Chapter 7

Dante gestured for Cyrus to seat himself before securing the door and casting a Muffle spell upon it.

"What made you change your mind?" he asked, curious.

Cyrus shifted uncomfortably. "You questioned my honor," he admitted. "You accused me of discourtesy. Your words stung, because they were true. Forgive my suspicions, but I have been on the run for long enough to have forgotten the manners with which I was raised. My mother, were she still alive, would be ashamed of me."

"You're forgiven," Dante replied, sensing that somehow, Cyrus needed to hear those words. Indeed, the young Redguard seemed to relax.

"You said you needed my help," Cyrus went on. "And Iman encouraged me to give it to you. What do you need from me?"

"Well, first of all, I should tell you she goes by 'Saadia' now," Dante replied. "She insisted that's how I address her. She, too, is concerned about reprisals against her. Someone already sent assassins after her."

"She alluded to that in her letter," Cyrus nodded. "She said you had saved her life."

Dante shrugged. "I took out some Alik'r who were looking for her," he explained. "She's living at the Bannered Mare, an inn in the city of Whiterun in Skyrim. That's where I met her. She…wasn't exactly truthful to me at first, but we've…moved past that."

"We can't be too careful," Cyrus frowned. "The Crown wants us dead."

"Why?" Dante asked. "What did you do?"

"Before I answer that," Cyrus countered, "I must ask you how much you know of Hammerfell history and politics."

"Not a lot, I'm afraid," Dante confessed. "I had assumed by 'the Crown,' she meant the ruling faction of Hammerfell. It would help if you could explain exactly what the political situation is in Hammerfell at the moment."

Cyrus blew out a breath. "Where to begin?" he countered wryly. "Well, the first thing you should know is that we Redguards are not originally from Tamriel."

"That much I did know," Dante nodded. "You're originally from Yokuda, aren't you?"

"Yes," Cyrus confirmed. "But our native land sank into the sea ages ago. The first group of Redguards to come to Tamriel were an advance guard, an expeditionary force, whose purpose was to find a new land for our people, when we knew our homeland was doomed. They were known as the Ra Gada, and when they came to Tamriel, they found that part of the continent inhabited by ancient Orcish and Breton peoples. 'Ra Gada' became corrupted into 'Redguard' in the Common tongue."

"And you named your new country 'Hammerfell'?" Dante asked. "It doesn't really sound like a logical name for a region."

"We named it that because of the legends that came to us of the Dwemer that lived in the area before the Orcs and Bretons. Stories say that the Dwemer Rourken Clan came here after rejecting the creation of the Dwemer-Chimer state of Resdayne. This was before the Chimer became the Dunmer, you understand. At that time, they were a splinter group of Aldmer who rejected the co-mingling of the elvish pantheon of gods with the human ones." He shrugged. "The Dwemer legends say that the leader of the Rourken Clan threw his mighty hammer, Volundrung, across the country, and they followed to where it landed, naming the land 'Volenfell.' Hammer. Fell. Rather simple."

"So that's why the Dominion wanted a large portion of Hammerfell ceded back to them as part of the White-Gold Concordat," Dante realized.

Cyrus inclined his head. "Indeed. But of course, by the time they made that request, we Redguards had been living in that area for generations, and have come to view it as our homeland." He paused before resuming his original narrative. "Our original government, the Na-Totambu, was transplanted here with us," he continued. "But over time, we assimilated the traditions and cultures of many of the Nedic people still living in the area. This cause a schism within our own society, with some holding fast to the old ways of the Na-Totambu. Because they came after the advance guard, and are mostly of the nobility, they are known collectively as the Crown. The descendants of the Ra Gada, the original settlers, became known as Forebears. For some time, they co-existed peacefully enough, but during the Imperial Interregnum – when Emperor Uriel Septim the Seventh was imprisoned in Oblivion, and his Court Mage, Jagar Tharn impersonated him for several years after – the Crown established dominance and shifted their seat of governance from Hegathe to Sentinel, where both struggle for supremacy today."

Dante pondered this information for several minutes. Cyrus remained silent while his mind churned, and he appreciated that. Too many people liked to yammer on and on while he attempted to digest what he had heard. It was irritating.

"What you've told me makes some things rather clearer than they were," he finally said. "I'm just uncertain on a few points."

"Ask," Cyrus said. "If I know the answer, I'll tell you. If I don't, I won't."

"If House Suda is part of the nobility, then why does the Crown want to eliminate you?" he inquired. "Saadia told me at first that the Alik'r were sent after her because she spoke out publicly against the Aldmeri Dominion."

"Ha!" Cyrus barked. There was no amusement in the short laugh. "The Dominion is not welcome in Hammerfell," he pointed out. "It's likely she told you that because they are the Daedra everyone loves to hate right now."

"I didn't believe her," Dante felt obliged to point out. "I knew something wasn't adding up in her story."

Cyrus shook his head fondly. "She's a terrible liar," he stated, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "She never could tell a falsehood without my aunt finding out the truth."

"What is the truth, in this case?" the Grey Fox pressed.

"I'll tell you," the young Redguard intoned, all mirth leaving his face. "The truth is that Im-, I mean, Saadia, was pledged to be wed to Prince Azanir of House Tasa in Taneth. It was not her choice, but arranged by her parents. Saadia had even met Azanir before the official announcement of their betrothal, and was not averse to the union – until I overheard him speaking in his garden with a Thalmor operative."

"A Thalmor? In Hammerfell?" Dante blurted. "Are you sure?"

