the walls and spilled out of the tunnel like foam from a monster's mouth. There was silence as Staubin and Alethius stood at the head of the pack, just under the shadow of the tunnel.
"We don't know what's beyond, sir," said Alethius, raising his torch to shine more light into the darkness. The orange flame glittered off the sticky webbing.
"We don't know what to expect in any part of this city, captain, that's why we're here," said Staubin angrily.
"Do you see that in the darkness?" asked Alethius suddenly. At the far reaches of his torchlight glittered green gems, hundreds of them. They waved and danced, flashed yellow then back to green, disappeared and reappeared somewhere else. It looked like the twinkling of gentle stars.
"Perhaps valuables of the Dwemer," exclaimed Staubin excitedly, taking a step forward. Alethius grabbed him by the arm and pulled him backwards. Still holding on to Staubin, he slowly bent down and picked up a piece of scrap metal. In a deft movement he tossed it into the tunnel, and a dull clang echoed back. The lights vanished.
"I don't understand," said Staubin with a furrowed brow. At those words, the mouth of the monster spewed out the contents of its stomach. With a high shriek and the clatter of chitin on stone, spiders of all sizes poured from the tunnel, along the floor, walls and ceiling and spread into the chamber. Some were the size of cats, others the size of cattle. The lights they had seen in the tunnel had not been gems, but beady, greedy eyes.
At once, Staubin's faith in the Legion was restored. Acting as one organism, every soldier drew their swords and charged at the beasts. Steel swords sliced through spindly limbs, and black pincers bit at leather armour. Swords bounced off hard, black bodies only to cut into the soft flesh between eyes and limbs. The workers squealed and scattered as more and more spiders poured from the tunnel, their dark mouths dripping with venom. The shrieks of the insects filled the tunnels as scores of them were cut down.
Staubin gasped as a spider locked its eight glowing eyes on him. Its legs twitched and its body shook, and from its mouth a jet of sticky grey poison leapt towards him. In a second, Staubin was lying on the ground. The grey poison shot over his head and hit an unaware soldier in the neck. The effect was instant. Armour and flesh started to bubble and melt as the corrosive spit penetrated every layer. The soldier screamed in agony and fell to the ground, desperately trying to get the poison off of him but only succeeded in scorching his hands. He was finished off by a huge spider pouncing and sinking its pincers into his neck.
The spider was not done with Staubin. As the mage leapt to his feet, the spider pounced with legs splayed and mouth open. A jet of flame erupted from Staubin's hands, roaring through the dark cavern. It hit the spider, halting it in its tracks. The insect fell to the ground shrieking in pain. Its blood bubbled and its limbs shrivelled until all that remained was a charred husk.
Other mages in the cavern began to follow Staubin's example. Rings of fire licked the ground around them before shooting upwards in a great inferno. The cavern was lit by the orange glow of the four swirling fires. As if by a powerful wind, the rings began to spin. The flames grew hotter and taller until black smoke and orange light filled the cavern. The spiders shivered away from the heat and light, and one by one they skittered back into the tunnel, some having to squeeze their gigantic bodies through the narrow hole.
"Good work men," said Staubin, allowing his fire to fizzle out into smoke. "Captain, damage report."
"Two soldiers and a worker dead, sir," said Alethius, wiping blood and ash from his armour.
"I have seen worse starts to expeditions," said Staubin, gathering with the other three mages. All looked drained from the magical exertion.
"What shall we do with the bodies, sir?" asked Alethius, bending over a dead soilder. His armour and chest had been slashed apart by pincers.
"Leave them behind. We don't have time to go back to Markarth, and we can't carry them with us."
"That seems disrespectful, sir," said Alethius, standing to face the mage.
"We can collect them on our return journey. For now, we must push on. Those spiders won't give us any more trouble," said Staubin. He picked up his robes and wandered over to the tunnel. "Follow me."
The Residential and Business districts were much more pleasant than the Industrial District. Alleys and stone staircases led into caves and up cliff sides where people lived in ancient Dwemer houses. Statues and plants adorned doorways and walkways, and the Palace River poured its away alongside the road that led from the gate to Understone Keep. The city towered above Aicantar as he walked the lower level. Stone bridges crisscrossed above him, with people bustling about their business on every level.
The marketplace occupied one of the few open spaces in the cramped city. The golden gate to the city opened into a cobbled square where vendors of every description screamed their wares. Men and women in flamboyantly garish outfits fought to sell the crowds anything from meat to jewellery to weapons to mining equipment to books. Markarth lived and breathed by the marketplace and the mines, and the vibrant stalls tied together with bunting gave food and shelter to most residents of the city.
Aicantar pushed through crowds of every class, from nobles to beggars. He had a single destination in mind. A small stall decorated in fine jewellery was perched just on the river's edge. Its blue canvas roof fluttered in the light breeze, and the lady behind the stall smiled as she saw Aicantar.
"Aicantar, it's lovely to see you today."
"Likewise, Kerah," said Aicantar, comfortably sitting in a chair behind the stall. "How is business?"
