IX
Winterhold
The storm had blown itself out by late afternoon, and the sun's amber light streamed through the windows of the Hall of the Elements. Grimnir, however, had had little time to appreciate the change in scenery.
The moment the ferry had run aground, he had sprinted back up to the College and into the Arcanaeum, nearly bowling over Nirya as he rushed in. Before Urag had had a chance to reprimand him, Grimnir had seized a crate of books that the old Orc kept under his desk, books that the Arch-Mage had come across in the few years he'd been in Skyrim. For most people, these books held very little worth mentioning about—little more than journals in many cases—but to someone like Grimnir, they were considerably more than that. They were memories, whether for good or ill—recollections of the people he'd helped to save, as well as the people he'd been too late to reach.
When Urag had discovered this, he had offered to hold on to the mismatched tomes for Grimnir. No one was quite sure why; a particularly outlandish rumor had it that Urag, not being content with simply lording over a large library full of books, was planning to write one of his own. Another rumor went further still, and suggested that the Orc was writing a biography of Grimnir himself, to preserve the deeds he had done for all time. Of course, these were only rumors, and would likely remain so—Urag was certainly not telling, and no one wanted to risk the ire of the bad-tempered librarian by asking.
It took several moments of searching before Grimnir found what he was looking for: the small leather folio, hardly bigger than his palm. He undid the drawstring that bound it all together, and began to read.
A few moments later, some back corner of his mind alerted him to the fact that J'zargo, Brelyna, and Onmund had come up right beside him, only just now catching up to the Arch-Mage with how fast he had sprinted. All three of them were panting loudly and clutching at stitches.
Grimnir, however, paid it no mind: by then, he'd already found what he needed to know—in fact, the first two lines of the booklet had been enough for him to realize the truth.
Ulfric had been compromised from the beginning. The Stormcloaks had played right into the hands of the Dominion. It no longer mattered whether they seized victory or not, because the Empire—perhaps the last defense of Tamriel against the threat of Celeralmo and the Thalmor—was now hanging by a thread … a thread drawing closer and closer to the waiting axeblade of the unsuspecting Jarl.
"It all leads back to the Thalmor," Grimnir sighed ten minutes later, after discussing at length the contents of the damning book, and the circumstances in which he'd "recovered" it. "'Treat with whatever government rules Skyrim', indeed. They've had their fingers in this war the whole time. They might even have indirectly caused it. And they were intending to make sure it ended on their terms—and no one else's."
"And it explains why M'Alga didn't kill Ulfric when he had the chance," mused Onmund. "We already knew the Thalmor was rubbing elbows with the Black Worm. Ancano must have been privy to everything the Thalmor had on Ulfric—he shared the contents of that dossier with the whole cult, and helped plan out all of M'Alga's assaults."
J'zargo's whiskers hadn't drooped so far so quickly since he'd discovered the body of Savos Aren. Brelyna, however, looked confused.
"Why Varulf?" she asked, when Grimnir inquired about it. "You were right, back in Windhelm—the Harbinger's the only unknown in this entire affair. Are you sure you didn't uncover any other intelligence when you were in the Embassy?"
"Just a couple files on those two members of the Blades," Grimnir said. "No other dossiers—and nothing on this Varulf at all." He leaned back in his chair.
And right into the robes of Urag gro-Shub.
Any other man would instantly have leapt back up at such a speed that he would have overbalanced, chair and all, and toppled face first onto the bare stone floor. Grimnir, however, recovered from his shock with a superhuman effort in remarkable time, though his kneecaps had hit the bottom of the table in shock, and every thought in his head rang with curses that would have made the most foul-mouthed of sailors in Morrowind fear for their ears.
As he fought the pain, Grimnir's eyes roved everywhere, anywhere but the steely gaze of the Orc, and he cringed, waiting for the blow to fall. But instead he only heard a sound somewhere between a grunt and a sigh, and the Orc moved past them with a single phrase, "Just keep reading."
It was some time before Grimnir's heart rate returned to normal, and the pain in his knees subsided. When they did, he leaned forward in his chair with a grunt, and voiced his mind—a plan was beginning to form in his head.
"If Varulf's the unknown in all this, as you say," he spoke to Brelyna, "then maybe I ought to know him a little bit better. Find out what I can about him, including anything he might have done to have the Thalmor resort to a necromantic cult in order to kill him off."
"I don't know if they'll be so willing to let you back in Windhelm anymore," Onmund said sadly.
"I wasn't planning on going there, anyway," replied Grimnir. "There are other people who might know. Closer people to here than Windhelm."
"Who do you have in mind?"
Grimnir was ready for this question. "Korir."
The three mages, evidently, were not ready for the answer.
Brelyna looked much more uneasy than J'zargo or Brelyna, given how she had come extremely close to losing her temper with the Jarl of Winterhold in their last encounter. "I don't know," she said, a clear grimace on her face. "He seems less likely to tell you anything than Ulfric."
"I know—that's the hard part," grunted Grimnir. "If I don't approach this the right way, my best chance at finding information is gone."
He stood up. "I need to sleep on this," he sighed. "You three had better get on your way yourselves; Tolfdir could be done with the ferryman any minute downstairs. If the Emperor's truly M'Alga's next target—the real Emperor—then you should make way to Solitude with all haste."
The suspicion had been hinted at beforehand, but Brelyna had explained the reasoning behind it on their way back to the College. With Ulfric's declaration that the Stormcloaks were due to be concentrating their full force upon Haafingar and Solitude, all standing Imperial forces—Penitus Oculatus or otherwise—would be concentrated upon protecting the city, and not the Emperor. Furthermore, Brelyna had voiced her belief that since the Emperor had been switched with a double, as Commander Maro had assured them, then it stood to reason that the real Titus Mede II had been outside the city walls at the time—possibly even in another city.
"If he isn't in Solitude," she had said earlier, "then we'll find out where he's gone next. I don't know how"—after all, the odds of Commander Maro willingly disclosing such sensitive information to the same mages that had disobeyed his orders were less than zero—"but we'll find out."
Everyone stood up as one. "You'd better pack heavy," Grimnir told them. "If Tolfdir's lucky, you'll have passage to Solitude. If you're lucky, you'll find M'Alga before he finds the Emperor. I'm counting on you," he finished, feeling his voice breaking only slightly. Though the Arch-Mage still believed he was the only one with a fighting chance against M'Alga, he also believed that if anyone else had that same change, it was these three mages.
"And if we are unlucky?" J'zargo looked as though he didn't want to find out the answer.
The Arch-Mage stared him right in the eye. "Then I'd better hope I'm lucky," he said. He did not elaborate any further. There was no need for him to do so.
Grimnir left the mages, then, intending to head upstairs to his new quarters and formulate a plan on how best to entreat Korir. Along the way, however, he ran into Tolfdir—and behind him, the ferryman called Gort.
"Ah, there you are, my boy," said the Master Wizard. An outsider listening in would never have believed the aged Nord had put Grimnir on probation—as gray a term as it was where he was concerned. "Gort here's just agreed to take on passengers and supplies to Solitude tonight. We had to do a bit of convincing—matters of provincial security and all that—but we eventually reached an agreement."
Grimnir heard the distinct jangling sound of gold coming from Gort's breast pocket, and wondered how much gold had figured into this agreement.
Tolfdir looked concerned. "Brelyna brought me up to speed on what happened in Windhelm," he said sadly, and Grimnir's stomach slipped a few inches, as though he'd missed a step going downstairs. "I'm not about to argue with the decision she made about you, lad—but I think we can both agree we need to step back and let cooler heads prevail."