"There could be no doubt," Cyrus brooded. "They did not know I was there, on the other side of the hedge. Foolish of him not to have made certain they were alone. The operative was an Imperial, not an Altmer, as that would have aroused too much suspicion. But there was no question of his allegiance in his words."

"What were they talking about?"

"They spoke of Azanir's contribution to Dominion victory during the Great War," Cyrus frowned. "We had all believed him to have been a war hero, fighting for Hammerfell. He was older than Saadia or I, you see. He'd fought in the war."

"And you think this Prince Azanir was responsible for the fall of Taneth during the war?" Dante inquired, seeking clarification. It was the same charge Kematu had laid at Saadia's feet.

"He as much as admitted it," Cyrus glowered.

"And you didn't have proof to bring to anyone, I take it?" Dante surmised. "Just your word against a Prince?"

Cyrus nodded. "That's pretty much it." He blew out a sigh. "I'm afraid I made it worse by confronting the Prince after the Thalmor spy left. We got into an argument, and he drew his sword on me."

"I think I know where this is headed," Dante murmured.

"He didn't leave me much choice," Cyrus scowled. "He had had some basic training in swordsmanship, and he had fought in the Great War. I, on the other hand, was younger than he, and had made a disciplined study of all forms of hand-to-hand combat. I left his body in the garden and raced home to gather what few supplies I could. My aunt and uncle confronted me and demanded to know what had happened. When I told them, they knew all their plans for Saadia had now been compromised. There would be reprisals from the Crown, and even Saadia's life would be in danger."

"They would blame the entire family for your actions?"

"I dishonored the family name," Cyrus said stiffly. "We all would bear the shame, and we all would pay the consequences."

"Why didn't you flee Hammerfell?" Dante asked. "Why stay here?"

Cyrus' blue eyes burned into Dante's. "I can't clear my name, and I can't find the proof of Azanir's treason, if I'm in another Province," he stated. "As for any other Dominion interference in our politics, I am uncertain. If they are here, and if they are indeed interfering, they are likely doing so with non-Altmer operatives, like the one that spoke with Prince Azanir."

Dante nodded. It's what he would have done, if he were a Thalmor. He shuddered inwardly at that thought. His eyes wandered to the greataxe, carefully holstered at Cyrus' back.

"Does the Crown know you wield that weapon?" he asked now.

Cyrus shrugged. "I am uncertain. When my uncle was preparing to flee, he gave it to me. He said it had belonged to my grandfather, his father, and as he had no son, it should come to me. But it had been resting in a chest in his home for many years, unused. I don't remember any tales in our family of anyone actually using it. It's possible my grandfather bought or found it somewhere, or took it off someone as a trophy. I don't know."

"And what have you done, since you fled your family home, to find proof of the Prince's treason?" Dante queried.

Cyrus shifted uncomfortably again. "Very…little," he admitted. "Because I must hide behind this helm, I cannot gain entry to the Prince's residence. And because I must eat to live, I sell my sword arm as a mercenary, until such time as I can reclaim my honor."

How he kept himself from rolling his eyes in exasperation, Dante didn't care to dwell on. "Alright, let's think about this," he said, unconsciously stroking his beard. "Are there any ways to get into the Prince's residence that don't require the front door?"

"If there are, I am not familiar with them," the young Redguard said.

"What do you know about the headquarters of the Crown in Sentinel?"

"It's a large palace where the Inner Council meet to establish law and mete out justice," Cyrus said. "The Forebears also have a similar fortification on the opposite side of town."

"And is it possible to get into either of those places discretely?" the Guildmaster asked.

"I – I am uncertain."

Dante sank into deep thought. He had a few contacts in Hammerfell; people with whom he had done business in the past. One or two of them might even owe him a favor. It seemed a good time to call those in.

"Alright, Cyrus," Dante smiled, rising. "I think I've got enough to go on for the moment."

"I know I haven't been much help—"

"Nonsense," the Grey Fox smiled. "You've helped more than you know. For now, return to your lodgings. I'm going to do some investigating myself, to see what I can turn up."

"You'll be going to Sentinel, then?" Cyrus asked.

"I think that's a distinct possibility."

"Then I will come with you." The Redguard's tone had a note of finality in it that was just slightly annoying. It implied he wouldn't take 'no' for an answer.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Dante discouraged. "If you're a wanted man, you might call unwelcome attention to me, and I will need to move quickly and quietly."

"I refuse to sit and wait for your return, like an old man," Cyrus said stubbornly. "Whatever information you learn in Sentinel, I wish to know as well. Especially if it will help prove that I acted in self-defense against a traitor. Besides," he added, with that ghost of a smile, "the roads to Sentinel can be hazardous."

"I can handle myself," Dante assured him, but he could see the resolution in the younger man's face. He had the feeling that even if he attempted to sneak away in the middle of the night, Cyrus would be camped out on his doorstep waiting for him to make the first move.

I had the same fire, not too long ago, he thought. I wanted to make all of House Montrose pay for their treachery. I still do.

"Fine," he sighed, knowing it was a foregone conclusion. "We'll leave at daybreak tomorrow. Go get some sleep."

It was at the top of his mind to slip out the window as soon as the door closed behind the young Redguard. The only thing that stopped him was that conversation he had had with Cyrus earlier about manners.

When did I start worrying about manners and honor? he groused to himself, but he knew the answer. When I began traveling with the Dragonborn.


