Prologue
The ship's body swayed uselessly in the cold, frozen waters of the Ghost sea. Tralen opened his eyes, and they were greeted with a gush of frozen water. The cold refreshed him and lifted the laziness from his joints. It was cold in this water, he had to get out before he froze. Its so cold he thought. I never deemed it possible that a man can be killed by the cold, but he had heard tales of northers freezing to death in seas that nothing can survive in, but that can only be in one land, the thought struck his already pained mind hard. He was in the northern province of Skyrim.
Tralen decided that the best way to not freeze was to move, already his air supply was running out and soon his blood would start freezing over. Using his well muscled legs, he pushed himself from the floor of the sunken vessel, and began swimming, although very slowly, to the surface of the water.
His head burst through the cold water to be greeted by bone-chilling winds that had entered the vessel through the many cracks it donned. Tralen swam around, trying to locate a place he can exit from, a light to guide him or a hole large enough to fit his big frame. Splashing his arms to turn, he scanned the whole of his surroundings. He was in the upturned hull of the wooden ship apparently, many cracks and breaches mottled the hull like some kind of decoration. Unlucky for him, none of the holes could fit him. Time was running out, he could feel his extremes begin numbing.
With no hope on the surface, Tralen decided to look down underwater, maybe there would be a passageway he could take. With lungs full of icy air, Tralen dived into the frozen waters again. I can barely feel my toes, his extremes where now numbing more than ever, and his fingers where beginning to go rigid. He thanked the gods that he was wearing boots, at least that would slow down the inevitable freezing of his toes. But he had other concerns also, his ears and nose were now blue and burning, and his arms ached and legs cramped from the effort and the cold.
Tralen saw a faint hint of light coming from the bottom of the hull, it was his only chance. If it turned out to be a false hope, he would die here. Using the last of his air and energy he swam with all his might until he reached the source of the light. Joy and hope washed over Tralen like a gust of warm winds from home, the passage is here, and it leads to a room quarter filled with water, Ohh, thank the gods, hope hasn't abandoned me yet. He trudged through the half sunken passage until his head finally entered the room.
Sweet respite, Tralen was breathing heavily from all the effort, every breath he took was painful, every movement was torture, but he had to continue. He didn't know what motivated him, Maybe it's the gods way of giving me another chance? Tralen was superstitious but he was never holy. He had spent his whole life whoring, drinking and shedding blood for some coins to drink and whore again. Maybe this time it will be different. He can survive this if he had enough wits, all he had to do was get out the wreck and swim to the shore, then his life was in the gods hands to waste or save. He hoped it was the latter.
Looking around the room, Tralen tried to figure out where to go next, his memory of the ship was vague. He remembered why he was on the ship, but the passages and rooms of the vessel where but a guess. There where two ways he could go. Wooden stairs on the northern side of the room led upstairs, to the main deck or the captains office most probably, another passage way led east, to the dungeons and cellar most probably. That's an easy choice. He though he needed to go upstairs obviously, get to the top of the ship, then jump into the sea and swim to shore.
It was easier said than done, the climb up the stairs was too much for his already weak legs, he collapsed on the wet stairs, praying, asking the gods for help. It was the only thing he could do. It seemed an eternity had passed before he attempted to stand again. Luckily his legs didn't collapse from underneath him. He breathed a sigh of relief, the gods had listened to his prayers, if he ever made it out of this, he swore he would go to the nearest shrine and thank the gods for their mercy and help.
After a long climb, Tralen finally made it up the stairs and onto the upturned hull of the ship. It took him lots of effort to lift the trapdoor that separated the stairs from the roof, his arms ached from the exertion but he was finally able to open the trapdoor. He gave it one final swing before it opened completely and the cold, grey, cloudy skies of northern Skyrim greeted him. Why had he come to these forlorn lands? He knew the answer, and it wasn't an honorable one. He had come here to shed blood of course, to fulfill a contract he had signed with his patron guild, the Alikir warriors of Hammerfell. It seemed the gods had decided to give him a new beginning, another chance perhaps to redeem himself from all the sins he had committed before. There are consequences. He knew from the very first moment, one does not simply cancel paid contract with the Alikir, soon they would find out he survived and betrayed them, then they will send their best assassins to end his life. Tralen felt his leather pants, looking for his pockets. He found them and inside, the sack of gold that had sealed the contract.