"Even with M'Alga on the loose?" Grimnir asked.
"If you rush into a cave when you don't even know what's inside," Tolfdir said sagely, "the only thing you're assured is a great, big knock on the head. Take the night off, why don't you? Clear your mind. Maybe a good night's rest is what you need. Nine know you could use one."
Grimnir, stoic man that he could be, still folded at the genuine sympathy he was hearing in Tolfdir's voice—almost. "I think that might be best," he said, bringing a note of tired resignation into his voice, hoping that might be enough to appease the old Nord. "I've also been thinking, Master—this … feeling I've been having. I wonder if maybe the Greybeards could help me understand what it all meant. I'd like to visit them—with your blessing, of course."
His eyes met the dual-colored gaze of Tolfdir for only a moment, and for a moment Grimnir wondered if maybe he'd seen through the ruse. Tolfdir was one of only a handful of people to whom he'd entrusted the secret of the Greybeards—their fifth and highest-ranked member, who lived atop the Throat of the World in near-total seclusion.
Then the eyes softened, and Tolfdir now looked at his Arch-Mage with an expression of what almost looked like pity. "Of course, my boy," he said soothingly. "Must be weighing on your mind something terribly, considering what you've been having to do of late."
Grimnir let loose a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "Thank you, Tolfdir," he smiled at him. The gesture felt rather unfamiliar to him—as if he hadn't done it in weeks. "I think I'll have a drink at the Hearth before I retire. Tell Brelyna and the others I send them my best wishes tonight."
"Certainly," Tolfdir said. "I was actually on my way to see Miss Maryon myself. Drevis just sent in a letter from Tel Mithryn in Solstheim. I thought she'd be interested in reading it. I'll pass your words along."
Grimnir bowed low, and made for the stairs as Tolfdir entered the Arcanaeum, secretly grateful that the Master Wizard hadn't noticed the pained expression on his face. Grimnir hated lying to someone that he considered a friend, and he made a mental note to apologize for his actions later on.
But this is something I have to do, he thought as he left the Hall of the Elements. I hope he'll be able to understand that soon enough.
On the banks of River Hjaal
The sun had set behind Folgunthur tomb by the time M'Alga had arrived here.
Upon his return, the monster had taken up position by the eastern shore of River Hjaal, and concentrated as much as he could upon the docks opposite him. The piers were bursting with activity; ships bearing the diamond of the Empire on their sails were being loaded with cargo. Soldiers—both city guard and Imperial security—were patrolling the docks with such frequency that M'Alga knew he would never be able to infiltrate his destination unseen—powers of invisibility or not.
And then there was the biggest ship of all—anchored not far from where he crouched, just visible past the stone arch of Solitude that he'd climbed only days ago. Yet the size of the vessel—considerable as it was—still understated just how important its cargo was. M'Alga could guess from the botched attempt on the city's Jarl just what—or rather who—that cargo might be, and any other night, he would have assumed that his mission involved preventing said cargo from ever reaching its destination.
But for the first time, M'Alga's mind was not on his mission.
Why had he chosen to interfere then, of all times? He had been so close to killing him in Windhelm, only to be rebuffed by the all-powerful will of his master—and then, as if the unexpected action wasn't enough, his control over the body he'd been given had left him for a time, and it had taken every last ounce of M'Alga's willpower to attempt to retain control.
He had failed.
And now M'Alga was here, eyes trained—neither blinking nor moving an inch—from the bustling docks across the delta, led like a dog on a leash by a force he could not fully comprehend. He wondered idly if this was punishment for his previous failures—for his inability to kill the people he'd been assigned to.
The Dragonborn had proven to be especially persistent as well—all the more reason why he wanted him dead. Someone that powerful was eventually going to ruin the grand scheme that had been set into motion if he was left unchecked for too long. And yet his master had pulled him away, there, not even bothering to give M'Alga the chance to test his power against the most worthy opponent imaginable.
And it was only recently that he had been able to grasp at the logic behind the decision.
Grasp being the operative term, of course—the plans of M'Alga's master were truly known to only him alone. M'Alga was grateful enough that he had been created to carry out this plan; the particulars of it mattered little to him. But the fact that the Dragonborn had been spared told M'Alga all he needed to know.
Not yet, a voice whispered in his head, as if in response to his thoughts, and M'Alga could not resist a snort of agitation. He continued to stare at the Solitude docks, as the sun sang further still below the horizon, and the light of the first stars began to illuminate the sky. He blinked once, and his vision became suffused in a pale, bluish-white glare; the Khajiit were well-adopted for the night, and their eyesight was far superior to most mortal beings in conditions like these. The Black Worm had obviously thought such powers would serve M'Alga well, and he gave thanks to his master for the gift.
As the minutes turned into hours, M'Alga's thoughts slowly went back to the events in Solitude, and how the Dragonborn had seemingly been alerted to his presence with almost no prior warning. He had heard the word being passed around when he had infiltrated Windhelm—disguised within the unfortunate shell of the Dunmer woman who had quite literally run into him: a mysterious assassin, who had poisoned a double of the Emperor almost at the same exact time as his assault on the Blue Palace. Given the importance of his mission, he had not dwelled on it at the time.
But now, at a time where he had more free time to think, he was beginning to get the idea that he had not, in fact, been betrayed from within. The assassin's presence there had merely been coincidence—but the timing of the event still felt far from it; M'Alga wondered if perhaps his master had foreknowledge of the double's demise, even here—down to the minute and the method—and used the man's death to better increase his plans' chances of success.
Everything is known to him, he thought.
At that moment, some sixth sense went off in M'Alga's head. He could not quite pinpoint why, but he had learned to trust his intuition even in his brief existence; there was only one reason why he would suddenly have this strange feeling.
Someone was coming.
Immediately he took action, the iridescence of his scales morphing like ripples on the River Hjaal, camouflaging him perfectly against the rocks that protected Folgunthur. At the same time, M'Alga finally moved for the first time in hours, slowly but surely drawing away from his vantage point, around the far side of the tomb—and, he presumed, to the great ship anchored off the coast.
His eyes had just barely drifted there when he saw it—a small boat, barely a rowboat, carrying what looked like four people and several sacks, entering the delta from the north, against the current. A connection between this and the sixth sense he'd felt suddenly wormed into M'Alga's mind, and he turned his enhanced vision onto the occupants of the vessel—
And in a rare expression of surprise, M'Alga's mouth fell open as he saw the exact same three mages—the dark elf, the Nord, and the cat—that always accompanied the Dragonborn everywhere he seemed to go, from the moment of M'Alga's birth in the darkness of Mzurkunch to his flight from Windhelm.
But the Dragonborn was not with them.
M'Alga could not believe the sudden good fortune that had graced him. If the Dragonborn was not with these mages tonight, then he might not come at all. Perhaps he trusted his companions' ability to match his power.
He smirked. He would be sorely mistaken. And if the Dragonborn did decide to come … then he would be far too late.
M'Alga kept himself out of sight as the boat silently slipped by, his position undetected. He knew now where he had to go—there was no more time to lose. But just as the monster's mind had been made up, the sixth sense went off again—this time with such urgency that M'Alga actually clapped a broad palm to his temple, grimacing in pain.
And then he felt his head turn, against his will, back to the docks he'd been surveying. M'Alga did not need a Khajiit's enhanced senses to make sense of what was happening over there. But he knew simply from the sight he was seeing that time was much shorter than he would have believed.
He had to act now.