The wind whipped the sand and ash into his face, and he choked. He was in Solstheim again, with no recollection of how he'd gotten there. He was riding Odahviing. But that couldn't be right. The red dragon had adamantly refused to go where the air was too foul to breathe; Durnehviir had warned him. Yet here he was, carrying the Dragonborn towards the Red Mountain.

"What are we doing here?" he called out, but the dragon did not respond. "Odahviing! Answer me! Why are we here?" Still no reply as the fiery summit loomed closer. The ash and choking smoke made it hard to breathe. Cinders began to fall all around him, some even landing on his draconian companion, but the dovah never flinched.

He tried to use his thu'um, but the rawness of his throat made it impossible. A bare whisper emitted, as the smoldering embers caught the back of his mouth. He had to get out of here! Odahviing seemed bound and determined to fly them right down the throat of Vvardenfell.

Peering over the side of the dragon, he could see it was a long way down to the sea below, but he had to try. He clawed his way to an upright position, but his feet seemed to sink into the dovah's scaly hide, tangling and gripping him, holding him fast. He couldn't move, and the flaming mountain loomed closer…


Waking wasn't any better than the nightmare. For a few precious moments, Marcus thought he was still in his dream. Struggling to get to his feet, tangled in the blanket that had been thrown over him, he could still hear the roar of the wind and taste the burnt air. But it wasn't a dream…it was real.

With horror, he realized the cottage was on fire! A thick pall of smoke hung in the air, and he could hear flames crackling through the thatch overhead.

"NONNA!" he cried. Coughing, he made his way to the ladder that led up to the loft and scrambled up, feeling the temperature of the air around him rising along with him. Peering over the edge he saw the entire roof was engulfed, and the flames were licking at the bed in which the old woman lay, unconscious, overcome by the smoke.

Crawling on the floor to her side he reached up and dragged her off the bed. The nightgown by her legs was smoldering, and he grabbed the rug off the floor and smothered them. Nonna groaned, but didn't open her eyes.

There wasn't room for him to stand upright here, and he risked singeing his hair if he made an attempt, so he had to drag her unceremoniously across the floor to the ladder. He climbed down several steps until his chest was level with the floor so he could haul Clarice over his shoulder.

With a whoosh, and a wave of heat, a clump of thatch landed on the bed, setting it alight. Clamping down on the panic he felt, Marcus steadied himself and negotiated the ladder one-handed, half-turned away from it to be able to balance the old Breton nurse over his shoulder. He made it to the floor below, nearly slipping only once, and gently lowered his burden.

The smoke was thicker, now, and his eyes streamed as he crossed to the door to open it. It didn't budge. Glancing down, he saw the stone Nonna used to keep it shut against intruders and viciously kicked it away, yanking on the handle again. Still, the door remained closed.

What's going on? he thought irritably. The door opens inward. Why won't it open?

He crossed the room to the back door and found it, too, had been sealed shut somehow.

Nonna groaned again and stirred. Marcus had to drop on all fours to get back to her. The heat was becoming intense, and the smoke was making it hard to breathe.

"Nonna!" he rasped. "Clarice! Can you hear me?"

She moaned again, but opened her eyes.

"Nonna!" he urged. "The doors are blocked. We can't get out. Is there another way?" He was fully prepared to blast the door down with his Unrelenting Force if she'd said 'no.'

"Cellar," she croaked, gesturing vaguely towards the center of the room.

Quickly, knowing they were running out of time, Marcus crawled to the middle of the cottage, with Clarice right behind him, and flipped back the rug in the center of the room, revealing a trap door to the root cellar. Something in the loft crashed, and a shower of sparks rained down around them. Marcus threw himself over the older woman to protect her.

"We'll die down there," Marcus grated, shaking his head. "We'd be overcome by the heat and smoke."

"Better down there than up here," Nonna said, her voice choked from smoke and emotion. Her home of over thirty years was burning down around her as she watched. She summoned the pinkish-peachy gold glow of healing magic and suffused them both with it. Marcus suddenly felt quite a bit better, and Clarice's burns healed in front of his eyes.

Throwing back the cellar hatch, the Breton nurse preceded him down the ladder, and he followed as quickly as he could. He hadn't quite closed the hatch when something heavy thudded against it, slamming it shut. The force made him miss a step on the ladder, and he fumbled his way the last few feet to the floor.

"There's no getting out that way," he muttered. "We'll have to wait for someone to rescue us."

"No one will be looking for us," Clarice replied, shaking her head. "That fire was set deliberately. I'd stake my last bottle of Cyrodiilic Brandy on it."

"Was that upstairs?" he inquired, mustering a smile.

Her face fell. "Yes," she said sadly. "It was. Anyway, we're not dead yet, and I still have a trick or two up my sleeve."

She fired off a Candlelight spell and led him a short distance around a pile of miscellaneous clutter in the center of the small root cellar to a bookcase against the stone foundation. Over their heads, the rest of the cottage seemed to be caving in. Loud, resounding 'booms' could be heard thudding against the floor. Looking up, Marcus noticed the ceiling was made of stone, an underlayer to the wooden one above it, now being engulfed by the fire. They would have a few more minutes before the heat began to bake them like an oven.

Nonna reached above to the top shelf of the unit and fumbled for something, tsk-ing in frustration.

"That's the problem with tall shelves and short women," she groused.

"Let me," Marcus offered. He peered above the top shelf and found the switch Nonna was feeling for, and pressed it. The shelf slid silently to one side, revealing an opening.

"Did this come with the house?" Marcus marveled, in spite of their situation.

"No," Nonna replied. "I had it installed years ago. I needed a way out, if it became necessary."

