Chapter 4: The Wall in the Crypt
Kharza woke early in the morning, as he always did when sleeping in unfamiliar rooms. He winced as he rose to his feet, the sore spot in his thigh a reminder to remove his axe from his person when next he lay down to sleep.
He took a moment to roll his head and scratch the itch in his cheek, then padded silently to the door and exited the house, doing his best to ensure that the door didn't make too much noise. The air was brisk, and a thin blanket of mist hung low over the ground. Kharza shivered slightly; he had not yet grown accustomed to the colder climate. He walked slowly into the center of the yard, taking his axe out of his waistband and setting it on the ground. He turned to face the river and closed his eyes, drawing a large breath of the chilly morning air. His father's voice spoke to him as he readied himself.
Your body should be as water, for water flows without effort. Being as water, you will not tire quickly. You will move with the terrible force of waves crashing upon the shore.
Kharza's moved his hands in slow, fluid circles through the air around him. His body turned and swayed like a stalk of wheat blowing lazily in the wind.
You must remain focused, little cub. When facing enemies, one cannot allow his troubles to make him an enemy unto himself. Clear your mind and set it to purpose.
Kharza's powerful arms rippled with energy as they whirled through the air. His movements became faster and faster until his hands were a blur in the waning moonlight, then gradually slower until he once again stood still and straight. He closed his eyes and once again drew long breath through his nostrils, exhaling slowly as his hands came back down to his waist.
Ready stance.
Kharza's hands came up. His feet twisted in the dirt as he assumed his position.
Look. Block. First control. Break. Punch.
Kharza imagined a faceless, wooden man in front of him as his arms and hands tore the air. His father told him that giving faces to imaginary enemies made it difficult to focus one's anger at those with different faces when it came time to do so.
Your strikes must be as the wind, for nothing can stop the wind. It does not break upon obstacles in its path, but howls around and through them. The wind penetrates even tears at the flesh of the mighty mountains, no matter whether or not the eye perceives it so.
A hammering elbow strike to the opponent's neck. A quick spin around to put the entirety of his weight behind a vicious, sweeping claw attack to the wooden man's face. A powerful snap of his leg to put his foot right through the taper at the bottom of the enemy's breastbone.
A kick up the middle is the only kick that can penetrate an enemy's guard. Often times it is better to favor precision over power.
Kharza's body was a whirlwind, whipping up wisps of mist as his punches and kicks rent the air.
Your legs must be as the earth, for no matter the fury unleashed upon it by storm and sea, the earth remains solid, strong. Let the earth grant you its strength. Channel its solidity and let it course through you from the tips of your toes to the top of your head.
Kharza planted his feet in the earth and put his fists at his waist. His fists pounded at the darkness; he threw his hips and breath into every strike.
Most importantly, little cub—your eyes must be as fire, burning bright and terrible in the face of adversity. Whatever fear you feel, let your enemy see none. Swallow your fear and transform it into a blaze of wrath and might. Turn your fear upon your enemy and see him tremble before the flames of your fury.
Kharza brought his feet back together and stood up tall. He closed his eyes and filled his belly with air, willing his quickened pace to slow. He breathed out and relaxed, taking a moment to stretch his arms over his head. He turned and paced over to the axe he'd left lying on the ground. He picked up the weapon, and his movements began again.
Hours of practice and exercise passed before the darkness began to lift. The sky was awash in rich purples and reds as the sun ever-so-slowly climbed its way over the mountains. Kharza's silvery-white glowed, for they had never beheld such a sunrise; bearing witness to its beauty made the Khajiit's heart ache.
Gerdur was the first one up and about after Kharza. She greeted him with arms full of Hod's clothing, assuring a worried Kharza that her husband wouldn't mind. Kharza was afraid of imposing on his gracious hosts, but Gerdur laid his concerns to rest by telling him he could help around the farm. It was the weekend and the mill was closed, but there was still plenty to do at home.