And this time, as he slowly made his way towards the edge of the water—moving as slowly as possible despite all his camouflage, not daring to take chances in being discovered—M'Alga felt a sense of dreaded finality about the task he had to do. If he failed—if he was too late—then there would be no more. His existence would no longer have purpose to it—he would be an empty shell.
Expendable.
No. M'Alga knew he was much more valuable than that—much too valuable for his master to simply discard. And right here, tonight, he was going to prove it to him.
And so, with nary so much as a ripple, the monster's bulk slid into the water, and he swam toward his destination …
Meanwhile
Further north, Brelyna—who had, up to this point, been engrossed in the contents of the letter that Tolfdir had given her earlier today—groaned when she saw the massive ship that almost completely blocked off the inlet ahead. She groaned louder still when it occurred to her just who that ship might belong to.
She turned to Gort. "Are you going to have a problem getting us past that ship?" she asked, pointing to Onmund and J'zargo in the back. All of them had been snoring soundly for most of the voyage from Winterhold; Brelyna had woken up an hour ago, and had not been able to sleep on account of her uneasiness. She hoped the meager rest she had would be enough for her to fight on.
"You should know that if we're identified," she added to the ferryman, "that it's going to slow us down immeasurably, whether they recognize us or not."
Gort grunted. "They know me well enough to know my way of life," he said. "Just act natural and don't draw attention to yourselves. As far as they're concerned, I've got safe passage through the delta."
Brelyna silently nodded her understanding, and moved to wake her companions. They had an Emperor to save.
East Empire Company Warehouse
Commander Maro set down the crate of supplies to wipe his brow. "Has Arcturus reported in?" he asked the Penitus Oculatus agent who'd been assisting him, as he moved to pick up the heavy wooden case for the fifth time tonight.
"No, sir," the Imperial responded. "None of his task force has returned, either." A shocked expression suddenly lit his face. "You don't think—!"
"I don't." Maro's voice, even with all the man behind it had been through, was still as stern as ever. "I have faith in his success. It's a long way to the Pine Forest. I've given him several days of leeway to get there and back in time to sail back to Cyrodiil. And even if they miss that deadline, Falkreath is close enough to the border that they could still very well beat us back to the Imperial City."
He heaved a sigh as the two men continued to transport the crate—he felt taxed in both mind and body. Part of the reason why they'd had to carry so much cargo to the Emperor's vessel today was that the ship would be sailing the long way back to Cyrodiil—all the way along the northern coastline of Tamriel, skirting the edge of the Sea of Ghosts, then alongside the eastern part of Morrowind—or what Vvardenfell had left of it—then to the southernmost reaches of Black Marsh, and finally up the Niben, straight to the Imperial City.
It was a long voyage, and one that Maro was not looking forward to take, for multiple reasons. He wished he'd been among the chosen tasked to journey to Falkreath, assisting Captain Arcturus in meting out Imperial justice. At least then, he'd be afforded the leisure of a peaceful trip back to Cyrodiil—not some rolling, yawing ship whose only real comforts were privy to the Emperor alone.
Finally, they reached the last boat, and set the heavy crate inside with a thump. "I think that's just about everything here," said Maro with a sigh, fully aware of the double meaning of his words.
The agent, too, seemed to notice. "And the outpost at Dragon Bridge, sir?" he asked.
"It'll be shuttered by the end of the month," replied Maro, feeling another wrenching sensation in his gut.
Thankfully, the soldier did not seem to notice anything this time. "Very good, sir," he nodded. "And you'll be returning to … " His voice faltered here, apparently unsure of what to say next. "Well, if you don't mind me asking, sir … where exactly will you be going now?"
Maro sighed—that was the question he'd been dreading to hear, and dreading further still to answer. "Now that's an excellent question," he muttered, half to himself, "an excellent question, indeed."
He turned his gaze out to sea, towards the Katariah, swarmed with boats and barges like a mother pig nursing her young. He did not want to meet the young agent's eyes.
"Truth is," he said, "as soon as the Emperor sets sail, I'm resigning my position." He let out his biggest sigh yet—there it was. The decision had not been as swift as it felt; over the past few days since the fiasco that had unraveled in Solitude, Maro had grown to believe he was unable to meet the same standards he himself had set for his own men. The death of his son had weighed horribly on him, and that weight only grew heavier by the day.
If he could not protect his own son, Maro thought, than what good was he to protect his Emperor—never mind the rest of his people?
"Oh. I see." The agent's tone was far more sympathetic now, and he regarded Maro with a sad expression as he grasped for something to say. "Well, then … let me just say that … it's been an honor serving under you, Commander."
"The honor has been mine," Maro said—and all the fallout that came with it, he added in his mind.
He clapped a hand on the agent's uniform. "You should be proud of what we've accomplished here, soldier. The Dark Brotherhood is no more. And the Emperor—finally—is safe." At least we can be assured of that, he thought.
The agent saluted. "Yes, sir. Goodbye, sir." He turned on his heel.
Maro waited an entire minute after he was sure that the agent had left the docks, before he finally spoke.
"I might as well serve the Elder Council my head on a silver platter," he grumbled to himself, as he stared out at the dark form of the ship in the distance. By morning tomorrow, that ship would be halfway to Cyrodiil, just as Maro would be, and the commander could breathe a little easier then—only a little.
For Maro knew that no matter how this played out, his military career had been doomed from the moment the Emperor's double had been slain, and the perpetrator behind the deed had escaped undetected. Too many mistakes had been made, and the situation in the Blue Palace had been completely unanticipated. Maro was sorry that he had ever cut the deal he had with that assassin—but he was not at all sorry for reneging on their agreement; the bitch had ordered her son's death, for Mara's sake!
Maro knew his time with the Penitus Oculatus was over, but his thirst for retribution was not bound by mere military obligation. Before the end of his days, he would make sure that every last one of those twisted assassins had paid with blood for what they had done to Gaius. He only hoped that he would be the one to deliver the final blow himself.
Maro frowned suddenly—the hairs on the back of his neck were rising. He hadn't heard any footfalls or rustlings of metal against leather.
But somehow, he knew he was not alone.
The commander slowly turned around; expecting to see one of his soldiers standing at attention, ready to receive what could possibly be his final order …
And his face went deathly white.
"By the gods … you!" he could only stammer, as the shadow advanced on him, never speaking a word. "But … it can't be … you're dead! You … you … "
They were the last words he spoke in his life. Whatever he'd planned on saying next was drowned out by a hundred thoughts converged in his mind into one, shining, awful point of clarity as he understood just who—what—was standing right before his eyes.
Death incarnate.
And then—almost unbidden from deep inside him—a boiling, wordless roar of primal rage, as Maro drew his sword and charged at the impossible sight, every last fiber of his being suddenly hellbent on running the demon through, and ending the threat it posed once and for all—
Then the shadow flickered like black fire, and Maro's blade hit nothing but air. The commander nearly unbalanced as he rushed straight through where the apparition—was it an illusion? Maro thought; those eyes had looked so real!—had been.
Through the haze of rage, it occurred to Maro that a passing guard could possibly have seen him on the edge of the pier, and was even now running to his aid, wondering why they heard him shout just now.
The commander turned, expecting to see a fellow agent coming to assist him—he knew he had to warn them—
But the words died in his throat—and Maro himself died not long after; a black arrow had filled his half-open mouth, piercing through flesh and spine almost out of nowhere like a shadow of lightning. The sword clanged from his lifeless hand as his body toppled into the water …
The source of the arrow had not waited around to see if the shot had been fatal, and had stayed around just long enough to fire just the one bolt before moving on to her final destination. It was all she needed; the illusion spell she had cast earlier —much older and more potent than the College could ever hope to teach—had provided more than enough of a distraction to ensure a killing blow. Vengeance had indeed been sweet, but it was not enough; the assassin had not come for Maro alone, after all.