There was something in the way she spoke that made Marcus think there was more to her than met the eye. The level of caution she had taken over the years belied a fear of the Emperor or House Montrose finding out her location.

They stepped into the tunnel behind the bookshelf, which slid back to hide the entrance once they were through. Nonna squeezed around Marcus to lead the way down the hewn passage as it twisted and turned, and sloped ever so gently downhill.

The noise and smoke from Nonna's house faded as they continued, but neither spoke much as they hurried along.

"Where does this come out?" Marcus finally asked.

"Somewhere north of the city," Nonna replied. "We have to pass through a section of the sewers. Rats will be the least of our worries."

The Dragonborn considered this. "There's something else down here?" he queried.

"I haven't been down here in a long time, Marcus," Nonna said, "but the last time I escaped Wayrest, it was during the Corsair invasion, seventeen years ago. Master Dante and I had to come through here. Part of the sewers are close to the cemetery. There were ghouls, then." Her face was grim, in the pale light of her spell.

Marcus said nothing, but sent out his Aura Whisper ahead of them. Only vermin showed up, too far away to be a threat.

"What did you say?" Nonna asked.

"Just checking the wildlife," he muttered.

Moving quickly was difficult. The tunnel was only about five feet tall and three feet wide. Marcus had to continually crouch as they moved along. Even Clarice, as small as she was, still had to keep her head low, in order not to bang it against the ceiling. Every time her spell faded, Nonna fired off another Candlelight.

They had been creeping along for almost half an hour when the old Breton woman stopped.

"Problem?" Marcus asked softly.

Nonna shook her head, settling herself down on the packed earth. "I just need to catch my breath," she said. "I'm not as young as I was when I last came through here." Marcus nodded and seated himself across from her.

A steady dripping sound came from somewhere up ahead, along with a strong whiff of methane.

"The sewers must be close," Marcus remarked, and the old woman nodded.

"It won't be pleasant," she observed.

"I've been in worse places," Marcus assured her. "If something comes at us, though, I repeat my previous directive: stay behind me."

"I can handle myself, young man," Clarice frowned.

"I'm sure of it," he concurred, "but if I have to use one of my Shouts, I don't want to catch you in it."

Nonna's eyes widened and she closed her mouth. "Oh," she finally said. "Well, that makes sense, then." She was silent for a moment, then added, "Thank you, by the way, for saving my life, young Marcus."

"I'm glad I woke up in time," he said lightly, "or we both might have died."

Marcus noticed that Clarice was shivering, but whether from the dampness of the tunnel or reaction to their narrow escape, he couldn't tell.

"I can only assume it must have been someone from House Montrose," Clarice mused. "I never thought they'd stoop to arson to silence a witness."

"I'm sorry my inquiries led them to you," Marcus apologized humbly. "I never intended for anyone to get hurt."

"Oh, don't feel so bad, Marcus," Nonna soothed. "I'm surprised I got away with it as long as I did. I always figured that someone, someday, would catch up to me."

It was a cryptic remark to make, Marcus thought, and the wheels in his head were beginning to turn, and put the clues together. "How is it that you escaped detection all these years, then?" Marcus asked lightly. "I mean, that's pretty impressive, hiding in plain sight like that."

"Time changes you," she shrugged. "I'm not as young now as I was then. I look different now. And while I hid, a few disguises, a few illusion spells, were all I really needed to throw them off my trail. My enemies might have had wealth and power, but I had guile and intelligence."

"You're more than just a wet nurse, aren't you?" Marcus asked shrewdly.

Clarice grinned. "It took you this long to figure it out?" she chuckled, this time in genuine delight. But the amusement was short-lived, as she soon sobered.

"I grew up in Storm Talon Temple," she admitted. "It was the Stronghold of the Blades here in High Rock. My mother and father were Blades. So was I, when I came of age."

Marcus nodded in comprehension, and murmured, "That makes a lot of sense now, actually."

Nonna made a sound of agreement. "It should. The Temple was my home for many years. Its location is a closely-guarded secret, even today. The Thalmor never found it."

"That's not what I read in The Rise and Fall of the Blades," Marcus countered. "The author said the Thalmor found all of the Blades' Strongholds. It even says your Temple is east of here."

"They found what we allowed them to find," Clarice replied, shaking her head. "Most of us were…are…Bretons, and we are very good at magic. When we saw what the Dominion was doing, leading up to the Great War, we pulled out of our Temple and went underground. We hid the entrances with the strongest magicks we knew. We even called upon some of the Old Magic, which several of our members could tap into." She met Marcus' eyes steadily. "I can't speak for the other Blades across Tamriel, but they never conquered us. They only thought they did."

Marcus felt a thrill deep inside. It gave him hope that the Alliance could still defeat the Dominion, knowing there was an entire Temple of Blades that might be persuaded to help.

"When I was eighteen," Clarice continued, "I accompanied my parents to Cyrodiil, to the Imperial City. They had a special assignment for me. I was to become the bodyguard to the Princess Lucinda, who at the time was three years my junior. The Princess chafed at the restrictions laid upon her by her position. But her father, the Emperor, refused to allow her to go anywhere in the city without a contingent of guards along for the ride." She sighed. "We…didn't get along at first. The Princess was…very headstrong, and insisted on having things her way."