Kharza took advantage of the early hour by heading to a patch of the river just outside of town to bathe. He caught sight of many of the Wood Elves he saw working at the mill the other day and was apprehensive about removing his trousers, but when a man emerged from the water naked as the day he was born and waved a cheerful greeting to Kharza, the Khajiit's mind was put at ease—at least until he felt the eyes of some of the bolder Bosmer women fixed on him as he washed. Though they were smiling, his cheeks still burned with embarrassment.
The clothes fit fairly well. Hod was big and tall, but Kharza was broad in his back and thick in his legs. He simply rolled up his sleeves and trouser legs and everything was fine. He did wish he had a pair of shoes, but there were worse things in the world than dirty feet.
One of the tasks Gerdur laid out for Kharza was to fetch some supplies from the Riverwood Trader. The errand seemed simple enough.
The town's general store was quite impressive. There was a wide variety in its stock—tall shelves held all manner of tools, cooking and eating utensils, clothing, food, and the wall behind the counter even had weapons on it. Kharza's silver-white eyes gleamed at the sight of shiny daggers, but alas he had no coin. He sighed … and realized that nobody seemed to be around. Perhaps he had come too early? He couldn't have, though, for the door was unlocked when he arrived.
Kharza's ears twitched. Voices, coming through the wooden ceiling. Kharza couldn't make out words, but the voices were definitely a man and a woman. They sounded like they were arguing.
Kharza made his way to the stairs in the back. The closer he got, the clearer the voices became. He padded up the wooded steps slowly; he knew eavesdropping was wrong, but something compelled him to listen in.
"… can't believe you, Lucan. I can't believe you would just sit back and let that thief get away with robbing us. Where's your pride?"
"So what, Camilla? You're going to run off into the hills by yourself to go look for him? You're going to singlehandedly take on all the wolves, trolls saber cats and bandits that come at you and then wander down into a dangerous Nord crypt? Gods only know what's hiding in there! You imply I've lost my pride, but dear sister, it seems you've lost your head."
"Well something has to be done."
"Just leave it. What's gone is gone."
"Lucan—"
"I said leave it. We're not talking about this anymore."
By now, Kharza was standing in the doorway. He was surprised the two hadn't noticed him by now. He cleared his throat, and the man and woman turned their heads with shock in their eyes.
"Divines' sake, man, you scared the shit out of me!" the man Lucan exclaimed.
"The store is downstairs, if you couldn't tell," the woman Camilla said, her voice dripping with indignation. She looked to be just out of her teens, a fact her attitude reflected.
"Yes, I noticed," Kharza replied. "Gerdur sent me to pick up the supplies she ordered."
Lucan sighed. "Yeah, sure. Head over to the counter, I'll be right down."
Kharza went back downstairs and stood at the counter. More muffled voices through the ceiling. Kharza understood that something had the man and his sister upset, but he, too, had worked in a shop, and he never let his troubles get in the way of business. The lack of professionalism here was rather annoying.
It was a few minutes before Lucan joined him at the counter with a canvas sack in hand. The man ducked under the counter and in another minute the sack was full.
"Here you go," Lucan said. "I'm afraid I wasn't able to get the new saw blades Gerdur wanted. The shipment was delayed, but everything should be here in the next few days."
"I will pass along the message," Kharza replied. He paused. "I am unsure how to go about this without intruding, but … did something happen?"
Lucan sighed. "How much did you hear?"
"Only general arguing," Kharza shrugged, "but nothing specific."
"I don't want to take up any of your time," Lucan said.
"Of that, I have plenty. Go ahead—tell me your story."
Lucan and Camilla were Imperials; that much Kharza had already gathered from their classic Cyrodiilic features. They had come to Skyrim following the death of their father and the subsequent loss of investment in the business he built. It took years of hard work, but Lucan made enough coin working at a local meadery to open a small shop. One day a man came in with something unusual—a solid gold ornament of some sort shaped like a dragon's claw. Lucan liked the look of the ornament and paid the man for it, and for reasons unknown business took off in the following days. Investors were almost lining up at the Riverwood Trader's door, and it didn't take long for the shop to grow into what it was today.