Tralen climbed out the trapdoor with great difficulty, he collapsed from pain and exertion once he was out. His arms burned like hell, the combined effects of opening the trapdoor and lifting himself out the ship had taken their toll, his arms where screaming with pain. He waited on the roof, regaining his breath. Sitting cross-legged on the hull's roof, Tralen looked around him, he was certainly in Skyrim now. The coast was very close, a mere paddle from the wreckage of the ship. The beach was composed of black sand that looked like broken glass, beyond that was snow, plains and hills all covered with snow as white as bleach. Then he saw the mountains, far away in the distance beyond the hills. They were huge, towering over anything else. Grey rods topped with white like standing sentinels. It filled him with awe.
His arms soon stopped paining as much. The final push, this is. He stood, walked slowly to the edge of the hull closer to the coast. He took a deep breath then jumped. The plunge into the icy waters of the bay of ghosts was an experience like no other, the icy water engulfed him, burning hotter that fire on his skin, he had to move. With all his might, he swam towards the shore, hoping against hope that no slaughterfish were stalking him. Finally, after an eternity, he made it to the shore. The cold sands greeted him and he lay there after dragging himself completely out of the water.
He was soaked from clothes to the core of his bones, the cold sapping his strength and will to like. May the gods have mercy on me. Tralen lay his throbbing head on the shore as if it were the most comfortable of pillows, his body relaxed, he couldn't do more, if the gods don't save him he was dead. His eyelids fluttered shut and the world turned black.
I usually publish chapters everyday, but for this story, I'm publishing every weekend one long chapter. Please support the story if you love Skyrim and the Elder Scrolls Series. All suggestions are very welcome.
Chapter 1
Tralen had experienced many things in his life, but this was just impossible. The frozen waters of the Bay of Ghosts were preferable to him over this. He had regained consciousness a day after he saved himself from the wreck of the ship. Nordic fishermen had found him lying there and thought him dead, if it wasn't for the slaughterfish. The creatures had attacked his body while the fishermen were trying to drag him away from the shore, and they knew then, from experience that slaughterfish only attacked the living. He owed those fishermen for saving his life. They had carried him on their shoulders after covering him with a heavy cloak so he doesn't freeze. All the way they carried him until they reached the village. From there, the innkeeper had taken him in and laid his unconscious body in a fur bed.
They told him he had woken a day after that, gasping and coughing and shouting in some foreign language. It was clear to these Nords that Tralen was a foreigner, the dark skin and rough black hair had given him away, not to mention his garb from Hammerfell as well. They had given him some warm stew to drink an then brought a dark elf in robes to attend to him. He remembered the dark elf, from Solthtiem he had come, and is now employed as the Jarl's healer and mage. He administered many herbs and potions, each returning the life and color more into Tralen, soon, he was back to normal, although still freezing cold. The kind innkeeper had given him a cloak, not like the ones he was accustomed to, this was fur, grey fur of a wolf with fuzz at the shoulders to warm his neck. They told him cloaks like that don't come cheap, and the potions used to heal him were worth a fortune as well, but they asked no compensation of him.
Tralen's daily schedule had been mostly consumed by resting, his body was still too weak to move so he was told to rest, the innkeeper came regularly to feed him and change his blankets, usually speaking to herself all the while. She was a lean dark woman, it seemed she had redguard blood in her, how lucky for me, he thought. The dark elf Healer had told him he was very lucky that he survived, had the fishermen not found him earlier, he would have died of exposure or hypothermia.
After a week of resting, Tralen had finally regained his full strength, and one day stepped out of bed to the surprise of the innkeeper. His body had taken a beating from the experience in the Bay of Ghosts, but he was still as fit as ever, taller that most men, Tralen stood at six foot five, however these nords were also tall and muscular, many of them boasting strong backs and arms as strong as a bears. He owed these people his life, and had made up his mind to repay them for their extreme kindness, however, he had a promise to fulfill first. "Good morrow kind lady." The greeting had shocked the busy innkeeper. She dropped a flagon of ale to that she was cleaning. Tralen bent down and picked it up, handing it to her as he spoke. "I am sorry for any inconvenience I have caused you with my stay, lady."
"I am no lady, there is no need for apologies, Redguard. We here in Dawnstar are kind and welcoming to strangers, as any other holdfast would." She ran her fingers through her straight black hair.