She paused for a moment in her narrative, and stared into the darkness, seeing back into the shadows of the past. "One day, while we were out riding, bandits sprang upon us in surprise, killing the two Penitus Occulatus guards with us. I'm sure they thought I was a mere lady-in-waiting, which was what we all wanted people to think. When the bandits attempted to pull the Princess off her horse, I rode him down with mine. Blaze was a trained war horse, and knew exactly what to do. When I leaped off his back to deal with the immediate threat, he charged the two hiding among the bushes along the side of the road, aiming at me with their bows. I made short work of the two who had stepped out to confront us. Blaze made short work of the other two."

"I wish I could have seen that!" Marcus exclaimed.

Nonna smiled. "That was over thirty years ago. I doubt you were even alive then. Anyway, after that, the Princess trusted me implicitly. We became fast friends, but I never forgot my place or my duty: to protect her. I failed, at the end."

"You didn't fail," Marcus felt obliged to point out. "You couldn't stop her from falling in love with someone she couldn't have."

Nonna shrugged. "No, I suppose not. And though I had had many years of training in Restoration magic, I couldn't save her from dying during childbirth."

"Again, that's not your fault," Marcus insisted. "There are a lot of things that could have complicated her ordeal. Maybe she had high blood pressure, or a different blood type from her son. She might have had an infection, or a pulmonary embolism. Anything could have happened."

Nonna stared at him. "Are you also a Healer? Most people wouldn't know of those sorts of complications."

"Um…no…" Marcus fumbled. Damn it! Once again, he had gotten carried away with his knowledge of another, more technologically-oriented world than Tamriel. It was too easy to forget he hadn't been born here. "My wife…uh…she's very good at Restoration, and…um…she's helped bring several babies into the world," he finished lamely.

The old Breton nurse eyed him warily. "If you say so," she replied, guardedly. "We should get moving." She struggled to her feet, but Marcus was already up, extending his hand. She took it gratefully and smiled, patting his hand. "Thank you again, young Dragonborn," she beamed.

In a few minutes, they were on the move once more. He sent out his Aura Whisper again, and this time several larger blobs of red emerged.

"We've got company ahead," he told her. "A half dozen or so man-sized figures in a group, headed this way, single file, somewhere up ahead and to our left."

"Probably ghouls, if we're lucky," Nonna whispered.

"And if we're not?" he asked quietly.

"Could be necromancers," she offered, flexing her fingers. "Oh, I wish I could have saved my staff! How far away do you make them out to be?" It was a testament to her faith in him, he thought, that she didn't ask how he knew they were there.

"Hard to say, if the tunnels twist and turn," he replied. "I don't know the layout under here, but probably a hundred yards or so."

Nonna nodded. "There's a central chamber just up ahead, about twenty feet or so, around the corner to our left. If they're where I think they are, their tunnel will open into it like this one does. That's the best place to confront them, if they're hostile."

"Do you generally run into things in sewers that aren't hostile?" he smirked.

Clarice chuckled. "Not in my experience," she admitted. "One last thing: don't use fire down here. That would be very bad."

Marcus had already decided against that option. The methane was strong here, making his eyes sting. Fire would result in a conflagration neither of them wanted.

The open chamber they entered had a criss-cross of stone bridges over the main channel that sent effluence out from the city into the Iliac Bay. A perimeter walkway encircled the chamber, with five other tunnels besides theirs opening into the sewer main. The stench here was nauseating, but neither the Dragonborn nor the old Blade wanted an enemy behind them. They saw an old barrel against the wall, and Clarice took up her position behind it, while Marcus remained in the center of the cistern.

In a few moments, the shapes shambled into the room. They might have been human once. It was hard to say. Rotted flesh hung from their frames, but their eyes burned an eerie green. Their mouths were slack, open maws with sharp teeth, and they gibbered excitedly to each other. They had no noses, but slits instead, which still quivered as they bobbed their heads, searching for the scent of living flesh. Their upper torsos were muscled and sinewy, in spite of the fact they had been long dead. Their elongated hands ended in grasping claws, encrusted with refuse and excrement, and Marcus made a mental note to himself not to get scratched, if he could help it. They looked like shambling disease-carriers, if he had ever seen one.

Behind them, still lurking in the tunnel from which they'd emerged, was another, shadowy figure. It was too dark, however, to make out any details.

Remembering Nonna's advice against fire, he opted for frost instead, as he drew Dragonbane and an ebony dagger.

"FO KRAH DIIN!" he bellowed as they spilled into the chamber. The thu'um hit the first two or three as they rushed towards him, and they shuddered and fell off the stone bridge that led up to him. With horror, Marcus realized it hadn't stopped them. Indeed, they seemed to be moving at a faster pace! The creatures scrambled to the side of the cistern with horrific speed and rushed towards him again.

"I forgot about that!" Clarice called apologetically. "Cold spells make them move faster."

"Thanks for telling me!" Marcus snapped irritably. He launched into his familiar two-weapon style of fighting, with Dragonbane in his right hand, and the dagger in his left. The next ghoul who came at him was sliced nearly in two, and toppled into the effluence below. From the corner of his eye he saw the last two head towards Nonna, but he couldn't help her, because the three he had attempted to freeze were coming at him from three different directions.

Slashing to his right, he caught the first one across the chest, but it didn't stop the creature. The ghoul coming up behind him grabbed the pauldrons on his armor and attempted to drag him backwards. Marcus tucked and flipped forward, sending the ghoul over his head and into the one coming up from ahead.

The one on his right lashed out, and Marcus leaned to the left to avoid the hit, teetering dangerously on the edge of the stone bridge. He used the momentum of the almost-fall to jump to the cross-bridge and turned to face the ghoul, putting himself between it and Clarice. He now had one facing him, and two scrambling to their feet to his left.