Even so, she could not resist a snort of annoyance. From the moment she had left the blasted ruins of the only home she had ever known, the assassin had fantasized a more personal method of demise for the destruction that had been wrought by this one man—she could almost hear the newly acquired dagger hissing against her hip as she continued to sprint northwards. The blade was crying for blood, as if the spirit of its previous owner, not yet consumed by the clutches of the Void, yet wished to claim the blood and soul of Commander Maro.
But the assassin knew there was more than one way to destroy a man's soul. Killing its vessel of flesh was the surest way to do so, yes, but such deaths had a propensity to spread among the public at large, and were thus prone to making the deceased a martyr. Such a thing had nearly happened with the Vici woman, and would almost certainly happen again over the course of a few days. Maro, however, would not be allowed such an end.
For when put alongside the demise of another, more recognizable figure, his death would be largely forgotten by the masses as word spread like wildfire. In the eyes of the assassin, such an act was true death: complete cessation of existence—not only in flesh and blood, but also in the hearts and minds of mortal beings. Maro, who no doubt had dreamed of being a self-proclaimed hero for the part he had played, would thus become a mere footnote instead, nothing more than an afterthought in this larger performance—a performance whose second act had yet to begin.
As the assassin continued to sprint down the path, unseen by the same soldiers who thought her dead, she knew that her act of revenge had had its consequences. Maro, foolish as he had been to leave himself open and alone, had also taken care to keep himself in plain sight of the great ship at all times. Even as she turned to the vessel, she could see tiny shapes of soldiers running about, preparing the ship for departure—they had seen what had happened, though not why, but they had seen enough.
She would have cursed at this if she were physically able to do so. But now was not the time for these things; though it left a bitter taste in her mouth, the assassin had correctly surmised that dispatching Commander Maro would alert the garrison on board the Katariah. Swimming her way there was no longer a possibility—though it gave her an element of surprise (and frankly, who would have thought of infiltrating the ship through the anchor, of all things?) it would slow her down immensely, and waste the one chance she had of pulling this mission off once and for all.
So it was that she had chosen an alternative—and so it was she had now stopped sprinting, and now climbed up an outcropping of rock barely a ship's length from the massive vessel in front of her.
The assassin tested the wind, and found it favorable—a strong breeze from the northwest. Quickly, before the wind decided to shift, she readied her crossbow once more, and two bolts that she'd put together for a very particular purpose. One she fired point-blank into the rock; the ebony missile dug into the rock with little resistance.
The second was nocked soon after, and as the assassin judged the breeze and the height of the next shot she would take, her mind whispered a dark prayer, knowing full well that from here on in, there was truly no turning back. If she succeeded, then she might yet live to see her earthly reward. If she failed here, at this most crucial point …
Dread Father, guide my hand.
Night Mother, guide my blade …
Meanwhile
On the other side of the stone arch, the lookout on the Katariah had also seen the scene unfolding before his eyes from the crow's nest of the ship, and felt his mouth go dry at the sight.
In a moment of time that felt too long to be measured, the Imperial realized the nature of his mission had changed as significantly as it could possibly be, and that he had suddenly been thrust into what was certainly a life-or-death decision—if not for his career, then for his life.
But gradually, the years of military training came back to him; and the lookout knew he had to act fast.
And so—as quickly as his uniform would let him—the Penitus Oculatus agent descended the rigging, and made his way below decks to Captain Avidius' cabin, where he and Lieutenant Salvarus were making final checks on the ship's manifest they would be sending back after the final shipment of supplies was safely delivered onto the vessel.
The lookout saluted, and wasted no time in addressing the pair of officers. "Sorry to bother you, sirs. There's been a situation on the pier." He took a breath. "The Commander has been compromised."
Captain Avidius, a rare Redguard among the ranks of the Penitus Oculatus, immediately paled as the meaning of what the lookout had just reported sank in. "Signal the lighthouse," he said hoarsely, at no one in particular. "Prepare to cut and run!"
Salvarus was aghast, and the lookout knew why: to cut and run involved a very risky escape procedure where lashings of sails would be cut—and in far more extreme circumstances, an entire anchor. The theory behind it was that normal preparation time would take too long for a ship to make sail in dire emergencies; with a cut and run, that time would be reduced significantly—though the lookout was fervently hoping there wouldn't be any bad storms between here and Cyrodiil.
Salvarus, too, looked ready to question the judgment of his Captain, but the Redguard's steely gaze brooked no argument. "You heard me!" he barked. "Get us as far away from the coast as you can! And the rest of you, protect the Emperor with your lives!"
"Aye, sir!" the lieutenant responded, and he immediately left the cabin, barking orders to the crew.
The lookout, sensing he ought to return to his post as well, followed Salvarus topside and astern while the lieutenant grabbed a lantern. This he waved to the lighthouse to and fro in what the lookout hoped would be a signal of help. He looked to the lighthouse, hoping that the old Khajiit in charge would already be tending to the fires there, and would see the lantern being waved.
The helmsman ran up to them. "We've no chance with this wind from astern, sir," he huffed. "The second we cut loose, we'd have to turn hard a-port just to avoid grounding the ship."
The lookout swore as he realized where the wind was coming from—north and west; the worst possible direction it could be blowing right now. A cut and run would only send them further up the inlet, and backing the sails would be impossible where they'd dropped anchor.
In other words, they were trapped.
No sooner had the lookout come to this conclusion that he felt something rush past his neck—as if a very large bug had flown right past it. The helmsman coughed slightly—just loud enough for the lookout to turn towards him—before he was thrown backward by the force of the arrow that had pierced his throat dead center.
A full second passed before the lookout realized the meaning of the noise right behind his neck, and what had happened here. He stumbled backward in horror—and his hand suddenly caught on a rope that had not been there a second ago: a thin length of rough black cord, hardly thicker around than his little finger.
Where did that come from?!
The rope stretched between the railings of the ship, from port to starboard—no, thought the lookout as his eyes traveled to portside, where the helmsman had fallen … to the arrow currently lodged in his shipmate's gizzard.
Salvarus saw it too, and for a single, dangerous moment his face was drained of all color. Then, soldier that he was, he sprang into action.
"To arms! To arms!" he cried, drawing out his sword. "The ship is being boarded!"
The lookout, among all other men on board, was galvanized into action. He drew his own sword, and, figuring that the prospective intruder wouldn't be able to pose much of a threat if his one way on board was this thin little cord, swung the blade downward with all his might—
—only for the blade to bounce off the rope, and clatter to the deck before the thunderstruck lookout.
What?!
But even as he recovered from the shock, he saw that the rope had not been undamaged; whatever the black substance that covered it was, it had chipped at the point of impact, and a sliver of silvery white thread was visible through the crack. The lookout grinned—another few hacks ought to finish the rope off for good.
He picked up his blade from the deck—and then promptly dropped it again as a truly unexpected noise reached his ears—a low, primal roar that brought flashbacks of his history lessons on the Oblivion Crisis to the lookout, and the monstrous creatures that had invaded Tamriel more than two hundred years ago.
Salvarus was horrified. "What in the name of the Eight was that?!"
Then the screaming started, and both men knew.
It was already on board.
At that moment, less than half a mile away, Brelyna, Onmund, and J'zargo had leapt out of the ferry before Gort had even lashed his craft to the dock. The indignant face on the Nord did not last long, however; the College had paid him nearly a month's worth of his usual wages to take his passengers this far, and so he pushed off back to Windhelm within a moment of their departure.