"I would as of you a favour, good lady, but it seems I have already burdened you enough."
"Nonsense." She said. "What do you want?"
Tralen replied with a kindly voice. "I would ask you to lead me to the nearest shrine so I can give my thanks to the gods for saving me, if it isn't any trouble to you?"
"Your body won't survive the weather, redguard, you are not equipped enough to venture out the inn at this time of dawn."
"I believe the cloak you have so kindly gifted me will do."
She gave a gasp of surprise. "So you do remember, I thought the fever had you and you were delusional."
"You sound relieved at that, my lady. May I ask your name?" She considered this for a moment before saying. "Talisa, the Innkeeper of Windpeak Inn."
After dressing in heavy clothes and donning the wolf fur cloak, Tralen followed Talisa to were she pointed out his boots, dry and clean. They were good boots, prevented his toes from freezing off when he swam in the icy cold bay. The memory brought pain to his body. He stumbled at the sudden headache that overtook him. Talisa tried to steady him on one of the great wooden pillars that held up the tavern. "I'm fine, kind lady. It's just a headache from the memory of the ship." He assured her. "You did not tell me your name, redguard. I would also like to know your story too." She said, a playful smirk on her face.
"My name is Tralen. Tralen Nachase of Dragontail. I come, as you already know, from Hammerfell."
They were now heading towards the inn door, a large, thick wooden one that had iron hinges. Talisa open the door and the frozen winds greeted them immediately. "I had not thought anywhere could be this cold!" Exclaimed Tralen.
"Believe me, you are in the coldest part of Skyrim right now. That fact that you can bear the weather here means you'll do just fine in the rest of the province."
"Ha, who told you I like it here?" A playful smile tugged at his face. She returned it as they headed out into the village.
"Dawnstar huh, very small village to be the capital of the whole province."
"Oh, Dawnstar isn't the capital, that's Solitude, to the west of here."
"Solitude, oh yes, I remember now, it had the blue palace and that murdered boy king right?"
"So you do know of Skyrim."
"Only what I was told. Rumors at inns and from travelling khajit caravans."
"Well, now you know they aren't rumors. Can you continue you story now please?"
They had reached the docks of the village. Barely five ships were moored there and most of the water was covered with a layer of ice. Everywhere there was snow, all around him. It seemed white was the predominant color here.
"Very busy place, this town is." He said sarcastically. "Dawnstar was glorious in the past you know." She replied indignantly.
"Long ago maybe, but from what I'm seeing, there's no glory left in this place, only snow." She looked hurt at that.
"I am sorry if I have offended you my lady."
"Stop calling me that, my name is Talisa, now continue your tale." She said, the smile returning to her face.
"Well, yes, as I said before, I am a redguard of Hammerfell. In my youth I was a great fighter, the Alikir warriors invited me to join their ranks. The prospect of gold and glory made me accept their offer. After that I worked as a mercenary and assassin, not very honorable I know, but I needed the gold. Soon I had an assignment in Skyrim. I was to join the ranks of the Imperial Legion as a mercenary. The contract was paid and I couldn't say no. So I took the job, travelled aboard that damned ship to here, but we sank in the way. Only the god saved me and that is why I have decided to redeem myself by starting anew."
"Has anyone else survive from the vessel, were you sent alone?"
"No, my lady, I mean Talisa. I do not think anyone else survived, I have seen no bodies though so maybe. I had come with a company of twenty men, the best the Alikir had to offer, and I was their leader."
They had arrived in front of a large wooden building, the shire of the village, stated Talisa. She left him to enter by himself while she returned to the inn. Tralen stepped through the doorway into the shire. He was greeted with the warm of the place, and it's simplicity. The statues of the gods were there alright, some benches also and a snoring priest of Arkay. Tralen knelt at each statue, saying his thanks and prayers for guidance in hushed whispers so no one can hear him. He hoped the gods heard his prayers, for he desperately needed guidance now on what to do. He decided while waiting for Talisa that he would do whatever he can to repay these generous folks, utilizing all his skills if need be.
Talisa arrived by early morning, the sun was barely visible through the grey skies above, none of its warmth making it to the earth. "Talisa, were does the Jarl live?" He asked.
"Why, he lives in the White hall, over there, up the hill."