A flash and a bang from behind told him Nonna was using lightning against the two coming at her.

"Isn't that just as dangerous as flame?" he yelled back to her.

"Not if you use it properly," was her prim answer. "Besides, I don't have any other weapons to use! We left in rather a hurry." Another flash, and a whiff of ozone, and Marcus heard her mutter with satisfaction, "That takes care of you two!"

From the tunnel opposite them, a voice called out something in a language neither understood, and the bodies of the two Clarice had taken out rose from the cistern and shambled to the edge of the walkway, pulling themselves up.

A moment to one side caught Marcus' eye as he prepared to face the ghouls still lumbering towards him. A figure cloaked in darkness emerged from a portal that had not been there a moment ago.

"Necromancer!" Clarice called out. "I'll take care of them. You handle the ghouls!" She dodged one of the undead creatures that had made a grab for her and headed towards the tunnel where the shadowy figure lurked.

We need help, Marcus thought. We're getting outnumbered. Taking a deep breath, he bellowed, "Hun Kaal!"

The cistern reverberated with the warping sound of a portal opening, and a glowing, translucent figure in the leather and fur robes of a Greybeard stepped through.

"I answer the call of the Dragonborn," Felldir the Old announced. "How may I assist you, Marcus?"

"We've got undead," Marcus called. "Too many for Clarice and I. We need a hand."

Felldir chuckled. "I know how to handle undead," he grinned. Taking a stance, he began a series of complicated gestures as the ghouls, seeing a new target, shambled towards him. Speaking in a low, clear voice, Felldir recited a simple incantation and made a final gesture. The effect was as dramatic as it was satisfying. The ghouls closest to the Greybeard Hero vanished in a puff of noxious vapor. Those further away turned tail and ran back down the tunnel from which they had emerged.

"No!" a voice exclaimed in dismay. It was a female voice.

"I've got her!" Clarice called, chasing after retreating footsteps down the tunnel. Marcus wanted to go after the old Breton nurse – after all, she didn't even have a dagger to defend herself – but there was a more immediate danger here in this chamber.

I cannot be turned by your simple parlor tricks, old man, the shadowy figure across the cistern leered to Felldir. You will die as a tribute to my lord, Molag Bal.

"Crap!" Marcus bit out. "She summoned a demon?"

"He is not of this realm, Marcus," Felldir insisted. "He does not belong in Mundus. Kill him here, and his essence will be returned to Coldharbour."

You are welcome to try, puny mortals, the demon sneered. It opened its maw and roared out a vapor that left Marcus feeling as weak as a kitten. He dropped to his knees. Felldir remained standing, and put himself between the demon and the Dragonborn. He drew his greatsword, an ancient work of finest Nord craftsmanship, slung at his back. The demon's face twisted in surprise.

That blade…I know it, the beast grunted. But that is not possible. Coldfyre was lost ages ago!

"Lost, perhaps," Felldir admitted with a wicked grin, "but not destroyed. They say 'you can't take it with you.' They were wrong."

A shriek from down the tunnel told Marcus that Clarice had taken care of the necromancer who had summoned the demon and the undead – and he really wanted to hear that story later. The demon shuddered, but refused to give up its grip on the mortal plane. Lunging forward, it took a swipe at the figure of the old Greybeard, attempting to knock it off the stone bridge and into the wall of the cistern.

Felldir ducked and countered with a swipe from the greatsword, Coldfyre. Blue flames lit up along the length of the blade as it connected with the demon, who howled in pain.

Marcus felt the strength returning swiftly to his body and scrambled to his feet, raising Dragonbane once more. With Felldir in front of him he couldn't reach the demon to attack. Instead, he turned to the perimeter walkway around the edge of the room twenty feet away.

"Wuld!" he Shouted, and raced through the intervening space too fast to fall into the water below. Now he was behind the creature and saw Clarice emerging from the tunnel across the way. Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open.

The demon roared out another blast of its weakening vapor, and once more Felldir stood firm.

"By all means, yell all you want," he invited calmly. "I am not of this realm. You cannot affect me."

But I can hurt these others, the demon smiled cruelly. Its next word was one none in the room could interpret, as it was in a language none of them knew. Searing pain lanced through Marcus, and he saw Clarice fall to the floor, writhing in agony. It felt as though every cell in his body was on fire, and it hurt to breathe.

Felldir lashed out again with Coldfyre, and again the demon screamed. No blood spurted forth from its wounds, no ichor dripped onto the flagstones, but the pain Marcus and Clarice felt lessened somewhat. It was enough for the Dragonborn to raise his Akaviri blade and plunge it into the demon's back. Screeching horribly, with a sound like tearing metal, the demon whirled around and slammed Marcus against the wall, pinning him there.

I will devour you first! it vowed.

"I don't think so," Clarice said, standing unsteadily, using the wall for support. She held up a crystal in her hand. "Recognize this?"

NO! the creature bellowed, whipping around to face her. It let Marcus drop to the floor. MY PHYLACTERY!

"Oh, yes," the old Breton woman said smugly. As the demon lunged across the cistern towards her, she let it fall to the stone walkway and crushed it under her boot. With a blood-curdling howl, the demon was sucked into a vortex that appeared above its head, then vanished as the doorway to Oblivion winked out of existence. Silence descended upon the sewers once more, except for the steady dripping of water from somewhere.

Marcus blew out a breath. "Holy crap!" he muttered. "Uh…sorry for the language, Clarice."

"Quite understandable, Marcus," she laughed shakily. "Who's your friend? Where did he come from?"