"Then about a week ago a man from out of town came in for supplies. He saw the claw on the counter and his eyes lit up like a child's. He asked me about where I got it, who I got it from, that sort of thing. He'd look at me for a few seconds whenever he talked, but his eyes never stayed off the claw for long. After a little while he made his purchase and walked out the door. I didn't give it a second thought until I woke up the next morning and saw the claw was missing. I searched the whole place twice before it dawned on me that the man must have broken in here and stolen it."
Lucan sighed. "At any rate, things have quickly gone from bad to worse. Just this morning I got a letter from my best investor telling me flat-out that he's lost interest in doing business with me. Shipments are being delayed and creditors are showing up at my door out of nowhere demanding payment. It's like a bad dream … it's like all my luck was bound to that claw. Without it, I'm fucked."
Kharza blinked. "You were right. You have quite a story."
"No kidding," Lucan grumbled. "I have a business to run, so I can't go after the claw myself. Besides, there's Camilla. As capable as my sister likes to think herself, the girl has her head in the clouds. She'd be lost without me here."
"Why not hire a few mercenaries to get it back for you?" Kharza asked.
"Folks like that don't come through Riverwood very often, and it would take weeks to get the word out. I don't know what to do."
Kharza leaned on the counter. "How much would you offer if someone were interested in helping you?"
Kharza saw the disbelief in Lucan's eyes.
"Are you … are you saying you'll help me?"
Kharza smiled. "Perhaps."
Kharza was glad for the shoes Lucan had given him. He would have preferred boots, but shoes were definitely better than nothing. He only wished they'd been broken in a little better so the leather wouldn't rub against the tops of his toes the way it did. Still, shoes were something to be grateful for; even better was the knapsack packed with strips of dried venison, two water skins, a few ceramic vials of healing potions, and most importantly a map.
As he hiked higher into the hills, Kharza's mind replayed the conversation with Gerdur and Ralof from the night before. Gerdur was more than a little worried to see him go chasing after thieves in the hills outside town, which was understandable, but Kharza desperately needed money. Even if Lucan didn't pay him as much as he wanted, any amount of coin in his pocket meant Kharza was one step closer to being reunited with his son. Ralof had assured Gerdur that if anyone he'd ever met could handle himself, it was Kharza. The kind words hadn't stopped the Khajiit feeling guilty when he saw the look in Gerdur's eyes, though.
Kharza's mind suddenly snapped back to reality as he rounded a bend in the trail. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the giant white mass of filthy, matted hair. The beast had its impossibly wide back turned to him, but he could definitely make out long, muscular arms as the creature ripped the leg right off a dead deer with little effort ...
This is not good, Kharza thought.
The beast paused. It raised its head, and Kharza could hear it sniffing the air.
Not good at all.
Whatever the thing was, it stood up and turned around. It had vicious looking teeth, and all three wicked eyes were trained on the Khajiit.
Kharza decided he did not like this creature.
The beast snarled and pounded the ground with its massive fists. Kharza drew his axe and bared his teeth. His eyes scanned the creature for any vulnerability.
It was when the beast charged that he noticed it was male.
I've got you now, you filthy bastard.
The monster's swing was fast, but Kharza was faster. He dropped to his back and the beast's looping hand went sailing overhead. Kharza kicked landed a hard heel right to the creature's balls. The creature doubled over with a howl of pain, but it did not go down … so Kharza kicked it again. He rolled off to the side as the beast fell to its knees. It was almost comical to see a monster like this holding its balls in agony as any man would. Kharza seized his opportunity and brought his axe down on the back of the creature's neck. It had a tough hide, but three solid blows later it lay dead in the dirt.
Kharza closed his eyes and took a deep breath. In through your nose, out through your nose. He unslung his knapsack and rummaged around through its contents. He sighed with relief; how nothing had broken he did not know. He simply glanced up at the sky and thanked Rajhin for his luck before swinging his pack back onto his shoulders and pressing on.
Thankfully there weren't any more awful creatures along the way. Cairns dotted the hillside and led up to a wide set of stone steps. Climbing them was tedious.
Stop complaining, Kharza told himself. Better stairs than a rock face.