She pointed to a large two story wooden building that was a bit more decorated, with carved dragons, than the rest of the buildings in the village. "It's not white?" He said amused. "Well, it used to be before they stopped painting it." He was about to say how pathetic that was when he heard the distant shouts of an argument. "Oh no, they're at it again."
"Who?"
"The Jarl and Fruki. Damn him, we will never surrender to the stormcloaks." Tralen looked puzzled. "Explain please."
"No need to get yourself involved in local politics, you are a foreigner after all." He didn't nag about it, she was right, this didn't concern him.
"You are a fool not to see the signs, Skald!"
"Do not speak to your Jarl in that manner or I swear by Shor I'll gut you like a fish."
"You're also a fool Brina, don't you see it, the nightmares are a sign. We are on the wrong side here, Talos is angry."
"I'll have none of this bickering, shut up both of you. My allegiance is firmly with the Legion, to hell with the stormcloaks, and you know what is causing these nightmares Fruki."
"That damned dark elf is!" Fruki shouted in anger. "How dare you, after he saved your life!" Came the angry shout of the Jarl.
Tralen and Talisa stepped into view of the arguing party. They were three, an old man in Legion armor, the Jarl most probably. A woman stood beside him shouting at a large buff man standing opposite them. She constantly threatened to draw her sword, only the Jarl seemed to restrain her. "Enough, our guest has arrived. I will not hear any more of this Fruki." Said the Jarl in a final tone. Fruki gave the Jarl a hateful look before he stormed of. "I am sorry you had to see that, the town is currently in a very unstable state."
"I am Jarl Skald the Bold of Dawnstar. I presume you are the redguard my fishermen rescued from the western shore?"
"It is me, great Jarl. I have come to be of health because of your generosity and hospitality and now I want to repay you and the good people of Dawnstar." The Jarl took a good look at Tralen before speaking. "We better get inside the Hall, its warm in there."
The Jarl led them through the large double door of the White Hall into the building itself. It was truly warm in there. Braziers lined the walls and a central fire pit warmed the room. "You have heard the argument I presume?" Asked the Jarl.
"I did, something about the civil war and nightmares!" Replied Tralen.
"Yes, lately, the town has been restless, I mean it literally, the folk barely get any sleep because of the surreal nightmares that haunt them. Apparently, you aren't affected by this. Some in the town say it's a curse from the gods, others, like Fruki, say it's a sign that we are on the wrong side of the war."
"What do you say?" Asked Tralen.
"Me, I say it's a load of crap. The dark elf, the one who healed you, Marillion, said that the source of these nightmares was the old abandoned watchtower up the hill." Tralen hadn't noticed any watchtowers when he walked the village, but he nodded anyways. "I owe you a great deal, I want to help. Please, what can I do?" Pleaded Tralen.
"Well, since you are willing and seemingly capable, I would ask you to speak to Marillion about this, he has all the details. If you truly rid out town of this plague, we will be indebt of you, but know this ; many have tried, all have failed. I have sent a team of five guards up there to investigate, they never came back. If you decide to go, find these men, they were good men, loyal men that Dawnstar needs."
"I will speak with Marillion, then prepare to leave, this is the least I can do to repay you." Tralen promised. He left the Hall, without Talisa, and headed back to the inn, where he hoped to find the mage Marillion.
"What you're asking is suicide, I will not send you to your death after I sat day and night healing you!"
"And for that I am grateful Marillion, but this is my decision, I need to do this, for the sake of honor." Replied Tralen.
"Listen to me, all I ask is information, guidance, you are also plagued by these nightmares aren't you?" He continued. Marillion looked at him gloomily, the fire from the hearth sharpening his sad features. "Many men have tried, why do you think you can do better?" He said.
"The least I could do is try. Now help me, please." Tralen pleaded, he was not accustomed to this, usually quests found their way to him, new life, new ways he though. "Fine." Said Marillion with a sad sight.
"It seems there is no stopping you, well, here is all I know; the nightmares descended onto the village a week before you came, they sent people into hysteria. Many came to me seeking help, but I could not help this. I used my power to find the source of this and traced it to the old ruined watchtower. Its necromancy, this is beyond the scope of your abilities." He said. Tralen had dealt with necromancers before, they were hard to kill but not impossible.
"I can do this, continue." He ordered.
"The power is dark and ancient, I fear it might be an awakened lich, my boy."
