Chapter 9

Vahrukt Do Faal Konahrik

"Memory of the Warlord"

The door swung closed behind them, unhindered. Once the heavy palace doors slammed shut, the howls of the Cold Army fell into silence. No doubt the twisted creatures outside stood waiting for them, but for now the group was safe. Breathing a quick sigh of relief, the team took a look at their surroundings.

The entry hall of the palace was huge, and the room was beautiful. The hall was dominated by a massive dual staircase leading to an upper balcony leading to somewhere out of sight. The floor and walls were jet black stone, slick like marble. Through the black, however, there was a faint blue light, making the whole room seem to glow. From above, a grand chandelier adorned with perpetual Candlelights cast a white glow about the room, throwing Bjorn's shadow far behind him. Bjorn felt the hair on his arms stand on end, and the tingle of magicka hung in the air like mist. Around the room were large, intricate statues of ancient Nedes in heroic poses, monuments to warriors of the past, carved from the same black stone as the rest of the room. The shimmering blue glow accented their features, and each statue was painstakingly detailed. Cradled by the staircase was the largest statue, a massive tribute to Talos of Atmora, nearly fifteen feet high, with his sword raised to strike. Bjorn noticed, however, that from the knee down, the statue was incomplete, the unchiseled hunk of rock concealing the rest of the body. Bjorn eyed the statue with only one thought in his mind. What had happened here that ceased the construction of the monument?

The group moved towards the staircase when the clatter of footsteps echoed from the upper balcony. Drenyir readied his bow, the arrow trained at the balcony, waiting for whoever was coming to fall into his sights. Bjorn watched Drenyir intensely. A sword would do nothing at this distance.

"Welcome friends, to Khartagyllum."

The raspy voice hardly carried, the words withered with age. To the edge of the balcony hobbled an old man, resting his weight on a beautiful crystal staff. A long grey beard hung down to his knees, and he spoke with a smile. He looked no taller than Mariah, who, to Bjorn, was already short as it was.

The man gestured for the group to come up the stairs and join him. "I mean you no harm," he reassured, turning back down the hallway, "I am old and withered. But I assure you, my hospitality will be far better than that of D'nari..."

The group exchanged worried looks, but Bjorn led them on. "Look at the man," he defended, gesturing up at the balcony as they walked, "he's withered. Ancient. I hardly think he could be dangerous."

Drenyir scoffed, slinging his bow back over his shoulder. "You heard it. The Shout that caused the winds outside. I haven't seen anyone else 'ere. If this elder has mastered the Thu'um, he's very dangerous indeed."

Weapons sheathed, the group ascended the stairs, quickly catching up to the shambling elder. As they got closer, Bjorn could make out more of his features. He walked with a noticeable slouch, much of his gait reliant on his staff, which he gripped tightly with both hands. The beard he sported was long and a little frazzled, but ultimately well kept. It was knotted in several places, similar in fashion to elder Nords back in Tamriel. It was straight grey with a few streaks of snow white. Much to Bjorn's relief, the blue hue that D'nari had was absent from the facial hair. His robes appeared to be decorative, clothing one might see on royalty, but it had begun to deteriorate with age.

Struggling to keep pace with the old man, careful not to outstep him, the group looked about the hallway. Unlike the entry hall, the passage was mostly unadorned, stretching high into the air with a ribbed, vaulted ceiling, like the grand hall at Dragonsreach. They passed many doors branching into different areas of the palace, but all of them were sealed tight. The end of the passage was dominated by a large, ornate door, and in the center was a massive lock, constructed of steel and crystal. The old man approached the door and struggled to raise his staff.

"Excuse me a moment," he said politely, pressing the staff into the keyhole. "With the Cold Army running amok, you can't be too careful around here!"

The lock clicked loudly and the door swung open, revealing a gorgeous throne room. A grand stone table commanded the center of the room, perpetual Candlelights glittering. Past the table was the throne, which was carved from black stone and accented with silver and crystal. It reminded Bjorn of the throne room in Windhelm: ancient in appearance, but it still served the purpose of being intimidating enough. The old man shuffled across the room, beckoning the group inside. He climbed onto the throne and gestured for the three to take a seat at the grand table. The three sat and faced the man, who settled in to his seat, resting his hands on the head of the staff. He grinned widely, and his old blue eyes sparkled with happiness.

"As pleased as I am that you have come, tradition dictates the elder speaks first."

He cleared his throat, as if ready to make his voice boom through the chamber. What he said next resonated weakly, however, as if it was purely casual conversation. "I am King Ynullum. Supreme Ruler of Atmora."

Mariah gasped, clasping her hands to her mouth, speechless. Drenyir leaned forward, mouth agape. "By the Eight..." he muttered, eyes wide with surprise.