"We'll head to Castle Dour first," Brelyna told them as their boots pounded on the rough wood up the wharf. "If Tullius or Maro isn't there, we'll go to Elisif at the Blue Palace."
"Never mind that they banned us from the city limits," Onmund panted, swearing as his aching legs twinged from running after sitting down in a cramped boat for so long.
"Then we'll just have a guard run them a message," said Brelyna. Her eyes then looked passed Onmund, and she skidded to a halt.
Where was J'zargo?
Thankfully, she had Onmund hadn't gone very far, and a quick backtrack found the wayward Khajiit in a few moments' time. J'zargo remained standing on the dock, not far from where Gort had made berth. His head was tilted downwards, his attention apparently focused on something on the docks … or under it.
Only a few feet below the floorboards of the docks, a uniformed body bobbed facedown in the swells—already bluish-gray and beginning to bloat from the water, but otherwise apparently unmarked. Brelyna had no trouble recognizing the neat black hair, cropped right at the neck, of the unfortunate soldier.
Maro.
"He cannot have died more than an hour ago," J'zargo murmured, refusing to tear his eyes from the body. The bodies of drowned men could change completely over time, as they lay in the water; Brelyna had seen faces and bodies of people that had been unrecognizably changed within a few hours' time.
But Brelyna had no eyes for the body, and there was no time to convey sympathies to the man she had shouted down only a few days ago. Her gaze slowly drifted from the slain Imperial, then down the inlet and under Solitude … and, finally, to the great ship anchored off the coast.
The Dunmer felt her heart sink as the answer came to her. "Oh, no."
Commander Maro was dead—and the Emperor's life was now in greater danger than they had believed. Brelyna knew she had to make a decision, and fast.
And so she did.
She ran for a boat on the edge of the docks, bulling aside a few Imperial soldiers who apparently were oblivious to the fact that one of their own had been slain so near to them. "Out of the way!" she shouted at them. "We need to commandeer a vessel right now! College business!"
The biggest of the guards drew himself to his full height, and stared down through his faceless helm at the dark elf, his chest puffed to its fullest extent. "We don't answer to your College, elf. Orders from Commander Maro."
Brelyna refused to back down. "Commander Maro is dead," she hissed in his face, ignoring the cries of shock that had risen from the guard's companions. "He died right behind me—and as far as I can tell, he died on your watch. If any of you want to save your military career, you will give us what we need to catch what killed him, and you're going to do it now!"
The soldiers behind the guard looked cowed by the diatribe. That was the impact Brelyna had been looking for. No need to mention the Emperor, just threaten the soldiers with reprisal from a superior officer, be it General Tullius or Jarl Elisif—neither of whom, Brelyna was sure, responded well to excuses and "following orders".
The guard pulled away, and pointed a mailed finger at his subordinates. "You and you, find a boat. Jump to it!" he barked.
Neither of them needed telling twice.
Three minutes later, the trio was rowing full speed towards the Katariah in a two-man fishing boat that looked older than Brelyna. The Dunmer found herself wishing Tolfdir taught levitation spells to his more advanced students. At least the boat didn't leak—that was probably the only thing the guards checked when they'd first hauled the boat out to them, now that Brelyna thought of it.
The shadow of Solitude passed over them, and for a time, the boat and everyone inside it was shrouded in total darkness. "We'll signal the ship as soon as we're clear of the arch," Brelyna grunted alongside Onmund as she maneuvered her oar. "From there, we'll ask to see the captain, and hopefully, he'll take us to guard the Emperor."
"That may no longer be a possibility." J'zargo had been keeping a keen eye on the Katariah, and the Khajiit had suddenly gone rigid, whiskers and all. "Look!"
Brelyna turned around, and felt her heart sink yet again. Lights were flickering on the ship—too bright to be torchlights or lanterns, and far too spread out to give off that much illumination over such a large vessel. There was only one thing it could mean.
The Katariah was on fire.
Onmund watched the scene with growing apprehension. "Something tells me no one's going to come pick us up," he muttered.
"So how do we get on?" asked Brelyna.
J'zargo pointed a claw to the aft of the ship. "The anchors," he said. "The ship has not yet made sail, nor has it raised their anchor, or else it would be free of the delta by now. We will find the dropped anchor, yes—then, if we are lucky, we will climb its chain into the ship, and assist the sailors in controlling the fire from there."
It was an outlandish plan if Brelyna had ever heard one, and Onmund's look of disbelief seemed to say the same thing. But it was the only plan they had—the sailors on board would almost certainly be too occupied with the fire—and the security of their royal passenger—to focus on a trio of incoming mages.
The starboard side of the Katariah's stern was closer to them, but a huff from J'zargo told them that finding a way in from there was no good before they even saw the anchor hanging from the cathead there. And that wasn't all—as they drew closer to the ship, the mages could hear shouts from sailors and clangs of metal. Once or twice, there was a splash, as if someone had been thrown into the water, but since they had not seen anyone fall from the starboard side, none of them could be sure.
"Portside," J'zargo hissed suddenly. "The anchor!"
Brelyna's heart rose as she saw the lowered anchor, the heavy links that supported it hopefully able to provide them a safe entry inside—and then she saw the paneling around it, and clenched her teeth in anger. The wood had been splintered almost everywhere around it, and bent inwards at various angles … as if some large creature had forced its way inside, through an opening far too small for its body ...
Climbing the anchor chain was very slow work; the thick links were smooth with seawater and grease. But eventually, the three mages finally hauled themselves into the Katariah's cargo hold, wringing out their robes and wiping grime onto the smooth wooden floors.
"We need to get topside, and fast," Brelyna whispered. "If you see any movement, see that it doesn't move again. Nobody say anything unless it's important—save what little breath you have for when you're not walking into a burning ship."
"What if it's a soldier that moves?" wondered Onmund.
"M'Alga's already on board," replied Brelyna, her face grim as she remembered how simply the hull had been breached by such powerful strength. "I hate to say it … but I think their fate's already sealed, one way or the other."
Even Onmund didn't bother to argue with the reply, and so they crept out of the hold.
They saw the first bodies at the door: a bearded sailor in plainclothes, and a younger man in a Penitus Oculatus uniform. Both bodies had been savagely mangled, and blood stained the threshold in thick spurts.
Brelyna dipped a finger in the scarlet liquid. "Still warm," she murmured. "We might have some hope yet." Though with the ship already beginning to burn, she thought, that hope was rapidly approaching nil, and fast.
They moved on.
More bodies awaited them as they entered the galley, and passed a blacksmith's anvil—some of the plates were still piping hot, along with the food, even as fresh blood from the wounds of slain crewmen covered the dishes. Blood hissed in the embers of the dying forge off to their left, creating an acrid smell that lingered throughout the ship.
The roar of a burgeoning inferno could be heard outside, and Brelyna stopped outside a door that she hoped would lead them to the outside. "Onmund, gather as much frost magic as you can," said Brelyna. "We've got to put out that fire on the top deck. Hopefully it hasn't spread to any lifeboats yet."
She saw smoke beginning to curl under the threshold. "J'zargo, blast down this door on my signal."
As the Khajiit charged an incineration spell, Brelyna began to gather as much lightning magic as she could—M'Alga's weakness, she remembered Grimnir saying; fire and frost were much less affective because of the Nordic, Breton, and Dunmer blood he possessed. If the monster was on that deck, she needed to be prepared to blast him the instant she saw his nine-foot-tall form.
"Now!" she hissed, and J'zargo fired.