"A lich, what is that?" Asked Tralen.
"Old necromancers bound by their own powers to the world forever, they decay until only a rotten carcass is left of them, but they are immortal."
"You mean they can't be killed!" Said Tralen disbelievingly.
"I never tried to know that answer, do you still want to do this?" Marillion asked.
"Yes." Came the enthusiastic answer of Tralen.
"Then let me accompany you." He asked. "What, no. You can't risk yourself." Tralen exclaimed.
"Ha-ha, look at yourself, you don't have a weapon even." He retorted. "I will come or you can forget about this quest." He said, with a tone of finality.
Tralen followed Marillion to the blacksmith of the village, were they picked up a sword and a staff each. Marillion used a fire staff and Tralen picked a fine steel sword. He swung it to check the balance. "Have you ever used a sword before?" Asked Marillion. "More times than I can remember." Exclaimed Tralen.
As they headed up the hill towards the abandoned watchtower, Tralen took in the details of his surroundings. The hill was not steep, rather lazy in it's slant. All of it was covered with snow, so it looked like a white blob on a sheet of paper. The path was rough cobblestone, worn by the constant use and cracked by the freeze thaw of the ice. Snowberry bushes lined the path randomly, Tralen plucked one Snowberry and ate it. The berry filled his with warmth, it was like strong mead, but not alcoholic in taste or effect.
By midday, they had arrived at the locked door of the tower. The wind was blowing hard and cold on their raw faces, luckily, Tralen had braided his long black hair before they left Dawnstar, so the wind didn't affect him as much. Marillion was bald, purplish with long pointy ears like any of the Mer. He had a kindly look but a weathered face.
"Are you sure, once we step inside, I will be considerably weakened by the power of the necromancer that resides here."
"Nothing would please me more than to put a sword through the throat of that lich." Tralen gathered his wolf cloak behind him and spread it to cover all his back, the cold was biting. "Let's get this over with" Exclaimed Tralen.
Marillion produced a large bronze key from his robes and slid it in the rusted keyhole. He turned the key and the door of the watchtower swung open. They stepped inside, first Tralen, his steel sword drawn, then Marillion, his staff raised. The door was swung shut behind them by the force of the wind. Somehow, in here it felt even colder.
There were ruins everywhere, stones and rubble lay randomly around, bookcases burned and upturned and thee entire upper floor collapsing in the one they were on. There was only one way to go, down, into the dark basement of the tower. Tralen moved some rubble away from the passage to the basement. He made the broken doorway wide enough for both of them to fit through, soon they were on their way in the dark, descending deeper and deeper with every step they took. The only light came from the glow of Marillion's staff.
They had stepped into a large, cavernous room from the stairs. "The barracks, I think." Said Marillion. Even though he spoke very softly, the word echoed throughout the room. They heard them then, the crackling laughs, the rusty bones, the chatter of skulls. They were surrounded. "Oh crap. Skeletons, my favorite!"
Chapter 2
Skeletons, disgusting creatures they are. Tralen remembered his first encounter with a skeleton, it wasn't a pleasant memory. He had accepted a contract to clear out a desert cave in the Great Alikir Desert from some bandits. Turns out, one of them was a novice necromancer, he successfully summoned a skeletal warrior and Tralen had to fight it so he could get to the necromancer. But that was one skeleton, armed with a broken spear. He was now facing more than fifty skeletons, armed with iron swords and ancient Nordic shields.
The first of the horde lunged at Tralen, who sidestepped and cut it in half. Skeletons were easy to kill, but they had a special resistance to magic, so Marillion was basically useless here, which meant Tralen had to protect both of them. Two more skeletons had charged him; he parried the first's strike and dodged the others. Tralen wished he had a shield at that moment, he was never accustomed to using one, instead preferring to parry with his sword. The skeletons lunged again at him, this time; Tralen parried the strike of the left one and with one fell swoop, cut the other in half, from shoulder to pelvis.
