It was difficult not to tremble as I listened to Rielus, as he had once been called. The Blade's ghost made short shrift of the matter of his imprisonment on this plane and the state of Sancre Tor. It would be no easy task to free the other cursed Blades and set them to lift the spell of the Underking.
I did not know the name, but its sound crept stealthily through my veins, chilling me. It was obvious enough to even the most uneducated pauper that this was a name that should be feared and reviled, but the ghost would tell me nothing more. Only that the Underking was an evil beast that may have been man, once. I did not blame Rielus for not telling me the entire story because my duty was clear: free the spirits and retrieve the armor. That was all that was required of me; a fact I was suddenly grateful for. There would be plenty of time for researching Cyrodiil's history with the terrible specter later on. For now, I had work to do…though that work was not frightless in itself.
Freeing one Blade did nothing to lift the deathly pallor of the fortress and the walls still glowed with an unearthly, unholy light. I could hear sounds just beyond the limits of my senses that shrieked and moaned their way past my mind: the calls of the dead and beings long lost to humanity. They were trapped here in this place and it frightened me a great deal. Still, there was no time for speculations or indulgences of my childlike fear. There was only enough time to take another swig from my health potions bottle and move forward, hoping for the best. If I had truly believed in the gods of Skyrim I would have prayed. Anything to get out of this accursed place.
A pain twitched in my muscles, sending a spasm down my side. It burned in the ribs Rielus had unwittingly taken a swing at earlier and I hurriedly guzzled that last of the healing potion before starting up the next hallway. Perhaps, in fact, a switch of weapons would be in order. Clearly, they handled swords better than I gave them credit for. They were unbelievably strong and quick- blunt force was the only thing that would finish them quickly. I made my choice and swung my blade around, sliding it back into its sheath before unhooking the mace from my belt.
I hefted it up into one hand and gave a few experimental swings before I pulled my shield closer into my body and began creeping forward again. Blunt weapons weren't my best to begin with and of them the axe was my favored tool, but most of my axes would have required me going without a shield. In Sancre Tor, walking around without a shield would have been suicide. So, I held the mace at ready and continued moving.
It wasn't until I had freed the next Blade that I realized what the sinister fort reminded me of. I encountered him in another hall and he was hideous and nearly indestructible as the first. I fought hard against him to release the cursed man's spirit and it earned me another set of bruised ribs and a very painful wound across my upper thigh. Though the battle was as crippling as the first had been, I still dispatched the monster more quickly than before; and our introduction was brief before Valdemar's spirit was moving away from me- through the walls and towards the burial chamber. He was as reluctant to speak as Rielus had been and I was glad for it- I was too busy nursing my aching body to care what the devils had to tell me. As long as he gave me the armor later, I would have battled Count Hassildor if necessary.
I groaned and rubbed my newly bruised side again before casting a small healing spell. The magic glowed weakly in my hand and spread out along my leg before flickering out. I sighed and tried again, nearly sick with relief when I saw the magic finally take hold and begin its work. The terror which had gripped me earlier, outside the dreadful fortress, beat through my heart once again; it warmed my cheeks and muddled my thoughts. I was sick, I was alone. I knew I daren't hesitate another moment and cast the healing spell yet again. Then I struggled to my knees and caught my breath as I tried to stand.
There, while kneeling in an alarmingly growing pool of my own blood, memories of my childhood returned. The noises and atmosphere of Sancre Tor reminded me of the time when I was girl on Solstheim, when the other children dared me to enter a barrow that was reputedly haunted by the walking dead. Being young and desperate to make friends, even with mean spirited whelps, I had taken the dare with a brave glare upon my face.
The barrow had been icy cold with the presence of the dead encased in their tombs of ice and centuries old magic. It had been difficult to see anything out of the ordinary about the burial place at first, but as my eyes had adjusted I came to understand why the adults made us children swear never to play in or near the barrows. They were sacred to our ancestors and protected from all intruders, even the descendants of the families buried inside. And myself, as a girl only distantly related to the Skaal, stood little chance to be tolerated by anything that dwelt within those dreadful caves. For months after the incident, I tortured myself with the question: did the other children realize that when they sent me in to meet my fate so easily? It was unanswerable, for soon after I was found, rescued and brought to good health again, I was secluded from the others. I no longer had playmates; only my training kept me company afterwards.