The door, lock and all, was blown off its hinges with a deafening BANG, and the three mages streamed through the doorway before it had toppled to the floor—and they stared, wild-eyed and appalled, at the scene that greeted them.
What had once been a simple enough fire had grown into a towering inferno. Over half of the stern was ablaze, and flames were beginning to lick at the masts and rigging. Charred and bloodied bodies—whole and otherwise—were strewn all over, and provided grisly, distorted additions to the hellish landscape. The stink of blood, smoke, and burnt flesh was everywhere.
But the mages only had eyes for what was going on in the exact center of the conflagration.
M'Alga was there, on the stern of the ship, looking more monstrous than ever as the shadows morphed over his muscled bulk—but M'Alga wasn't alone. Dashing all around him—and indeed, amazingly enough, appearing to fight M'Alga one-on-one—was another, far smaller figure; Brelyna thought she might be a young woman, but the distance and the flames made it impossible to discern anything more than this. Neither of them seemed to have noticed that the mages were even here. That was just as well for Brelyna—it would give them time to slow down the fiery onslaught.
"Onmund!" she called out, her voice nearly drowned out by the inferno. "Get the fire under control!"
The Nord and his frost magic did his best to obey, but the task was more daunting than Brelyna had believed; even as an ice storm from Onmund cooled one corner of the blaze, the flames only seemed to grow higher and hotter. J'zargo had clambered up a flight of stairs near the door where the mages had just emerged, and now peppered M'Alga with firebolts—but again, they seemed to do nothing; the mage-fire might as well have been swallowed up by the blaze.
And still, M'Alga and the unknown woman continued to fight. The woman was exceptionally acrobatic—every time the monster threw a punch, she flipped out of the way, and every time a spell was sent in her direction, she ducked and rolled behind barrels, crates, anything that provided a moment's worth of cover before M'Alga's lightning blasted it to blackened splinters.
Several members of the Penitus Oculatus yet remained around them, and continued to fight the woman in spite of the intense heat that had to be searing their skin right now. Then the woman sliced at them with a dagger as they attempted to run her through—and one of them seemed to dissolve into dust: a thrall, Brelyna knew. It seemed M'Alga had reanimated what members of the crew had not been burned in the blaze, but the woman was skilled with a blade; if they had touched her at all, she wasn't showing any sign of a wound.
M'Alga and the woman were moving so quickly, and with so much energy, that trying to find a target became impossible; even Brelyna's mind couldn't hope to think fast enough to target M'Alga and not risk hitting anyone else. She decided to turn her mind to an equally important task.
"J'zargo," she said to the Khajiit, "find as much water and sand as you can. A ship this big has to have plenty of ways to deal with fire. We're going to need more than magic to put out this blaze. Onmund!"
The apprentice, thankfully, heard her over the noise despite being on the other side of the stern. "You and I will handle M'Alga," Brelyna told him. "Use your frost magic to restrain both him and that woman." She set her jaw. "I'll focus on killing M'Alga myself."
"Got it!" Onmund downed a number of potions in blue bottles to bolster his magicka, and at a signal from Brelyna, he began to let fly with a number of ice storms, larger and more powerful than before. The effect was immediate; the fires were not immediately extinguished, but the height of the flames was significantly reduced, enough for Brelyna's eyes to take in more detail on the feisty woman fighting M'Alga.
She saw the red-and-black leather that hugged every curve of her body like a glove, even as she continued to duck and weave about M'Alga's massive fists; she noted the many pouches strapped to her figure, filled with Azura-only-knew what kinds of implements—
Then the woman turned around, and Brelyna saw the eyes of the woman … and she gasped at the flash of skull-white skin—and below it, just above a red cloth that hid the woman's mouth, the pitch-black darkness of those all-too-familiar eyes seemed to suck in all the light of the fire, boring into the Dunmer's own gaze with a terrible, dawning expression—
And Brelyna's hands erupted with lightning.
Up until that point, she had told Onmund to restrain the two combatants with ice magic for a reason—M'Alga would be easier for her to score a hit on with her lightning, and the woman could be taken for questioning as to how she knew about M'Alga, and why she would choose to fight him one-on-one. But that was before she had recognized the eyes of the same woman she had seen enter the Emperor's dining room, with the Potage le Magnifique that Brelyna had since suspected been the last, poisoned meal of the unfortunate body double … now, Brelyna cared nothing for interrogation. This woman was a dangerous assassin. Letting her live would be just as egregious a mistake as letting M'Alga live. Both of them needed to face justice for what they had done.
The instant of distraction, however, was all M'Alga needed. The monster moved like lightning, dodging Brelyna's attack effortlessly, and swatting the nameless assassin off the stern with a bellowing growl. Somehow—incredibly—the blow had not been fatal; even as she was hurled away, the woman twirled in midair like some exotic dancer, narrowly missing crashing into one of the masts as she did so, and landed in a three-point position amidships, glaring at M'Alga all the while with unmistakable hatred.
Whether by his regenerative powers, or just blind luck, M'Alga was unhurt by the blaze, though every inch of his scaly skin was blackened from the heat, making him look like some terrifying shadow come to life, and he was breathing as if he'd just run a cross-country race. He leapt from the stern, landing with a crunch between Onmund, Brelyna, and the woman he seemed so intent on killing.
"You try my patience, all of you," he growled, casting a withering look and a lightning bolt at the three mages—the latter of which Brelyna just barely managed to deflect with a ward. "Does the Dragonborn believe me beneath his notice, that he would have his wayward children fight his own battles?" He spat a wad of bloody phlegm onto the deck. "How very noble of him," he sneered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "And as for you."
He angled his ugly head to the assassin, who had drawn a long, curved dagger, and brandished it at the monster. "I know not how you came to know of me, or how to provide such an interesting battle … but your journey here was folly. If you had any sense at all, you would have accepted your demise, and let the hounds of the Emperor devour you to the bones with the last of your kind."
The woman's dark eyes narrowed, and a horrible gurgling noise came from under the cloth that covered her mouth. Brelyna wondered if the woman had been wounded somehow in the attack after all, but she could not see any bloodstains on her leather outfit.
M'Alga, either way, did not seem to care. "None of you should have come here at all," he said, looking round at all of them. "Especially you, mages. I thought you would have learned, time and again, that the only reason you have lived to see another day to fight me was because of your precious Dragonborn."
"The Dragonborn has faith in us!" Onmund shouted from the stern. More ice storms had weakened the fire enough to where he could actually be heard from where Brelyna was standing. "He wouldn't have sent us here if he didn't know we could kill you tonight, M'Alga!"
M'Alga's reptilian head split in an ugly grin, putting most of his tusklike teeth on full display. "Your words are brave, Nord," he snarled, "but even from where I stand, I can taste the foolishness in your bravery. I will say this as simply as I can, that I might save you further trouble: None of you has what it takes to kill me—and you know it, do you not? Deep inside the coldest reaches of your mind, you know that you have been led to your deaths tonight." He spat again. "The Dragonborn will regret underestimating the scope of my powers so recklessly."
Onmund remained defiant. As if Azura herself was speaking for her, Brelyna felt the words float up in her throat, almost against her will. "The Dragonborn did not send us here," she said, loudly and clearly like a bell. "I did! It was my idea to come here, and my idea to stop you from murdering the Emperor!"
The woman shifted in her position slightly, but Brelyna's attention was totally focused on M'Alga, and so she did not notice. "Even now, our Arch-Mage is preparing to do what he can to destroy you for good!" she screamed, hopeful in her heart that Grimnir was doing just that, making use of every scrap of parchment in the Arcanaeum to research whatever weaknesses this lizard-thing possessed.