Marillion wasn't faring well. He had already poked one skeleton in the head with his steel based staff, but it didn't do that much damage, he knew that a strong fire spell was the only way to save them, it would drain him, but it would save them. Turning around, he saw Tralen slashing and dodging and stabbing. The redguard was good with a sword, a veteran of many battles Marillion thought. The spell he had in mind was extremely volatile, any interrupting could cause him to combust. They had to wait until the skeletons grew weary and were thinned in number, only then could he start the spell. At that instant, a skeletal warrior with only a sword in had charged him. Marillion raised his staff and shot a searing fireball at the incoming enemy. The fireball hit the skeleton point blank, knocking him down but not disintegrating him as Marillion had hoped, Damn their magic resistance, he thought, as he stood over the fallen enemy and thrust his staff deep into its rotten chest.
The skeleton army was slowly dwindling in number, due to the incredible skills of Tralen and a little of Marillion's magic. Soon, Marillion wasn't completely surrounded and most of the undead were focused on Tralen and his sword. Now was the time to do the spell, he gathered up his courage and took a deep breath, then began.
Tralen had noticed the weird moves Marillion was performing. He moved fire ridden hands in circles and gestures, a spell, Tralen guessed. One damned skeleton lunged at the incapacitated Marillion, so Tralen jumped backwards, and cut off his skull, which rolled uselessly on the ground. Now he had to protect the Dark elf while the spell was being prepared, he slashed and hacked at the oncoming attackers. It seemed like they were endless. Tralen was growing tired, his breath labored from every swing, soon he would be exhausted, then a skeleton might get lucky and get a hit on him.
Marillion was focused; he could hear Tralen's hard breathing and the clashing of swords around him. The spell was almost ready; all he had to do now was charge it. He raised his fiery hands, making his palms face the ground, and held them there. The glow around his hands was getting stronger and warmer with every passing second, the spell was charging, Tralen was cutting down skeletons like wheat to a scythe, but he was almost to his limits. All his stamina was gone.
A huge fire wave. That was what Tralen saw; large walls of fire coming from Marillion engulfed the room. Skeletons disintegrated with the touch of the fiery wall; soon there was no one but them in the room. The flames hadn't harmed him; it was as it they were not there. The wall of fire had disappeared now, plunging the cavernous room again into darkness. "That… was…something," said Tralen through labored breaths. They were both exhausted and sweating like crazy, even though the place was freezing cold. "Didn't get a fight like this in a long time," replied Marillion.
"Your powers, they're amazing! Are you a master mage?" asked Tralen. The question sounded childish but Marillion didn't care, he was too tired to act the adult. "Master? You think that spell was powerful, if you think so, then you haven't met any mages in your life!"
"I've met a lot of mages, none were able to do feats as great as yours Marillion," the look of awe was on his face. "Your sword skills, were did you learn that?" Marillion asked with curiosity. Tralen had shown skill no one he faced ever mastered. "You humble me Marillion, my skill with a scimitar are double what you have seen," so much for humble, Marillion thought. "A scimitar, ah, the curved swords, yes I remember seeing one, nasty weapons." He had seen a scimitar in the armory before, a thin but wide curved blade attacked to a reversed wooden helm for balance. The sword was neither heavy nor light; he could see an Alikir like Tralen being a master at wielding it.
They had regained their stamina before venturing further into the cavern. More darkness greeted them, but a faint glow at the end of the long corridor guided their steps. Tralen was suspicious at first, but his curiosity got the better of him. The faint glow was nearing them with every step. Soon, they were standing in front of a large suit of armor, black as night but somehow emitting a fait glow. The suit had a large grey sword in its grip. The sword was almost as tall as Tralen and quarter as thick. "A statue? In the middle of the corridor?" exclaimed Tralen in surprise, but his doubts were cleared when the armor spoke.
"I am the Black Knight, ordered to guard the necromancer that dwells here by my order. You have passed the skeleton army, now you will die at my hands." Without waiting for a reply, the Black Knight lifted his huge sword above his head and charged directly at Tralen. Oh crap, he thought. Tralen lifted his straight sword to block the incoming overcut, but it never landed. The knight twisted mid swing and caught and unsuspecting Marillion straight in the abdomen. Blood splattered around them, Marillion was on the ground, clutching his spilling guts.
The sight of his fallen friend spurred Tralen. Rage filled him, making the aches of his muscles disappear. With a mighty roar, Tralen crashed into the knight with his shoulders, staggering him. Tralen slashed and hacked at the armor without penetrating it. The clang of steel on armor filled the room. The knight was staggering and couldn't regain his footing due to the barrages of Tralen's attacks. But the surprise soon lifted from the knight, who parried the strikes with his great sword as fast as if he was wielding a dagger.