A noise behind me in the hall startled me and I spun around suddenly, slicing another rat in two without thinking. I turned slowly back to my course to locate the other Blades and smiled grimly. Perhaps those horrid, lonely years on Solstheim had prepared me in more ways than the one. Had my trainer and mentor known what I was to face later in my life? Had my fate been foretold by the medicine woman and the shaman? There was no telling, honestly, but it strengthened my heart and courage to know that the brats I had grown up with had actually done me a favor by pushing me into danger.
The third warrior I encountered went down quickly under my mace and I murmured a grateful prayer over his bones even as his spirit attempted to speak to me. Then Casner took off through the catacomb walls as his predecessors had done. I stared at his retreating figure for only a moment before I squeezed my hand into a fist and muttered yet another spell. I could feel the blood from my wound pooling beneath my armor, making my slacks stick to my skin. It was a very unpleasant feeling and the warmth I'd felt upon my brow earlier had only grown more insistent. If I didn't leave Sancre Tor soon, I was certain Martin really never would see me again, as he feared. Not that it mattered much how he thought he felt- about me or my mission. It had little to do with him; he sat cozily in the hall of Cloud Ruler making sorrowful noises over my journeys with a book on his lap and mead at his fingertips…his hair unkempt because he hadn't bathed in days, so taken with his books…bags under his eyes because he would only sleep when Jauffre made him…
I stopped myself and beat my chest a bit to unclog the sudden buildup in my throat that would prevent me breathing properly.
Other people called it tears…I called it weakness. I shut my eyes and pulled myself upright. The pain was getting to be blinding, despite my best efforts. So- the prison next. I pulled a map from my belt and stared hard at it, blinking furiously. Where was I now? Ah, the catacombs. A shiver ran down my spine and I shrugged it off. Truly, this was exactly like my time in the barrow- undead attacking, their grisly, half rotted faces smiling at me in murderous delight. I shivered again and forced myself to remember Lore. Who knew how he was, tied up by himself? No doubt a wolf would find him soon, if not already. And then where would my only companion be with no way to defend himself, no way to run off?
Putting the map away and hanging a small lantern at my belt, I stepped back into the shadows, leaving the wretched place the way I'd come. I would find the prisons soon enough. Time began to pass quickly, in a blur. It wasn't long before I ceased to be aware of which corners I had turned and which hallway I should have taken, two doorways back. The trail behind me was littered with dead creatures and the remains of ghosts; some of my own doing and some which seemed to have been there for decades. Eventually I was able to put out my lantern because the glow from the walls seemed to grow stronger the deeper into the fortress I went.
Then, without warning, something whooshed through the air by my head. I stuck out my shield in front of me, unsure of what was happening. It came again, more quickly and suddenly a blow landed on the arm carrying the shield. I let out a howl of pain and flung my own mace out to meet the attacker. How had I missed the skeleton who now battled me? He had been right in front of me; clearly he had seen me coming a mile away, or heard me. How could I have let my guard down so much? I swung my mace back and forth widely, hearing it smash into the bones before me with satisfying crunches. Then, just as quickly as the battle had begun, I heard the creature topple to the floor in a heap. I lowered my shield arm gingerly and surveyed the damage to myself and the creature. He was gone, whatever he'd been, and I lay the mace down to loot his body. Finding a key, but nothing else of interest, I settled back on my heels and picked up the mace again before looking to my arm once more. It was at an odd angle in the straps of the shield and appeared to swelling a little. I flexed the muscles gingerly and was rewarded with another blinding pain, worse than the slow burn that was flushing my cheeks.
Wonderful. How was I supposed to carry a weapon, lantern, supplies, shield, the armor of Tiber Septim and ride a goddamned horse with a broken arm? I howled with pain and rage once more before I threw the shield down. It was also bent out of shape and yanked the already torn arm about before sliding uselessly to the ground. Well. Since I was already well on my way to dying, I might as well make sure I could at least hold the blasted artifact in my crippled hand. Broken or not, that was one thing my fingers could still do, but it wouldn't happen if I was carrying a shield. I clasped my hand tight around the mace, used the last of my magic for a brief and mostly useless healing spell, and stood up.