"My husband and daughter are busy at home making more silver jewellery, but it's simply not selling," she said with a sigh. She brushed her charcoal hair away from her wrinkled brown face. Dark eyes shone like the gems she sold.
Aicantar reached up and grabbed a necklace made of silver links. Dark sapphires hung at the bottom, detailed in silver thread. "I don't understand. It's beautiful work," he said, carefully putting the necklace back.
"They are beautiful. Endon is very skilled in his work, and Adara is growing up to be a fine smith, but it's the same beauty that everyone in Markarth has seen every day. With so few travellers in the city, people have got bored of silver," she said. "When Lord Kolskeggr still had his mine, scraps of gold would sometimes fall into our hands. My husband could then make the most glorious adornments you've ever seen." She absentmindedly leant on the countertop.
"Then the Forsworn came," said Aicantar mournfully.
"Then the Forsworn came. Lord Kolskeggr lost his mine, and we lost our gold. What few pieces we had were snapped up instantly, and now business is stagnating."
"You're still one of the wealthier families in the city," said Aicantar.
"Oh Aicantar, I don't mean to compare my problems to the poor of the city. We still have a roof over our head and food on the table, and for that I thank The Eight every day. I just wish people would appreciate my family's work," said Kerah with a gentle smile.
"I may not be able to help with that, but I can give you something new to sell," said Aicantar, pulling out his satchel. Kerah stood up from the counter and frowned in curiosity. Aicantar pulled out a chunky bracelet, woven in bronze and brass. "This belonged to the Dwemer. The stone is missing, but a good-sized ruby would look perfect."
"How did you get this?" asked Kerah, hurriedly shoving the bracelet under the counter.
"My uncle," said Aicantar simply.
"It's perfect, Aicantar," Kerah said, leaning down to give him a soft kiss on the cheek. "How much for it?"
"300 gold and one of those pretty silver rings," said Aicantar, a sly smirk appearing on his face. Kerah was a warrior of bartering, and this part he always enjoyed.
"200 and a hot dinner," said Kerah, folding her arms.
"I dine in the Keep, Kerah. 280 and the ring."
"220 and a 10% discount on all non-gemmed items."
"250, the ring and the discount."
"You insult me, Aicantar."
"Fine. 250 and a 20% discount."
"Done," said Kerah. She hastily counted shining coins into a small purse and dropped it into Aicantar's satchel. "You know that once I put a ruby in that bracelet I can sell it on for 3000 gold, right?"
"I don't have a ruby, Kerah, nor the ability to convince rich people to hand over thousands of gold, and so I think that's the best deal I could get." Aicantar had stood up to leave when a woman approached the stall. Her bright red hair shone in the sun, and fur and gems shimmered on her body.
"Margret, it's a pleasure to see you again," said Kerah with a bright smile.
"Hello, Kerah, has Endon completed my order?" He voice was plummy and sweet. It spoke of wealth and nobility.
"He certainly did. It was for your sister, you said?" Kerah said, pulling a red velvet cushion from underneath the counter. An intricate silver ring was embedded in it, adorned with a glittering diamond.
"Yes. This is beautiful work, your husband should be proud," she said and picked up the small trinket with delicate fingers.
Then it happened. Aicantar felt a change come over the marketplace almost instantly. Dread and tension filled the air. A knife slid out of a shirt. A gloved hand reached for Margret's neck. A dark hand got there first. Kerah grabbed Margret by her fur collar and hoisted her over the counter with strong arms. Jewellery and boxes clattered to the ground as Margret crashed through the stall. A dark and dirty Breton stood on the other side, a steel dagger pointing at the trio.
"The Reach belongs to the Forsworn!" he shouted as he tried to jump after the Imperial noble. As the man landed on the counter, Aicantar leapt up with lightning at his fingertips. With a flick of his fingers, the man was sent flying backwards, blue electricity crackling across his body. He convulsed on the floor for several moments before going still, softly smoking.
"He tried to kill me," shrieked Margret, her screams filling the square. Tears ran down her soft face.
She had not been the only victim. The scene had replayed itself across the marketplace, and Margret was only one of six victims. She was the only one to have survived. The guards quickly cut down the assailants, and blood ran between the cobbles. Chaos erupted across the city as people trampled each other to get to safety, away from the death and violence.
Within minutes the previously bustling square was empty. People could be heard running down the streets, screaming of a Forsworn attack. The guards began to examine the eleven dead, and Aicantar gingerly stepped out from behind the counter. Margret and Kerah were sat on the floor, the Imperial noble quietly sobbing into Kerah's arms. Aicantar knelt by his smoking victim. He wore the uniform of a smelter and looked like any of the city's poor. He stood up and walked to the centre of the square, choking down vomit. He had never seen so much death, and his eyes watered with repugnance. His body shook and beads of sweat appeared on his brow. He felt like he was going to faint, but morbid fascination kept him walking. He stood in the centre of the square, staring at each of the dead. Blood trickled down the cobbles and pooled around his boots. He stared at the unseeing open eyes of the attackers and the victims. Terror had come to Markarth. Aicantar collapsed to the ground.