The knight advanced on the drained Tralen, all his stamina was gone, another blow and Tralen would be cleaved in half. Salvation came in the form of a fireball; it crashed straight into the back of the knight. Silently Tralen thanked his fallen friend before gathering his strength and swinging at the tumbling knight. It took four blows to get through the thick gorget of the Knight and a fifth to sever his head from his shoulders. Blood splattered everywhere, covering Tralen like a blanket. The headless knight fell, dead.
Marillion was on the cold ground, lying in a pool of his own blood. "Leave me Tralen; I am a dead elf already!" He couldn't hamper their progress by final wishes and regrets, the quest needed to be done. "Never, my friend. You will not die on me!" Tears had filled Tralen's eyes. He had barely known this Dark elf for a day, but in that day he proven the truest of friends and the most loyal Tralen has ever seen. "I will take you back to Dawnstar, they will heal you there, you will NOT die on me!" The tears were dropping from his eyes; it was the first time he remembered crying. "Will you do me a favor?" Marillion had to take this of his heart before it was too late.
"Anything," came the reply of Tralen.
"I have a brother, Arellion, who lives in Riften down south. Find him; he is but a child, not yet into manhood. I have abandoned him, and I regret it, but you can guide him. Promise me Tralen." The request took Tralen by surprise, he hadn't expected this, yet he said "I promise, and swear to try my best by all the gods." Tralen saw with teary eyes the life escaping his friend, "May you rest in peace Marillion." He swore that this brotherhood will pay; he would find them and hunt them down like dogs, even if it meant his death.
Tralen turned to spit at the body of the fallen knight, but it was not there, only the sword remained on the ground, the one that took his friend's life. Tralen had to focus; he had to finish this quest, for the sake of Marillion. There was a huge slab of stone blocking the end of the corridor. Carvings of bears and dragons and wolfs were on it. In the center was a large slit, a keyhole. But where is the key? Tralen looked round the room; the only things there were the sword and his friend's dead body. The sword! Realization dawned on Tralen. He picked up the heavy sword with both hands and tried to fit it into the slit. It took many tries to fit in the sword, but finally it slid inside. The huge slab gave a shudder before it began sliding downwards slowly.
Inside was a small oval room with a high domed ceiling. He was deep underground. Tralen looked around the room for the necromancer, but all he found was a raised platform with an alter on top. The alter had spilt blood and body parts on it. Tralen recognized a human heart, blacked and dead. There were candles, they lit up the room dimly but provided no warms. This place was very cold, the alter especially. It seemed to radiate cold. "Assssh, you dare interrupt me!" The voice came from behind him; it was raspy, like the scratch of steel on stone. "You are the necromancer who's been giving Dawnstar all the trouble huh?" The entire quest had boiled down to this final moment, this last confrontation. "Another sacrifice, do you think you can defeat me boy" Tralen drew his bloody sword from its sheath. He was last called boy twelve years ago. The insult enraged Tralen, he stepped down the alter and faced the necromancer. The dark mage was wearing black robes and a hood, dried blood clung to it. His face was hidden behind dark grey bandages. How could he see? Tralen thought. The necromancer raised both hands, dark swirls moving lazily around them. He could feel the power, the death, the hopelessness. Only the thought of revenge made him continue. He lunged at the necromancer with his sword, just as it blasted him with a stream of dark magic. Tralen dodged at the last second, the blast crashed into the platform and exploded in a swirl of darkness. If any of them hit him, it would be the end.
Tralen charged again, dodging another blast from the necromancer, the distance between them seemed like a hundred miles. He dodged and rolled and slid, trying not to get blasted by the swirls. Soon they were standing face to face. The final clash of the quest was upon him. The necromancer held out his hand, and a jagged sword materialized in it. The sword didn't seem completely whole, but swirly and translucent. The dark mage prepared to strike, Tralen raised his sword in defense, then they clashed.
Sword on sword they danced, swinging and parrying, trying to break the other's defense while keeping his own up, they were evenly matched, until the necromancer started hurling more dark swirls with his other hand. One came directly at Tralen, the only way was to deflect it with his own blade, but it was risky. Tralen raised his sword in the last moment, they swirl crashed into it but only staggered him. He took the chance, charging at the surprised necromancer. He clashed with him, staggering the necromancer. Tralen took the chance and slashed at the exposed chest. The sword ripped through flesh and drew blood, but Tralen felt a searing pain in his hands, as soon as his sword left the necromancer, the pain died away. It would be very painful to kill this necromancer. The wound Tralen had inflicted just a moment ago was closing up, healing almost instantly. The necromancer laughed a cruel laugh and charged at Tralen.