The tomb was looked quite impressive. Kharza couldn't help but look up at the giant stone buttresses reaching toward the heavens. He wondered how in the world anyone managed to bring such huge blocks of stone so far up the hill.
A deep, gruff voice broke Kharza's distraction.
"Hey!"
Kharza looked over his shoulder. It was an Orc—tall, wide and ugly. Then again, most of them are, Kharza said to himself, suppressing a snicker. He made a mental note of the warhammer the brute carried on his back. Apparently whoever stole the claw had friends.
The Orc approached. "What's a milk drinker like you doing up here?"
"My apologies," Kharza replied, "I could not catch that through those ugly, great tusks in your face. Perhaps I could remove them for you and you can try again?"
The Orc snarled. "I'm gonna fuck your corpse, cat!"
Kharza's axe was out before the Orc could bring his hammer his hammer around. The iron blade hacked right through the big man's wrist; both the Orc's hand and his big hammer fell to the ground in a flash of metal and blood. The Orc cried out, clutching his wounded arm. It was all he managed to do before Kharza's axe split his skull.
Kharza bounced his weapon in his hand and smiled. "I am becoming quite fond of you," he said as he knelt and wiped the blade on the dead Orc. A quick search of the body earned Kharza a weighty coin purse and a dagger. Kharza unsheathed the blade and looked it over—a solid example of Orcish craftsmanship. This dead Orc must have stolen it because there was no way in Oblivion the idiot had forged it himself.
Kharza realized he was wasting time pondering about daggers. All that mattered to him was that he had a strong, sharp blade to tuck into his belt.
I would have made a better one, of course, Kharza thought to himself with a grin.
A quick scan of the front of the building left only a pair of giant iron doors as the only visible entrance. Luckily one of them had been left ajar, which would save Kharza some time and allow him to avoid alerting anyone on the inside to his presence. He slipped through and stayed low to the ground, cloaked in shadow. Now he was glad he wasn't wearing boots; shoes made less noise.
Two women were up ahead, sitting on a fallen pillar beside a small fire. One had a bow at her side and a quiver of arrows on her back. Kharza was glad that they hadn't heard the commotion outside. Brief though it was, the Orc's cry of pain was fairly loud. Something about the atmosphere in this place seemed to hush the sounds of the outside world; it made Kharza slightly uncomfortable to think about it as he crept closer to the women ahead.
"I don't like this," one of the women said. "Arvel's been gone too long this time."
"It takes a while to get rid of the traps in these places, Fredda," the other replied. "Arvel knows what he's doing."
"I don't know. I feel like we should go after him."
"Relax. You sound like an old hen. Besides, this place gives me the creeps. Let the Dunmer take care of the traps and the draugr. Once he lets us know the way is clear, we'll simply cut his throat and go get our treasure."
No honor among bandits, Kharza said to himself. Then he pounced.
The one with the bow was the first to die. Kharza didn't want her running to cover and putting an arrow in his face while he wasted time with the other one. As it turned out, the other woman was quite skilled with her blade. She was quick and agile, and for the first time in as long as he could remember, Kharza was on the back foot. The woman grew reckless, though, and overextended herself on a lunge. Kharza parried with his axe, caught the woman's wrist with his free arm and twisted into her elbow, snapping the joint completely. The woman had all of half a second to shriek before Kharza slammed the flat of his axe blade into her face, knocking her to the ground. The Khajiit followed the woman down and hacked through her neck in one fluid motion. Blood splattered across his face and into his eyes, and he cursed as he rubbed and blinked it away. When he could see clearly again, he ventured forth into the tomb.
Torches lit the chambers ahead, no doubt set by the Arvel fellow the women had mentioned before. The place felt eerie; Kharza knew virtually nothing of magic, but he could sense a dark energy filling the old crypt. It was enough to make his fur stand on end.
Out of nowhere, a skeever came running forward with teeth bared and ill intent in its eyes. It startled Kharza, but it was nothing a good, solid kick couldn't fix. The giant rat's back snapped like a twig when the creature hit the wall.
Skeevers made Kharza angry. Lorkhaj, if you are listening then know that I could very well do without more of those.
