The Hero of Kvatch had encountered vampires many times in her travels, here in Cyrodiil and in her native Skyrim. At one point, she had even – and wasn't this a close thing? – been stricken with Porphyric Hemophilia after eliminating a coven near Skingrad. On the order of Count Skingrad, no less. Mauloch must be laughing at the irony of this. Then again, the luck of the Orismer was notoriously bad.
But none of these encounters prepared her for Janus Hassildor. The man was…complex. Unfathomable to an Orc who valued plain-speaking and directness.
Sharva first met the Count as a young Journeyman of the Mages Guild. He had saved her from a Necromancer ambush, deflecting a mace blow with his bare hands and crushing her attackers' windpipes. Such battle prowess was unheard of among Cyrodiilic nobility. Most Counts or Countesses preferred court over combat. This one was different. It was only until the Orc saw his gaunt face and fierce eyes that she realized how different.
When they met a second time, he skillfully manipulated her into murdering four vampire hunters. Well, at least that's how she saw it. The hunters, eager to find their quarry, had rushed off into Bloodcrust Cavern at her word and met a bloody end. Count Hassildor didn't seem to care about their fate. Perhaps he was like the other nobility, after all.
The man in question sat unmoving on the dais. Half his face lay in shadow and the other in flickering light. Blood-red eyes – intelligent and aware – surveyed the hall. From a distance, the Count's skin seemed to outshine his embellished finery. But as Sharva moved closer, she saw it was the barely perceptible shimmer of a heavy glamour. She didn't know much about Illusion magic (or any magic, to be honest), yet its purpose was clear. Here was a man determined to keep up appearances.
"You came," the Count said, fixing those dangerous eyes on her. His expression remained neutral. Or maybe that was the glamour.
"You summoned me," Sharva replied tersely, then added, "My Lord." Disrespecting the nobility never ended well. Especially if said noble was an immensely powerful mage and vampire. Count Hassildor simply raised an eyebrow.
"Of course, you must be exhausted." Janus Hassildor smiled. "But this matter is urgent. Things are moving beyond my control. I would not have summoned you otherwise."
"So I was told."
"Yes. Please send my regards to Captain Artellian when you see him next. Now, to business." Count Hassildor clasped his hands together. "Skingrad is under attack."
"Under attack?" Well, Raminus Polus always did warn her to prepare for the unexpected. Particularly when county Skingrad is involved.
"Allow me to explain. Without interruption," the Count said, frowning. "It is not an attack as you may think it. There is a horrible sickness spreading among my citizens. Some have died, including my steward. My stewardess is nowhere to be found."
Shum gro-Yarug dead? Hal-Liurz missing? That would explain why Danus Artellian was acting as messenger. Count Hassildor continued. "This is no natural disease. By reason of my…unique condition, I have made many enemies," Hassildor said solemnly. "It saddens me to think that I might be the cause of my city's misfortune."
"Do you have any suspects? Where and when did the symptoms start?" The Count waved his hand to silence her.
"Perhaps you are not the fool I once took you for," Janus Hassildor said, "Start your inquiries tomorrow, but be careful! I do not have to remind you what is at stake." He passed her a delicate silver amulet inscribed with Skingrad's moon heraldry. It was highly ensorcelled, but she couldn't make out the specific enchantments.
"I accept, of course," Sharva said.
Count Skingrad smiled without warmth, bearing a hint of sharp canines. "And you thought you had a choice? Maybe you are a fool," the Count said. "I will do anything to protect my own. Report here tomorrow night after the eleventh bell." Glamour or no glamour, here was the true heart of Janus Hassildor. A man both loved and feared.
She hastily bowed and left the Count to his thoughts.
Sharva woke late. Her bed was very comfortable, far better than any she had slept in previously. Except the one time she jumped on the Chieftain's bed while he was out hunting. That one had been made with Hagraven feathers. A luxurious possession, considering the feathers were only obtained from powerful, crazed witches. Killing them wasn't easy.
It would be very easy just to lie here and listen to the goings-on in the street below. But she couldn't. She rose and scrubbed her face in the small washbasin Mog had left. Unfortunately, her leathers were still wet from the night's ride. A robe would be unwise. Most common folk still distrusted mages and with a plague going on, she needed their confidence. She settled on a pair of light breeches and a quilted tunic. Count Hassildor's amulet went around her neck and a small dagger at her side.
Mog, good-natured as ever, had breakfast waiting for her. Another sweetroll and some tomato soup. Both were surprisingly good.
Her belly filled, Sharva got to work.
It was almost peaceful here. Beautifully carved mausolea surrounded her. Most were dusty and dulled with age, but one caught her eye. A carving of an Imperial woman with braided hair and peaceful smile. In the flickering light, she seemed almost alive. Clasped in her hands was a small bunch of nightshade. Her name had long since faded (Ruma? Roni?), but the flowers were fresh.