Their swords clashed again, time and time. The necromancer tried to shoot more dark swirls at him, but he simply deflected or dodged them. They clashed again, trying to break the other. Soon the necromancer retreated to the raised alter, summoning more dark swirls and shooting at Tralen. The necromancer had a vantage point on the platform; it would be very hard to get to him. Maybe if I bait him. The idea was dangerous but it could work, if Tralen acted staggered, he could draw the necromancer down from his vantage point. A swirl of darkness came at him directly, Tralen raise his sword and broke the attack, but staggered as he had planned. The necromancer saw the chance and jumped, higher than any man would be able to, his sword aimed directly at Tralen. At that moment, the feinted stagger disappeared. Quick as a lightning bolt, Tralen stood and aimed his sword at the necromancer overhead. The dark mage saw it at the last second and swerved left, but not before the thrust had pierced his side. The necromancer crashed into the ground, and then stood up, the wound already healing.
The fight wasn't going anywhere like this, the necromancer wouldn't die and Tralen was too good with the sword. They stayed locked in this stalemate for what seemed like hours, until Tralen decided to end the fight. He would risk his life just to break the stalemate. Stupid was the word he described this plan with. He charged, putting all his might into this one blow, the blow landed on the raised sword of the necromancer. It staggered him, but that was all it took. Tralen flung himself, sword poised to penetrate the chest. He lunged with all his might, pain searing through his hands as the sword made contact with flesh. It seemed to take hours to get the sword inside the necromancer and another hour of pushing. He pushed the sword deeper and deeper, feeling like his arms were about to explode, until finally, the sword came out from the other side, slick with blood.
Pain ebbed away, the body of the necromancer slowly started relaxing. Tralen took out his sword from the body, this time, the wound didn't heal. "No, my lady, save me. I have been…faith…full…ple...ase." His words were drowned by the sound of blood, he was choking on it. "No, ah, I ... I, ahh!" Tralen couldn't take more; he swung his sword and severed the neck of the necromancer, who died instantly.
"I have avenged you Marillion, and completed the quest." All his body ached with pain and abuse. He could barely see, the whole world was throbbing, and then the voice came.
"I see you have dispatched of my servant, very skillful."
"Who are you, were are you." The disembodied voice laughed, it was a woman's voice, rich but cruel.
"I am Boethiah, daedric princess of deceit, conspiracy and treason; you have betrayed the Alikir, now you will serve me as punishment."
"Never, show yourself, I don't serve dark powers, I am no pawn."
"Oh but you are, you will do my bidding, or I will kill you. Now listen." Tralen wanted to protest but he couldn't. His mouth didn't seem to respond.
"Ha, see, it is not so hard to obey. You will go to Riften and speak to my follower, Varlas the treacherous; He will tell you what to do."
Tralen could only nod. He turned round and started off, the darkness slowly lifting from his head. When he had left the necromancer's room, the body of his friend lay there, waiting to become another skeleton. Tralen took his staff and the large grey sword as proof of the quest. He returned to the cavernous chamber where they had fought the skeletons, then up the cracked steps to the ruined tower above. He went through the gap he had made when they first entered, then opened the door of the tower to step outside into the world.
He was greeted by the cold and the dark. It was dawn, they had apparently spent the whole night down there, battling and fighting. It hadn't felt like a whole day had passed, he shrugged. Tralen pulled on his wolf fur cloak and set off down the hill toward the lazily lights of Dawnstar.
He had another quest to complete. As he walked towards the great White Hall, he pondered on how to report this back to the Jarl, and how he would get to Riften alone. He needed a mount and a guide, hopefully the Jarl would provide. He was now in front of the large double door. Tralen gathered his courage, took a long deep breath, and stepped inside, to be met with grim, expecting looks on impatient faces.
Hopefully you guys are enjoying the story; it's been really fun writing it. Expect chapter 3 to come out next week Thursday or Friday. I've merged the story into one, so it's easier to update, enjoy !