The place reeked of death. Old, musty, dusty death. The smell was strong enough that a Man would have trouble breathing through his nose, much less a Khajiit. Kharza did his best to settle his churning stomach, but death was all around. The walls were riddled with holes and shelves holding dead bodies. It bothered Kharza very much that the bodies hadn't turned to dust in this very ancient crypt. The corpses still had skin on their bones, withered and leathery as it was.
Kharza froze when he saw the armored body lying in the middle of the floor with a sword barely out of its reach. If it bothered him that the dead still had their skin, then it frightened him that this one seemed to be reaching for its weapon. He remembered the stories his uncles told him about necromancers raising armies of skeletons to fight for them, and he was now very afraid of what lay ahead in the ancient Nord tomb.
Swallow your fear, little cub. He would have to do his best.
There weren't as many torches this far in; now most of the light came from strange glowing rocks resting inside braziers along the floor. They radiated heat, and Kharza figured it best not to try to pick one up to light his way. He would just have to make do.
It wasn't long before he found Arvel. The Dark Elf lay still as a statue, limbs contorted and eyes wide open, in front of a gaping hole in the floor. Upon closer inspection, Kharza saw that it was a giant trapdoor—with the hulking body of a massive frostbite spider lying dead at the bottom of the hole. The sight made him wince and shudder. Just how big did these things get?
Kharza put two fingers to the Dunmer's neck. There was no pulse, and the flesh was freezing cold. It made sense to him now why frostbite spiders were named so. He would need to keep his eyes open to avoid a bite should there be any more of them, for he did not know if his meager supply of healing potions would be able to combat a venom that freezes the blood.
Arvel had a satchel close to his hip. Kharza rifled through it without much thought—it wasn't like the elf could object—and found the claw, along with a small, leather-bound journal. He unslung his knapsack and put the claw inside, ready to make his way back to the entrance, but for some reason he felt compelled to stay. Perhaps it was the talk of treasure he overheard earlier; after all, he didn't know how much he would be paid for his services, and there were still many things he needed. He would at least read through the journal to see if there was any information pertaining to the crypt.
Kharza flipped through pages of drawings and entries concerning the claw until a short verse caught his eye:
In ancient tombs of dragons' thralls
Where cursed dead still roam the halls
The legends etched into the walls
Will lead to wealth untold.
Kharza wasn't keen on the idea of having to battle through any number of walking dead, but there wasn't a Khajiit he knew—himself included—who would willingly pass up an opportunity like "wealth untold." He flipped through the last remaining pages of the journal to see if there was any other mention of the claw; his patience was rewarded.
24th of Midyear
I think I know how the claw works. One of the books I read on the subject of old Nord crypts mentioned that inside each tomb is a long chamber called the Hall of Stories, and that at the end of each of these halls is a door that can only be opened "by the touch of a dragon." It makes sense that the claw would provide access to whatever lies beyond the door. With regard to the markings on the claw, the book didn't say anything directly—merely that "the answer lies in the palm of your hand."
Words cannot describe my excitement. I'm so very close now.
Kharza hadn't a clue what the entry meant. Of course the answer would be in the palm of his hand—a key opens a door. Something in the back of his mind told him not to be too hasty in his assessment of the situation; things down here in the crypt would most likely not be so simple, especially if a great treasure was involved. Kharza proceeded cautiously, keeping in mind that if Arvel lay dead and cold that there would most likely be enemies lurking ahead.
His suspicions proved correct. As he crept forward, he could hear heavy, clumsy footsteps and what sounded vaguely like raspy breathing. Breathing was the wrong word to describe it, though; it was more akin to gurgling, almost like the noises a man made after having his throat cut if his throat were a thousand years dry.
Kharza flattened himself against a pillar and snuck a peek at the corpse warrior. It walked awkwardly on desiccated legs, holding a wicked-looking greatsword in both hands. What struck Kharza the most were the demon's eyes—whatever living tissue had previously inhabited the sockets had long since rotted away, only to be replaced with what appeared to be orbs of evil pale blue light.