"I am called Felldir, the Old, my lady," the old Greybeard bowed. "The Dragonborn summoned me to aid him, and I have done so. I will return now to Sovngarde, where I will regale the others with this heroic deed. We will sing your praises until we see you again. Farewell!"

With that, the ancient First Tongue bowed again and faded away.

"You keep some interesting friends," Clarice observed.

"You don't know the half of it," Marcus chuckled. "But at least we took out a necromancer that won't trouble the people of Wayrest any longer. I'm glad to have you at my back."

"You're not so bad yourself," she approved, a twinkle in her bright blue eyes. "There's certainly more to you than meets the eye, young Dragonborn."

He noticed the Daedric dagger she now sported at her belt and raised an eyebrow. Nonna shrugged.

"That foolish necromancer back there didn't know how to keep herself from being disarmed," she grinned. "Luckily for me!"

"I really want to hear that story," Marcus chuckled.

"Later," the old woman admonished. "Let's get out of here first."

"I'm with you on that," the Dragonborn agreed. "Which way from here?"

The old woman paused to get her bearings. "That way," she said finally, pointing to a tunnel that disappeared off to the right. "It should take us out under the city wall, towards the Bay. I only hope whoever set my house on fire doesn't have anyone watching the sewer exits, or you may need to use that Akaviri blade of yours again."

They traveled in an irregular path, following the tunnel as it twisted and turned under the streets of Wayrest, until at last, Nonna raised her hand and crouched. Marcus followed suit.

"Just around the next turn is an iron grate, set into the city wall," she whispered. "It's overgrown, now, with scrub bushes, so I don't believe it can be seen from the road. But it is very close to the road. If the sun has come up, we may have to sit out the day and wait. Too many people and too many guards will be hovering near the postern gate."

"I came into Wayrest through that gate," Marcus murmured.

"Then you know how busy it can get," she nodded. "If the sun isn't up yet, we may be lucky enough to slip away unseen. Can you do magic?"

Marcus shook his head. "Not well, I'm afraid."

"Well, it can't be helped, I'm afraid," Nonna tsk'd, disappointed. "Let's just keep our heads down and hope no one heard that commotion down here."

They moved forward, closer to the bend in the tunnel. The iron grate was only a few yards ahead, and to their relief, it was still dark beyond it. A faint glow from the lanterns by the gate made it as far as their position, but it was barely enough to notice.

Nonna made a few passes with her hands and released the power within her. A grating, shifting creak of rusty iron moving against itself was briefly heard, as her magic opened the corroded lock, but the sounds of the waves hitting the shore not far away covered the scraping of metal against stone as Marcus pushed the gate open, then closed it behind them.

They kept to the shadows of the trees and bushes, and skirted the perimeter of merchants camping outside the gate. By the time the sun crested over the eastern horizon, they were well away from the city of Wayrest. Nonna turned only once to look back at the place that had been her home for so long. A thin smudge of smoke from the poorer section of town rose lazily into the morning air. She sighed and turned back to the Dragonborn.

"Shall I take you back to Markarth?" Marcus asked. "You'd be safe there."

"No," said the old nurse, making up her mind. "I think I need to take you to some friends of mine, who I'm sure would like very much to meet the person they have sworn to serve and protect all these centuries."

"You mean-?"

Nonna met his eager gaze and smiled. "I'm taking you to Storm Talon Temple."


Dante had to admit that, as a traveling companion, Cyrus was better than most. The Redguard was comfortable with silence, and didn't feel the need to fill every moment with chatter. They left Hegathe early in the morning, after only a few hours of sleep, and were well on their way to Sentinel by the time the sun began baking the countryside around them.

"We will keep to the road," Cyrus informed him. "It follows the coast, and is safer than trying to cross the Alik'r Desert. It will add a couple of days to our journey, however, but there will be towns along the way where we can stop to rest and resupply. We would not have that in the desert."

"And you're certain this lightweight leather armor will protect me if something attacks us along the way?" Dante asked. He felt exposed without his Nightingale armor, bundled in his pack, and he missed their special enchantments.

"It will protect you well enough," Cyrus shrugged. "It is specially-made by Redguard armorers, who know the hazards of the heat. The cloth panels will allow your body to breathe, and the wind to cool you. It has enough hardened leather to protect you - if you don't provoke a fight with a salamander, that is."

"Is that a possibility?" Dante inquired, lifting an eyebrow. Salamanders, he knew, were similar to the chaurus found in Skyrim, or the siligonders in Elsweyr, except they spewed out a gout of liquid that clung to their victims and ignited into flames upon contact with air. They were feared by many nomadic tribes, and avoided wherever possible.

Cyrus shook his head. "Not along the road," he replied with a slight smile. "They can usually only be found in the desert. Another reason to avoid cutting across it."

They made it as far as Dragon Grove before evening fell, encountering only merchants and other travelers along the way. At one point, a patrol of soldiers with the sigil of the Crown emblazoned on their shields approached, but Cyrus wound his keffiyeh close around his face – he had set aside his helmet for this journey – and kept his head down. The soldiers barely gave them a glance as they waited along the side of the road for the patrol to pass.

"Problem?" Dante murmured.

"I am a wanted man," Cyrus reminded him. "My face may still be known to some. It was why I wore the helmet, but it is too hot to endure it today."

Once the soldiers had gone, they resumed their journey without further interruptions.