Bjorn jumped to his feet, ready to bombard the elder with questions, but Ynullum raised his hand gently, motioning Bjorn to sit.

"Now now, I'm sure you all have many questions. And we will get to those. But for now, I am more interested in you three." He laughed heartily, the smile never leaving his face. "Now, under what circumstances does a Mer-kind, a Nord, and a..." he stumbled over Mariah, twirling his hand as he searched for the right words. "Slightly shorter, brown-haired Nord, come to the cursed Land of Snow?"

Bjorn, this time still sitting, took to answering his question. "We are all that remains of an expedition sent from the College of Winterhold, a magic institution nestled in the northern hold of Skyrim. We came purely for the advancement of knowledge, but our Elven leader had different plans... she died by the Cold Army's hand back in Jylkurfyk." He sighed, unsure of what to say next. "After the death of our group members, and turning back not an option, we decided to continue to Khartagyllum, hoping to find some refuge from the elements."

Ynullum nodded, soaking in the information. "And what did you hope to find here?"

"Truthfully, we came searching of answers. It has long been a mystery of why the Nedes abandoned Atmora and made for Tamriel. We hoped to find out why from the archives in Jylkurfyk and from here." He chuckled to himself. "We didn't expect to find anything.. alive here."

Ynullum shifted in his seat, still nodding. "I see, I see. So before I turn the interrogation over to you three, I must ask you something." The King's old finger pointed to Bjorn, who rose slowly. "I feel as if you would know better than the others, Ancient-Blood. How has the settling of Skyrim gone? I know it has been a long time since your bloodline landed on the distant shores. Isn't that right, child of Ysgramor?"

The eyes of Drenyir and Mariah fell on Bjorn, astonished. Bjorn shifted uncomfortably, glancing at his companions. He sighed as he tried to put his thoughts into words.

"What's he on about, Bjorn?" Drenyir asked, the look on his face getting more and more quizzical with each passing moment.

"Yes, Bjorn," Mariah prompted, "what have you been keeping from us?"

Bjorn turned away from Ynullum to address his friends.

"What he says is true," he began, his eyes closed, harboring shame. "I am of the Ysgramor bloodline. Mariah, you know the story of Yngol and the Sea of Ghosts? As it turns out, Yngol was never killed by the spirits, rather he was frozen in time, locked in his tomb until only a few centuries ago. He was father to my grandfather, and I carry the blood of our most ancient ancestors."

Bjorn's eyes opened again, and when he spoke his words were a little colder, as if he was angered by the sudden reveal. "Does this change anything? Anything about what we're doing here? No, it doesn't. I came here for answers, whether it be my own or information for the good of all Skyrim. All of Tamriel. The blood I carry doesn't alter our quest. This will only be a footnote when..." he stopped, correcting himself, "if... our story makes it to the history books."

Despite Bjorn's rising temper, Mariah retained a soothing voice. "Bjorn, you could've told us. We trust you to do the right thing. We always have."

Drenyir nodded affirmatively. "She's right, Bjorn. We're all friends here. We stick together. We're a team."

Ynullum watched the whole conversation from atop his throne, his eyes following the speaker. He laughed quietly, still smiling, and addressed Bjorn again.

"Like I was saying, Ancient-Blood, how is the settlement in Skyrim? Saarthal, I believe is what they were going to call it."

Bjorn turned back to the king. "It has been... centuries since the first settlements, my King. Saarthal is nothing but... ruins now, abandoned by our ancestors. But Skyrim, all of Tamriel, is like nothing you would believe. Our people have spread far, and we have encountered new people, such as the Dunmer and the Khajiit. And our people have changed, from Nedes to the magically astute Breton to the noble Imperial. Talos of Atmora, as you knew him, became Tiber Septim, first unifier of Tamriel, and the founder of the First Empire. The voyage of Ysgramor has done so much for the advancements of Men, for the very history of Tamirel, that you can only consider the colonization by the 500 Companions to be a success."

Ynullum nodded, satisfied. "Very well, Ancient-Blood. I will now turn the questions over to you."

Drenyir raised the first question. "I'm partial to knowing who was tryin' to kill us. Who is this D'nari guy?"

Ynullum thought for a moment, and then spoke. "D'nari was high priest of the Cult of the Dragon. You saw him on the way in. The entombed dragon was once our god, that much is true. When the curse befell our lands, those who followed Drogdoiiz became the twisted race you know as the Cold Army. Gifted with immortality for his service to the Lord of Ice, D'nari unified the nomadic tribes of cultists and established the Army. For millennia he has been trying to awaken Drogdoiiz, in hopes that he will usher in a new era of power for his followers. He is obsessed with the prophecy that only those of pure blood, not corrupted with the Lord's curse, will awaken Drogdoiiz, which is why he wanted you three so badly."

Mariah was next to ask. "What happened to the continent? How did it deteriorate so rapidly?"