Kharza decided he did not like the undead.
There were more braziers along the walls. Kharza had an idea, but he'd need to take the demon by surprise.
The creature finally turned away, and Kharza sprang into action. He put a mighty kick in the middle of the demon's back, sending it hurtling toward the wall and right into one of the large ceremonial braziers. The creature was set alight almost instantly; its orb-eyes went dark in a matter of moments as the flames consumed in in its entirety.
Kharza had hoped his plan would work, but he hadn't expected it to work so well. He was surprised by how far his strike was able to throw the creature, even with its armor. He remembered his father saying something about how one's body contains a lot of water, and he figured the corpse beast was so light because all its water had dried up over the centuries.
This was all very good. Now Kharza knew how to kill the dead. He just needed to be mindful of his surroundings so as not to fall victim to any traps and join the ranks of these vile beasts.
It was good that Kharza remembered the traps. Pressure plates awaited him around almost every corner, and the walls were decked with all manner of spikes and blades. Kharza thanked Azurah for granting his people unmatched poise.
Kharza saw a large portcullis across the floor. It looked to be a straight shot with only a few pressure plates in sight. Many braziers lit the room, so there was plenty of fire around should Kharza find himself in need of it. He began to walk toward the gate.
The sound of heavy stone slabs hitting the floor cause Kharza's heart to leap into his throat. Eight very angry-looking blue orbs trained on Kharza. He bolted for the nearest brazier and kicked it off its support, sending its glowing contents skittering across the floor. Two of the undead walked right onto the stones; both of them burst into flames, and now there were only two demons left.
One of the beasts beat its fist against its breast and growled, pointing its sword at Kharza.
"Aav dilon!"
Kharza's gaze snapped to his right; a corpse walker wearing only rags was closing fast. Kharza swung his shin like a hammer and struck the beast it its thigh, snapping the bone inside. Kharza grabbed the creature by what was once its throat and threw it into the fire to join the remains of its comrades.
The last creature was different. It was stronger than the others; Kharza could see it. He could also see the ice forming in the demon's palm as it lifted its hand …
Kharza pivoted just in time to avoid being impaled on an icy spear tearing through the air. Now he was worried again, for he had little experience fighting against magic and knew no spells himself. He went with his gut, drawing his Orcish dagger and hurling it at the demon's head. Kharza was rewarded with a dusty thunk as the blade snapped the creature's head back; he was much better at throwing knives and daggers than he was at throwing axes. He'd been confident he would hit his mark.
What Kharza did not expect was for the corpse mage to bring his head level again. The evil blue orbs still glowed in their sockets.
This is not good, Kharza thought as the beast raised its hand toward him again.
Kharza ducked, and another shard of ice went whizzing by over his ears into the wall behind him. He stood to face his enemy, and the beast stared straight through him with its soulless orb eyes as it spoke.
"ZUN!"
It was like a whisper, but it filled the entire chamber. Pins and needles shot through Kharza's forearm, and his axe clattered to the floor. He gripped his wrist in pain; his hand was numb and useless.
The pain made Kharza angry. He wanted to rip the stale flesh from the demon's skull. When the beast raised its hand again, though, sense prevailed.
Kharza scrambled from sarcophagus to pillar and back to sarcophagus, desperate for cover from the vengeful spears of ice the corpse mage fired at him. Then he heard something strange—a click and the sound of metal scraping against metal. There were no growls after that. Kharza took a quick glance and saw a withered leg resting on top of a pressure plate; there were no other signs of the corpse mage or the dagger stuck in its head. Kharza didn't question it, just thanked the gods profusely and returned to the task at hand. His arm was still in pain, so he unslung his knapsack once again and pulled out a healing potion. He uncorked it with his teeth and drained it in one gulp, suppressing a gag and swallowing hard. The feeling slowly crept back into his fingertips; he walked to the portcullis, pulled the release and entered what he guessed to be the Hall of Stories.