Dragon Grove was a smaller town, fortified with a timber-reinforced stone wall. Many of the homes here were also wood and stone construction, with the townspeople making good use of the acacia forest that surrounded the city on three sides. Backed up against the mountains to the east, which separated the city from the Alik'r Desert, Dragon Grove was Crown-held, and its presence was everywhere, represented by the number of soldiers that roamed the streets and the banners that flew from the spires of the buildings.

"We shouldn't stay here long," Cyrus muttered. "Let us find a place to sleep, and be on our way at first light." The man was as tense as a viper ready to strike, and Dante merely nodded, pointing to a nearby sign that indicated an inn.

They obtained the only room left and Dante turned to the common room, intending to get a meal before retiring for the night. Cyrus balked.

"I do not wish to reveal my face here," he hissed.

"Then go to the room," Dante shrugged. "We've got some trail rations there. I'm hungry, and I'm not a wanted man – at least, not here, anyway. I intend to have supper." With that, he turned and left Cyrus to make up his mind on his own.

Fuming for several heartbeats, Cyrus was of a mind to do as Dante suggested, but the spicy aroma of musakhan wafted through the air, and his stomach gurgled. Scowling, he tugged his keffiyeh closer over his face and followed the Breton Guildmaster to the common room.

Later that evening, the two men returned to their room.

"See?" Dante pointed out. "I think you're being unnecessarily paranoid. We had a quiet dinner, good food, and no one noticed us."

"I wouldn't be so certain of that," Cyrus said glumly.

"I would be," the Guildmaster asserted firmly. "I was watching the room. I watched the shadows. I listened to the conversations around us because you are the best kind of dinner companion who doesn't feel the need to talk. No one paid us any attention."

"I think I will take that as the compliment you intended it to be," Cyrus smiled wryly. "And perhaps I am overreacting. But it's that caution that has kept me alive these past six years."

"How can you be so certain you're still being hunted?" Dante asked. "Six years is a long time in the political world. I know."

"We Redguards have long memories," the younger man shrugged. "And Prince Azanir was well known – a war hero. People will remember."

"Who inherited his lands and title?" Dante asked.

"A daughter of the family," Cyrus said. "His cousin, the Princess Nazreen. She was not even born when the Great War raged."

"Young, then," Dante nodded. "Who is the regent? I assume there must be a regent?"

"She has advisors," Cyrus shrugged, "but there is no regent. Princess Nazreen rules her House and her lands herself. She is not yet twenty years of age. Why? What are you thinking?"

Dante turned this over in his mind. Perhaps there might be a way to infiltrate House Tasa through becoming acquainted with Princess Nazreen. The problem was what to do with Cyrus while he did so. The young man, so eager to clear his name, was an albatross around his neck at the moment.

"Nothing, at the moment," he finally said. "Let's sleep on it tonight and get an early start tomorrow. We still have a long way to go, if your map is correct."

"It is," Cyrus said. "Whatever you plan to do, I insist you let me know as soon as you formulate it."

"Oh, trust me," Dante smiled. "You'll be the first to know."

Satisfied, Cyrus rolled over to face the wall and let Dante snuff out the oil lamp. In the darkness, the Grey Fox lay back against his pillow and smiled again. Had his associates in the Thieves' Guild been there to see that smile, they would have known to head somewhere else and pretend to be busy. Cyrus drifted to sleep in blissful ignorance.


Drelan Suvaris took a deep breath to steady his nerves. Feeling decidedly out of his league, he shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other outside the Council Chamber in the High Tower of Baan Malur. The Council of Great Houses had agreed to his petition for a hearing as a representative of his Imperial Majesty Titus Mede the Second, and he couldn't remember feeling this nervous in all his long life.

How did I get here? he wondered. What am I doing? I'm a simple thief and forger. I'm not cut out for politics like this!

And yet, here he was, carrying a letter of introduction to the Council as an ambassador of the Imperial Court, with the intention and purpose of initiating a trade agreement – one he himself had proposed to Titus Mede, knowing the old Emperor would turn it down.

"I'm a horrible liar," he confessed to the old Imperial, when he and Beor and Asha had been outed as not being who they claimed to be.

"Oh, no, I disagree," Titus Mede chortled. "You're a very good liar. Except now you're going to do it for me."

The proposal he had presented initially to the Emperor – mining rights in exchange for financial and military support – had been modified slightly in the Empire's favor, but tempting enough to make the Council of Great Houses sit up and take notice. It was the first attempt any could remember of the Empire extending a peace offering to Morrowind to apologize for the lack of support during the Oblivion Crisis. Though that had happened long before Titus Mede had been born, he knew this was a sore spot for the long-lived race of Dunmer, some of whom would still remember the horror of that time. All Drelan had to do was sell the idea. It was the first step on bringing the Empire back together.

This has to work, he thought, more worried than he could remember being. The Dominion wants us divided. We need to stand together. If we face them together, we can't fail!

"Master Suvaris," the Chamberlain announced. "The Council will see you now."


[Author's Note: First of all, I would like to say "kudos" to msyendor for figuring out Clarice's past before I announced it. Can't put anything over on you, can I? *grin* Next, thank you all for your patience, loyalty and support. I've had a few troll reviews lately, but I refuse to change my writing style for them. Finally, the next chapter should wrap up this flash-back, and we will be moving up to the "current" time, following Marcus and Tamsyn's adventures in Apocrypha, from "Into the Ashes." The second part of "Into the Light" is titled "For the Glory of the Empire," and will feature the last Great War against the Dominion. With any luck, I'll have finished it BEFORE Bethesda releases TES VI. Keep your fingers crossed!]