Ynullum's smile faded and his eyes seemed fixed at the far end of the room, deep in thought. "The curse that Drogdoiiz unleashed was meant to kill everyone but his devout followers. The Lord of Ice commanded an unrelenting snow to fall across the land, killing our crops and burying our roads. Anyone outside of the capitol, unfortunately, was flash-frozen, as the call of Drogdoiiz was powerful indeed. After hundreds of years of constant snowfall, the land grew inhospitable. It was only right that Ysgramor and eventually Talos left the homeland. They would've died here otherwise. The Cold Army exist in a perpetual state of living. They require little sustenance; the meat they eat comes from a wild species of oxen that roam the plains. The curse altered the animals, keeping some alive, adapted to an ever deteriorating world."

"I have another question, if you will allow it. The tablet in the Antechamber told of a hero stopping Drogdoiiz. Can you talk about that?"

Warmth seemed to return to Ynullum's face. "Yes yes... the Champion of Atmora. His... his names seems to escape me at the moment. It has been many years... but I digress. After years of Drogdoiiz's tyranny, the unthinkable happened. While myself and the Champion coordinated the rebellion, we were approached by a terrific apparition. The phantom spoke, saying he was Akatosh, Lord of Time and father to Drogdoiiz. He said the Dark Child needed to be banished from the world, and commanded the Champion to do it. From a dark void rose a shining suit of armor, crafted from the scales of Akatosh, and a sword, which he claimed was crafted from his horn. The Champion donned the armor and took the sword and battled Drogdoiiz in the antechamber. When Drogdoiiz unleashed his Thu'um, the armor returned the Shout to the Lord of Ice, trapping him inside a prison of Everfrost, a magical ice that will never melt, and never breaks. As he froze, Drogdoiiz unleashed the curse, and the Champion of Atmora vanished. All that remained was the armor and his blade, but it was an empty husk. The man, my greatest general, had disappeared. The Spirit of Akatosh came to me once more after the Champion's disappearance. He expressed joy that the Dark Child had been entombed, but informed me that the curse would not be lifted until the heart of the dragon was silenced by the Champion's blade."

Bjorn's eyes narrowed as he stood to ask his question. "This was over a millenia ago... how old are you Ynullum?"

Ynullum's grin grew and he flashed a mischievous smile. "Come with me. I will explain in a moment."

The King hobbled down from his throne and beckoned the group to follow him. At the far end of the room to the right of the throne sat another large door. A vibrant blue light glowed between the cracks and Bjorn felt his hairs raise. Whatever was behind that door held immense power. The King pushed open the door and stepped inside. Blinded by the light, Bjorn stumbled forward. When his eyes adjusted, he found that Mariah had fainted, knocked out by the intense power. Drenyir and Bjorn helped her to her feet, and while awakening from the daze she muttered two words: "...Magnus... Impossible." When Bjorn looked into the room, his jaw dropped.

Within the chamber sat what appeared to be an Eye of Magnus, something he had only read about in the most ancient tomes. The King raised his arms, bringing attention to the grandeur of the magical artifact. He turned to the group, resting on his staff.

"This, friends, is the Heart of Atmora. We had one delivered to Saarthal as well; the only two in existence. It was meant primarily as a means of communication, but we never received any messages from the colony. Alone, however, it is the single most powerful magic artifact on the planet. From it, all Nedes and Nords draw their magical power. This is what I have been using so desperately during this terrible time."

Bjorn allowed Mariah to prop herself up on his shoulder. "You never answered Bjorn's question," she said, still in awe of the Heart, "how old are you?"

Ynullum laughed. "Don't you know it's impolite to ask a man his age? I don't mind, really. I am 1763 years old, and I have been Supreme Ruler of Atmora all those years."

"How is that possible?"

"You see, my dear Mariah, this staff I carry is not only a walking stick, but a way to access the innermost rings of magicka within the Heart. For millennia, I have been drawing power from this unlimited pool of magicka to sustain myself. My age has brought me much knowledge, but my position is one of great sorrow. I am alone here in the Palace. I need not eat, nor drink, nor breathe if I felt so inclined to stop. The Heart keeps my soul alive without mortal nourishment. But the magicka and the relentless flow of Time has withered me, and I feel the Heart will soon not be enough to keep me alive. I have long dreamed of the Halls of Sovngarde... but it is not my time yet."

Mariah was astounded, struggling to find something appropriate to say. "I'm sorry this duty had to fall to you, Ynullum."

Ynullum exhaled quietly, and returned her sympathy with a smile. "It has been my duty to serve Atmora to the best of my ability. This was always what I was meant to do. Not only does it prolong my age, the Heart is also responsible for counteracting the curse of Drogdoiiz, which explains why Khartagyllum was not frozen solid by the Thu'um, and why the snow here is relatively light. I have been tending to the Heart all these years, keeping the city intact and myself alive until the Champion returns to finish what he started."