The artwork was incredible. Many paces of stone wall stretched in front of him, covered in the most detailed reliefs he'd seen in his life. Dragons dominated the carvings, towering above all the other figures. There were also men, swords and axes in their hands and great horned helmets upon their heads. Kharza took a moment to appreciate the work that must have gone into all of it, eyeing the walls with wonder as he made his way to the end of the chamber.
The door consisted of three stone rings surrounding a circle with three holes in it. It was a puzzle of some sort. Kharza pulled out the golden claw and pondered for a moment.
The answer lies in the palm of your hand.
There were markings on the claw; a bear, a moth and an owl. The rings on the door had the same markings on them, but not in the same order. Kharza rearranged the rings, stuck the claw in the middle circle and turned it. He closed his eyes and held his breath and prayed to Alkosh that he would not be killed by a door.
The rings began to spin, and Kharza could hear some kind of locking device releasing. He breathed a sigh of relief and laughed to himself as the door sank into the floor. He put the claw back in his knapsack and entered passed through the giant doorway into a cave.
Sunlight poured in through a hole in the ceiling, illuminating a large wall in the back. Something about the wall captivated Kharza. There was something in the air between him and the wall, some sort of … connection. As he drew closer to it, Kharza could see some sort of writing etched into the stone as if by claws. He tucked his axe into his belt and ran his fingertips over the carvings. He couldn't quite read them, but there was something oddly familiar about the script.
His fingers came to a halt.
He knew this word. He didn't understand how he knew it, he just knew it.
Force.
Something stirred in Kharza's soul.
A sound like a small explosion snapped him back to reality. Another corpse warrior was slowly climbing out of his resting place.
This time, Kharza didn't hesitate. He hacked away at the beast's head until there was nothing left of it. The demon's body slithered back into its stone coffin; Kharza stood above it, his chest heaving as he struggled to calm his racing heart.
Kharza hissed at the remains of the corpse warrior. He really did not care for the undead.
Something caught his eye—a small stone tablet sticking out of the corpse warrior's breastplate. It seemed to be a map of some sort, and on the back was more of the same writing Kharza just examined on the wall. Something told Kharza he ought to hold onto it.
Kharza noticed a large iron chest behind the wall. Upon opening it, his eyes lit up. Inside was a vast array of sparkling gemstones and gold and silver jewelry. In the middle of the heap was a dagger; ivory scabbard, ivory handle and the pommel was … moonstone.
When Kharza pulled the dagger from its sheath, his heart skipped a beat.
It was the most beautiful weapon Kharza had ever seen. A blade of shimmering green malachite, inlaid with gold. Glass was by far Kharza's favorite element to work with; others favored ebony when they could get their hands on it, claiming it was far superior, but Kharza knew better. He knew that glass forged with time and love could handle anything the Gods threw at it, and this particular blade looked like it could fell a dragon all on its own.
Kharza tested the blade with his thumb and winced as a jolt of electricity surged through his arm from fingertips to shoulder.
Not only was it razor sharp, it was also enchanted with lightning magic.
"I think I may be in love,"Kharza grinned, licking the blood from his thumb.
It was well past midnight when Kharza finally made it back to the farmhouse, but how late it actually was, he did not know. He was surprised to see a flickering light through the curtain on the other side of the window; he didn't expect anybody to be awake when he returned. He crept to the door and rapped lightly on the wood with his knuckles. Not two seconds later the door flew open to reveal a very relieved-looking Gerdur. She nearly tackled Kharza in a fierce hug.
"Thank the Gods you're back," she said. "You had me worried sick, Khajiit!"
Ralof appeared in the doorway behind his sister.
"You look like you could use a drink, friend," the blond man smiled. "You can tell us what happened over a bottle or two of mead."
"Maybe three," Kharza replied as he entered the house.
Kharza told them about everything that had happened. The monster on the trail, the bandits, the undead soldiers—draugr, Gerdur called them—and of course the wall. His story had them stunned—even more so when he opened his knapsack and showed them all the treasure he had obtained. It truly was a glorious return.
"I still can't believe you kicked a troll in the balls," Ralof said. "I'll have to remember that the next time I come across one of the ugly fuckers!"
Kharza laughed. It was a good night to be alive.