Yet, Sharva desperately wished she was somewhere else. Even Bravil would be better. As a warrior, she had killed before. Felt life snuffed out many times. While hunting deer for the stronghold. In the service of the Blades. Defending herself against bandits. Exploring ancient ruins. How could anyone on Nirn avoid killing? She had seen death before, but not like this.
Five biers lay side by side. On three lay the recent dead: the steward Shum gro-Yarug, a Bosmer farmhand, and the blacksmith Agnete. Each body showed the disease in a different way. The Orsimer's skin hid most of the discoloration, whereas the Bosmer boy looked blackened and shriveled. Skin had sloughed off in large patches around the lips and hands. Agnete was by far the worst. She had long, bloody scratch marks along her limbs – self-inflicted, Sharva guessed – as if her very body was on fire. All three had been washed and presented neatly, but even this could not hide the violence of their deaths.
She stood by Shum's bier. Burial rituals were very different in Cyrodiil. These people would be interred the graveyard or, if they were nobility, placed in great stone mausolea below the Chapel. In the strongholds, bodies were left in sacred charnel grounds to be eaten by scavengers. The dead were considered weak. Yet certain types of death were more worthy than others. A chieftain or noble warrior who had died in battle would be cremated. This is how her father had returned to Mauloch's side.
"Malacath guide your soul to the Ashpit, blood of Orismer," Sharva said, intoning the ritual phrase. She lay a palm on the steward's still chest. Such a terrible way for an Orc to die. Bladeless and defenseless.
A shrill voice rent the foreboding silence. "What in Julianos's name are you doing down here?" A balding Imperial strode down the steps into the Chapel Undercroft. Valandrus Abor, if she remembered correctly.
"This isn't what it looks like," Sharva said, caught off guard. She wasn't trespassing per se, but the door had been closed. And maybe locked until she flung a spell at it.
"How dare you desecrate this holy place!" The Primate struck her cheek with a meaty hand.
"I am on official business for Count Hassildor!" She roared, bearing her tusks in aggression.
"That's what they all say, pig," Abor said. "As if the Count would see the likes of you." He advanced towards her, hands lit with deadly flames. Sharva drew her dagger in response. No one bests an Orc. A fiery ball collided with her chest. She tensed, expecting to be roasted alive. Nothing happened. The Imperial threw another and another, before collapsing from magicka exhaustion.
Sharva patted herself down, but could find no more serious damage than singed eyebrows. Her hand clasped the amulet. The Count must have placed a powerful aegis on it. "Mauloch be praised," she said, finding courage to approach the downed priest.
"Daedra, foul beast…" Valandrus said deliriously. Sharva knelt down and shoved the amulet in his face.
"I am on official business for Count Hassildor," she said, punctuating each word with a push. "If you touch me again, you answer to him." She wished she could have roughed him up some more, but she also had to answer to the Count.
"I…this proves nothing," the Primate said hastily. He stood, haughtily rearranging his ruffled finery "Besides, I thought you were that Hlaalu woman. You mer all look the same."
A loud wailing descended from the Chapel proper, accompanied by drumbeats and flutes. "Not those filthy Nords again!" Valandrus stormed off angrily.
She was left alone with the dead.
The sun dipped lower and lower into the sky. So far, Sharva had found out nothing new about the disease. A very unproductive day. Count Hassildor would not be pleased.
Sighing, she entered All Things Alchemical. A smiling Dunmer woman greeted her at the door.
"I'm Falanu Hlaalu," the alchemist said cheerfully. "What can I interest you in?" She had a strange accent, almost lilting. A pile of bones, some mort flesh, and a single skull sat on the workbench. The skull was highly polished, as if touched repeatedly. Falanu noticed her interest. "Oh, those," she said, quickly stowing the grizzly mess out of sight. "They're for one of my clients. Bone meal is hard to come by." Right. Well, she was an alchemist.
"I'm investigating the recent deaths on behalf on Count Skingrad," Sharva said. Probably best to start with this. She ran a hand across her eyebrows. Everyone was so jumpy in this town.
"What makes you think I have anything to do with that?" Falanu crossed her arms.
"The Primate mentioned you visit the Undercroft a lot."
"Valandrus? He's a racist s'wit." The alchemist's face crinkled in disgust. "I was paying my respects to poor Agnete."
"The blacksmith? You knew her?" Finally, she was getting somewhere.
"She was a dear friend," Falanu said, smiling softly. "Used to come in here for headache remedies. Even fixed the stand on my alembic last month."
"Did you notice anything strange?"
"I'm an alchemist, not a healer," the Dunmer said. But her eyes told a different story. They darted around like a pair of frolicking slaughterfish.