But M'Alga, however, did not appear cowed by her avowal. In fact, he appeared almost resentful, and a noticeable slump could be seen to his frame now. "Is that so?" he asked. "That no longer matters to me now. It is too little, too late."
His head turned away from them, and focused intently on a point to the south of them. "My master calls for me, now," he said, his voice softer now than Brelyna had ever heard it before. "He knows everything that has happened here … even from so far away. He knows my work is done."
And then, quite suddenly, the creature turned from them, and walked away towards the bow of the Katariah. "I have no reason to remain here anymore," he said—simply and quietly, as if it was the most obvious fact in the world—and then he stopped. "But I have not yet failed my master. One final act, to ensure that I am returned to his side … and the honor that awaits me for the tasks I have done … in the name of the Worm."
Suddenly, he spun on his clawed heel, and his massive claws sparked with swirling energy. "You will all die here," M'Alga boomed, raising his arms high, "and I shall raise you all as thralls for my master. I shall return you with me, and the power you have shown me will serve the Black Worm well for many years to come."
"We will not be slaves to anyone," said a familiar voice, "and especially not to you, monster!"
Where J'zargo had come from, Brelyna could not be sure. But she could have kissed him when she saw him on the deck, holding a barrel in one paw, and holding the other paw on his hip in a gallant pose.
Before M'Alga could even think to react, J'zargo had already moved. In a single, heaving movement, the Khajiit had hurled the heavy barrel straight at the monster. And in the instant before it connected with M'Alga's bulk, Brelyna thought she saw a scroll tucked into one of the hoops—and immediately recognized what it was.
At the exact moment as she leapt over Onmund to cover him, the barrel exploded. Sand was blasted out in every direction, and only the fact that the mages had noticed the scroll had saved them; millions of fine grains, superheated from the mage-fire in the scroll, showered their robes and singed their hair. J'zargo himself had ducked behind a crate the moment he'd tossed the barrel, and so escaped any appreciable harm.
M'Alga was not so lucky. The bellowing, muted roar that came from him told Brelyna he'd taken the full blast of the improvised missile—and right in the face as well, judging by the sound of his howling. The Dunmer chanced a look above her shoulder, and felt her jaw go slack: M'Alga was writhing about the deck, his massive claws itching at his face, clearly in awful pain. A closer look revealed the reason why: M'Alga had taken the superhot sand quite literally head-on—his eyes had been seared by the combination of fire and fine earth.
He was blind.
M'Alga stumbled about the deck, trying his hardest to claw out the sizzling grit in his eyes, but to no avail. He collided with the starboard handrail, overbalanced, and toppled overboard, still screaming and bellowing like an angry dragon even as he splashed into the water.
For a moment, there was only the sound of the crackling fire, now significantly smaller than it had been before. It was still large enough, however, that J'zargo was framed in its light from where Brelyna stood—although, even silhouetted by the flames, the Khajiit's toothy grin was unmistakable.
The Dunmer could not find words for what had just happened. All she seemed able to do was slump to the deck and do a passable imitation of a freshly caught salmon. "How … what … "
"When Grimnir tested Khajiit's scrolls that long time ago," the Khajiit smirked, "this one may not have asked him to test all of them. J'zargo may have kept one or two around."
His smirk widened. "For … sentimental purposes."
Brelyna could not have picked a less appropriate time to start laughing her foolish head off at the Khajiit who had just inflicted a more damaging blow on M'Alga than anyone in Skyrim ever had—perhaps even Grimnir Torn-Skull.
She would not have laughed quite so much, however, had she known that in the midst of the chaos, the mysterious assassin had disappeared.
By the time the mages were able to completely put out the blaze on the Katariah, the scene astern was ghastly—the deck was blackened and charred, and still hot to the touch even after Onmund had used up a great deal of frost magic in containing the blaze. The ship's wheel was nothing more than embers, and a wooden throne that Brelyna presumed the Emperor would use on warm, sunny days to oversee his subjects and his domain was nothing more than firewood; whatever trappings it had once possessed had been completely destroyed.
A short investigation found the source of the fire: a shattered lantern, no doubt caught in the crossfire between M'Alga and the mysterious assassin. The oil from the lantern had spilled onto the wood, and some source of flame—Brelyna surmised either a torch that had fallen as well, or a miscast fire spell—had ignited the flammable liquid. The dryness of the wood had left the fire to spread, and by that time, too many soldiers had been slain to viably keep the blaze under control through normal means.
"Over here!" J'zargo suddenly called out from portside. "This one has found something you may wish to see."
The Dunmer reached him in seconds, and followed J'zargo's outstretched claw. The burnt corpse of a Penitus Oculatus soldier was there, and dead center in where his throat ought to be was a shaft of an arrow, black as night, its head buried into the handrail that supported the soldier's body, effectively nailing him to the ship.
Brelyna ran a finger along the spiral grooves carved into the arrow—the black missile hadn't been so much as warmed by the crippling heat around it, which meant that it could only be made of one thing. "Solid ebony—head, shaft, even the fletching," she noted. "This looks more like a crossbow bolt than an actual arrow. You could get some incredible distances with something like this."
Her boot suddenly trod on something thin and flexible. Mystified, the dark elf looked down and saw, amidst the blackened wood of the deck, a length of thin, pitch-black rope, fluttering in the wind from where it had been tied to the shaft of the bolt, just above the nock. The stray fibers from where the rope had been severed, however, were a ghostly white, and flew like gossamer in the wind.
"Frostbite spider silk," Brelyna said knowingly, her tone one of grim triumph. Spider silk was incredibly strong; even the strongest of weapons needed time to hack through the stuff—time, it seemed, that these unfortunate sailors did not have. "It looks like the outside was dipped in pitch as well. Makes it stronger, and harder to spot as well when it's this dark out."
"Khajiit feels the wind on his fur," J'zargo said—and indeed, Brelyna felt a salty breeze from her left cool the air around them, providing a welcome respite from the fire's aftermath. "Strong and cool, from seaside. The pitch made the rope much heavier as well, just enough so that the wind could not shift it, this one thinks." He swore. "Rope like this cannot be bought from any merchant. It was specially made for this one purpose. J'zargo knew it, and staked his whiskers on it—she was indeed a member of the Dark Brotherhood."
Brelyna's eyes followed the length of the black missile, calculating the angle and possible origin of the missile. It didn't take the Dunmer very long to come up with an answer. "Our assassin must have boarded the ship from there—that rock ledge off to starboard," she explained. She pointed to a cliff hanging just below the northern side of the arch. "The highest point of the cliff reaches above the stern. All she had to do was tie off one end of the rope there, fire the other end here on the arrow—and she had an instant grapnel."
J'zargo was wide-eyed. "From that distance, and with this wind?" he rasped. "Even if she is with the Brotherhood, she is no ordinary killer."
Onmund, however, frowned. "She'd be a sitting duck if she climbed a rope that long. How could the Penitus Oculatus not have had the time to deal with her while she was out there?"
"First of all, I'm not so sure she climbed," Brelyna said, picking up the rope in her hands. "This rope feels smooth, even with the pitch. It's more likely she slid down the rope—the wind is strong enough that it must have helped her along the way. And secondly, I think M'Alga was giving the Penitus Oculatus enough trouble as it was when she made her move."
"Is it possible they were working together?" J'zargo asked, his furry face wrinkled with worry. "They disagreed on this ship, and came to blows before we boarded?"
Brelyna paused, and thought. All three times they had encountered this woman, the Black Worm had not been far behind. The first time, outside Hob's Fall Cave—but the woman shrouded in black had killed one necromancer right in front of them, Brelyna knew, and almost certainly more earlier. There was the remote possibility that it had all been a ruse, however, now that Brelyna thought about it.