Bjorn approached Ynullum, desperate to ask only one question.

"When will the Champion return?"

Ynullum rested a hand on Bjorn's shoulder, his eyes glinting with hope. "I'm glad you asked."

Ynullum turned away from Bjorn to the other two, who stood perplexed in front of the Heart. "Come come, guests, we have more to see."

The King led them to a small study tucked away in the corner of the room. Next to a stone desk cluttered with papers in an incomprehensible language sat a chest, which Ynullum carefully opened. From within he pulled out two objects: a crystal and steel bow and a patchwork book clasped shut with an iron lock. He approached Drenyir and offered him the bow.

"Remember when I said Drogdoiiz was entombed in Everfrost? We Nedes found a way to create it, and with a little help from the Heart managed to fashion it into weapons. This bow, my staff, and the lock on the door to my throne room are all Everfrost. Stronger than any material I've ever laid hands on. This bow will never break and will never fail you. You no longer need arrows, as the bow draws power from the Heart wherever you may be, summoning arrows as a Conjuror might. Take it as my gift to you."

Drenyir's hand closed around the bow as he tossed his old one to the side. He pulled the string back and an icy blue arrow phased into existence, sharp and perfectly crafted. Drenyir's eyes were wide with surprise, and as he slackened the bow, the arrow disappeared altogether. He slung the bow over his shoulder and thanked the King gratefully, who merely nodded with a pleased smile adorning his face.

Next he approached Mariah, handing her the patchwork book. It was thick, a couple inches, and looked like it had seen a few repairs in it's day. Mariah took the book and fumbled with the clasp. When the cover fell away, the words shined a bright blue and wisps of magicka encircled the Imperial mage. Ynullum smiled as Mariah scanned the pages, suddenly finding she could read the once incomprehensible dialect.

"This book was written by Atmora's greatest scholars just before the rebellion. I have been adding to it over the years, of course. It is called the Blessings of the Heart, and within it's pages you will find the most powerful magic the Nede mages ever wielded. It is from that very book that the Heart of Atmora gifted me with the Thu'um, a power I have reserved for the darkest of times. The knowledge of Atmora will be passed to you, Mariah, and you will grasp a power that no Man has ever wielded before."

She closed the book and thanked Ynullum, who smiled back and gestured the two to follow. "And for you, Bjorn, I have something very special."

At the rear of the study was an odd stone platform etched with the language of the Nedes, as well as words written in Daedric, and Draconic. Ynullum tapped the platform with his staff and the words began to glow with a fierce purple light. The platform opened up into a void, and from the portal rose a gleaming set of armor. Bjorn was paralyzed by it's beauty and by it's craftsmanship. It was stark white, like new-fallen snow, but accented with blood red and gold trim. Upon closer inspection, the gold trim turned out to be words, which glistened like veins of precious metal. They swirled mystically across the surface of the armor, making the cuirass appear to shimmer.

"This is the armor of the Champion. The armor crafted from the scales of Akatosh. It has enchantments far beyond mortal understanding, and is an artifact of great power. This, Bjorn, I give to you."

Bjorn reached forward and grabbed the gauntlets, the shimmering trim swirling around his fingers, the bracers fitting him perfectly. He continued to don the armor when Ynullum hobbled over to another chest. From it, he removed a longsword, the same color as the armor. The blade was shimmering gold, while the hilt and pommel was white with red accents. As Bjorn finished with the cuirass, Ynullum presented the sword to him as a servant would gift a noble.

"This is the Champion's sword, Godbane, crafted by Akatosh from his very horn. It is the only weapon that has the power to defeat Drogdoiiz."

Bjorn wrapped his fingers around the hilt. The grip was perfect, like the sword was made for him. The blade was pure gold color, but it was of some unearthly metal. It was razor sharp and glittered magnificently in the blue light of the chamber. Mariah and Drenyir walked up to him, admiring the armor and the blade.

Drenyir smiled wryly and crossed his arms. "White suits you, Bjorn. Really brings out your eyes."

Bjorn remained as astonished as when the armor first appeared in front of him. He turned to Ynullum, who met his stare. "Why are you giving this to me? What do you expect me to do?"

Ynullum's stare never faltered, and he gazed into Bjorn's eyes, unblinking. He lowered his voice so the others could not hear him.

"The name of the Champion did not escape me, but I dared not say it until now. The Champion's name was Bjorn Frosthammer, the Warlord of the North. You returned to Atmora, you made the journey to the capitol, you met the Lost Regiment, and you and your team banished the Strider. This is your destiny. Do what you were born to do."

Ynullum's eyes narrowed, a stoic tone rising in his voice.

"Go silence the heart of Drogdoiiz."