"But you do know something." Sharva crossed over to a shelf laden with tiny, labelled vials. There were so many to choose from. "Every alchemist worth their void salts knows how to make a good cure disease potion." The Orc held up a small pink vial marked 'Cure Disease' in a neat script. Thankfully, Raminus had the patience to teach her letters.
"I…" The Dunmer faltered, drawing in a series of short, sharp breaths. Her calm demeanor crumpled into frantic worry. "Nothing worked! I gave her everything I could think of. Not even mandrake worked. That always works!"
"Agnete came to you? When?"
"It was…uh…last Tirdas, I think," Falanu said, "I was making a batch of healing potions at the time. She looked horrible. I mean, she always looks horrible. But this was worse!" She choked a little, her red eyes glistening. "I've never seen anything like it. So aggressive. Agnete only lasted two days before…" Falanu broke into loud, racking sobs.
Sharva shifted uncomfortably. She wasn't good with emotions. Attachment – like almost everything else in the strongholds – was weakness. Of course, that hadn't stopped her sneaking into the charnel grounds to cry for her father. She still remembers how the old bones had shimmered in the moonlight. No bones for Urzaz gro-Dushnikh, just ashes in the wind.
"I'll…come back later," Sharva said, as softly as she could manage.
Caught up in her grief, the Dunmer didn't even notice her leave.
Thunder rumbled in the distance, in time with the deep thrumming of the eleventh bell. Count Hassildor was already waiting for her in the great hall. The braziers, once cheery and grand, were dimmed almost to embers. The hall was shrouded in near darkness. Sharva lit a small flare spell to guide her way. Just one foot in front of the other until reached the Count.
She stumbled as her toes hit the dais, causing her spell to blaze wildly. Such things needed constant concentration and willpower to control (she had little of both). The Count winced at the sudden light, shielding his eyes with a shaking hand. He drew in a long, hissing breath. Like ill-fated winds over haunted barrows. Realizing the source of his discomfort, Sharva quickly extinguished the flame.
"Tell me what you have discovered," Count Hassildor said, lowering his hand. The glamours were still in place. He looked tired. Beyond tired.
"I spoke with the alchemist, Falanu Hlaalu," Sharva said. "She tried to treat one of the victims with mandrake root. No effect." Count Hassildor remained silent, but his brow was furrowed. "I also went to the Undercroft…" She began, only to be interrupted.
"Yes, I am aware of your activities in the Chapel," Count Hassildor said, frustration clear in his voice, "Primate Abor has already submitted a complaint."
"He attacked me!" Sharva touched her singed hair. It would grow back.
"Regardless, you are my representative. How you choose to respond reflects on me." Count Hassildor stood up swiftly. His fists were clenched and eyes filled with anger. Even though he stood a head shorter than her, she found herself stumbling backwards in the dark. "I expected you to show some discretion, not pick fights!" Those last words were snarled with fangs showing.
"Yes, my Lord." She had never been so humiliated in all her life. Yet she was not permitted to strike him to defend her honour, as she would in the strongholds. The Code of Malacath was clear: she must acknowledge her weakness. Sharva dropped to her knees, head bowed low.
The Count pinched the bridge of his nose, breathing slowly. "Divines…" Hassildor said, "Get up, you fool." She rose, but kept her eyes lowered. If this was Skyrim, her head would already be separated from her shoulders. Or worse. Thankfully, Cyrodiil preferred words to actions. But the sting was no less than a blade.
He threw her doublet emblazoned with Skingrad heraldry. "I have officially named you my Court Wizard. Wear this in future. To avoid misunderstandings."
"Of course, my Lord." Her eyes remained fixed on the floor she could barely see.
"Now leave me."
She had a feeling he wouldn't ask twice.
A guild porter arrived the next day, bearing a parcel from the Arcane University. Sharva was still half-asleep when he knocked on her door. Apparently, Raminus has been informed of the situation. He'd sent several books on historic plagues – detailing symptoms, quarantine measures and such – and one on healing herbs. Caught up among the dusty tomes was a brief letter from Arch-Mage Traven. The usual "keep us informed, watch Hassildor carefully" bullshit.
To be honest, she trusted Hassildor more than she trusted Traven. Many believed that half the Arcane Council were compromised (and the others were idiots). Master-Wizard Caranya was quick to punish anyone spreading these rumours. Once, a whole dormitory had been set to resorting the Mystic Archives. Not a pleasant task.
The package also contained a copy of an official writ. By the order of Arch-Mage Traven and the Arcane Council, all Skingrad guild mages were being recalled to Anvil. Champion Oreyn of the Fighters Guild was taking similar precautions.
One thing was clear. Skingrad was now in quarantine.