But the second time, outside the dining room of Castle Dour—the Black Worm had been nowhere nearby then, with the sole exception of M'Alga in the Blue Palace. And the assassin had not been present at the time of M'Alga's creation; Brelyna had not seen any other signs of life in that cave other than Falmer and chaurus, and the necromancers that controlled them, and were later subsumed into that infernal machinery. So she couldn't possibly have known about his existence up until that moment, when Grimnir and the others had fled to the keep.
"No," she said at length. "I don't think the woman was in on any of this. As far as I know, she just … happened to appear. That's the only reason I can think of—complete coincidence. As a matter of fact, I'm not even sure if either knew the other existed until tonight. They were just here for the—"
She broke off, feeling a sudden icy grip around her insides. I completely forgot.
Onmund had the same look of unpleasant realization. "Brelyna … is there anyone else on this ship?" he whispered, his throat sounding very dry. "Anyone we missed?"
Brelyna only needed to apply her scrye for a moment to find out … and her heart was already sinking into her bowels even before her suspicions were confirmed. "No."
They all stood there, rooted to the deck, as the enormity of the truth behind the simple reply settled upon the mages.
"K'sharraj … " J'zargo swore again under his breath.
Onmund had gone white. "We shouldn't be here," he muttered, his tone fearful. "Imperial agents could reach this ship any minute. If they see us, we'll be executed as traitors for sure!"
Brelyna remained there for a moment, her dark face contorted in thought. So many had died tonight, some by the blade, others by flame or claw—but all of them had died needlessly, unsuspecting of the horrible fates that had converged upon this ship. They were the only ones left to tell the tale—them, the strange woman with the Brotherhood, and M'Alga.
The Dunmer felt as though her limbs had been coated with lead. She felt lethargic in the wake of her failure, unable and unwilling to move with any semblance of urgency at all. Nothing else mattered to her anymore. She had failed.
Eventually, she made her way portside in a few short strides. "Let them deal with it," she said through clenched teeth, as her hands worked to untie a rope from a longboat nearby, one that had managed to escape the flames relatively unscathed. "This isn't our problem anymore."
A long while later—most of that time being devoted to lowering that boat to the water—the three mages sat on the shoreline, shivering from the wind and sea spray as they watched Imperial agents by the dozen board the Katariah from far away.
No one spoke or moved—no one had the energy to at the moment; J'zargo could not even lift a claw to cast any fire to warm them up. But all the mage-fire in the world could do nothing for Brelyna right now. With each passing silent moment, she was expecting to hear the shouts from the ship, to confirm the news they knew to be true, but did not want to accept.
Would it have been different, she thought to herself, if Grimnir had been there?
The Dunmer thought back to the fires she had seen twice now on the Arch-Mage's body, and the devastation he had caused from a single punch. Would the Emperor still live, she wondered, if he'd been there to save him? Or would the power of the Dragonborn lash out again, and kill him by accident?
Had Emperor Titus Mede II been doomed to die here, tonight, no matter what Azura's threads of fate foretold?
Then, suddenly, a dozen voices or more—shouting in unmistakable shock and alarm of seeing one dead body in particular—cut the silence between them. Onmund sighed.
"The Emperor's dead," he groaned. "M'Alga's gone off to gods-know-where. I'd say we're right back where we started, but even that implies we made some progress tonight."
Brelyna wasn't about to argue with him. Her chin was in her hands, and she now felt more despondent than before. "I'm starting to think Grimnir was right," she murmured. "Without him, we're sunk."
The howl of a dragon echoed far off in the distance, as if to punctuate her misery.
J'zargo patted her tentatively on the shoulder. "We did the best we could," he said, trying to be reassuring in spite of the dour tone in his own voice. "This one can offer no better praise than that."
Onmund snorted. "Is it because that's the only praise you can offer right now, J'zargo?"
The Khajiit didn't answer.
Brelyna sighed, and laid back upon the shoreline, ignoring the grittiness of the sand. "Gods, I'm tired."
A gust of wind kicked up around them, sending sand and flotsam everywhere. It spoke volumes about Brelyna's fatigue that she did not immediately notice that the gust had not, in fact, come from the northwest as the wind had before—but in the complete other direction.
Another dragon bellowed, the echoing call sounding much closer than its faraway companion.
No, Brelyna suddenly realized as it hit her. It wasn't just another dragon.
It's already here.
She didn't even remember getting to her feet. "Everyone up!" she hissed under her breath. "Get to cover now—before we're seen!"
But it was too late—Brelyna saw a vast, winged shadow pass by right over them, mere feet above their heads, and the force of the slipstream sent all three mages sprawling facedown in the gritty sand before they'd taken a single step. In a single fluid movement, Brelyna, out of the corner of her eye, saw the dragon contort in midair to hover above their heads—looking unmistakably right at them.
Then it landed on the shoreline.
How the Imperial soldiers on the Katariah didn't notice this grave threat, Brelyna did not know. But in an instant, all else was driven from her mind as the earth shook from the dragon's impact, flotsam and jetsam splintering into kindling beneath the massive claws. The Dunmer felt the hot breath of the beast down the back of her neck, and the dragon's growling mouth sounded only inches away from her head—
And then—"That will do, Odahviing. I think they've been through enough tonight already."
No other voice would have given Brelyna the courage and strength to stand up. She sprang to her feet so quickly that she nearly unbalanced and fell over again, spitting grit and sand from her mouth all the while.
Grimnir Torn-Skull, meanwhile, dismounted from his dragon with some difficulty—he seemed to have trouble walking, which worried Brelyna—but that was immaterial. The Dunmer could have kissed him full on the mouth for showing up at this moment, when she had never felt more disappointed with herself.
"Thank the Divines," said the Arch-Mage, tottering over to Brelyna and embracing her, along with Onmund and J'zargo when the two of them had recovered enough from the shock to run up to him. "I was beginning to think I wouldn't find you."
Brelyna, now that the shock was beginning to ebb, was the first to speak. "What are you doing here? And what's going on with your legs?" she added, pointing at the shaking knees.
"It's nothing," Grimnir said dismissively, waving a hand in the air. "I've just had a shock, that's all. I've never pushed Odahviing to fly so fast in his life before—I wasn't prepared for just how fast he could fly." He sighed. "I'm glad I came here first. I thought maybe you might need some help after I took care of things in Winterhold."
Onmund heaved a sigh. "You came too late, Grimnir," he said sadly. "The Emperor is—"
"I'm aware." Grimnir waved his hand again. "And I know M'Alga escaped. But we've got a bigger problem now."
He motioned to Odahviing's back. "Climb on—there's no more time. I found out more than I needed to know today. See, I wasn't just at Winterhold, finding out more about Varulf. I was also trying to find out M'Alga's location. And I was successful—I know where he's going next."
Brelyna looked from Grimnir to Odahviing and back again, utterly lost for words for the second time tonight. "What … where … ?"
"I'll explain on the way—just get on!" Grimnir said impatiently, gesturing at them in agitation to climb onto the spiky back of Odahviing. "If we let M'Alga escape this time, we will never be able to catch him again … and he may well be in position to put the entire world in danger."
Next chapter: M'Alga's influence extends far beyond what Grimnir had ever dreamed possible.
A/N: Hopefully this landlubber didn't make any glaring mistakes with his nautical terminology in this chapter.
Not too much longer to go with the story; I think I can have it all wrapped up by the end of June. Rate and review if you so desire, and thanks for reading! - K