Bracing myself against the wall, I made my way to the cell the damned skeleton had been guarding and opened it slowly, hefting the mace as high as I could, ready to bring it down on the head of whatever lay beyond the doorway. There was a terrible clanking sound and I knew I'd found the last of the Blades. His feet were barely out the door, turning towards me before I'd swung the mace down upon him with all the might left me. He gave a mighty groan and stumbled back, giving me enough time to raise the mace and bring it down once more with a crash to his ancient helmet.
Dismay covered my face as I realized he'd stumbled just out of reach of my good arm. With an excited cackle, the thing swept back towards me, his sword raised. I swept my broken arm back, desperately searching for the shield I had discarded so hastily. Even with the pain stinging my eyes, my teeth biting through my lip to stop my tortured scream, I found it: my hands closed over the bent piece of metal and brought it swinging up before me. His sword met stone as my shield flew forward, tearing into his bones and scattering them. Then, with the last of my strength, I heaved myself forward onto him and beat my mace down on his cracked skull. It grinned up at me terribly as the life left his bones and I shuddered as the only thing that was holding me up fell to the ground.
I threw myself back against the wall and sank to the floor. My arm was even more twisted than before, the wound on my leg had torn open. I shuddered again and looked up to find the ghost of the Blade standing over me, offering a hand to me. I laughed weakly.
"Go on," I croaked. "I will find you."
He looked at me uncertainly before heading off, the same as his brothers at arms. I wondered, briefly, what would happen to me if I died on the floor of the fortress' dim prisons. Would I also become a cursed undead Blade? Or had my freeing them all freed them totally from the tyranny of the spell? I searched deep within my shivering frame for the will to live, found it, and hung on for dear life. I dropped the mace from my good hand and used the appendage to claw at the wall behind me, looking for purchase. It found a ledge and I leveraged myself to unsteady feet. Staring down at the mace blankly, I shrugged and then turned, still grasping the wall, to leave the blasted spot.
There was work yet to do. I still had to find the final burial hall and retrieve the armor…as long as the Blades could work the spell loose. Gasping in pain as the injured arm dangled at my side, I continued to creep along the walls and corridors, up and down stairs, until I finally reached the chamber. I was feeling fainter with every yard I managed- the blood must have been pouring slowly from the wound in my leg, but I could feel nothing in it except a numbness that frightened me desperately. I shook my head to clear it of cobwebs and nearly fell over. Without thinking I flung my useless limb at the wall in an effort to steady myself and howled with rage as fire burned up through my shoulder, down my back and into my skull.
Martin, you son of a bitch, I seethed. You'll be lucky if you ever see me again after this- and you, telling me to be careful! I forced my ribs in and out so that my shoulders wouldn't lift with my breathing, but only rediscovered the bruising that now covered half my side. Wincing, I turned back to the door ahead of me, determined to forget Martin for the moment. Thinking of him would bring me no help, do me no good- it was as useless as my arm. He knew the dangers, he had warned me and whether I'd taken heed and had a good night's sleep the previous day would most likely make no difference now.
I was in no man's land, now…Sancre Tor was dangerous until the curse was lifted and it would have nearly killed me whether I'd gone in on a full stomach and plenty of healing potions or not. Of that much I was certain. I resolved myself once more and leaned against the door before me, shoving it open slowly. Taking stock of the situation ahead of me, I could see the heart of the evil glowing brightly at the end of the large rectangular room. On either side of it the spirits were lined up, prepared for whatever it was they must do…I approached Rielus slowly, stumbling only a few times before collapsing to my knees nearby. I called to him.
"I am here! What do you require…of me?" I managed to choke out the last portion and his ghost turned to stare at me.
"Nothing is required now, brave warrior. Now we will lift the curse and restore the sanctity of the hall and shrine. Stay back," he ordered me sternly and returned to his place.
No sooner had he knelt to join his brothers than a bright light filled the room, their whispers echoing all around me. I shuddered and closed my eyes against the magic I was witnessing. There was a mighty wail, as if something was in great pain or agony, and then silence descended upon the shrine. I took my hand from my eyes and leaned heavily on the good arm, gazing about me. The Blades remained in their places, but the scent of evil was gone from the place. I took a small breath and then lifted my weakened frame to its feet before taking several shuddering steps down the stairs and into the chamber where the armor lay. I looked from the pieces to my useless arm and back before lifting the suit one handed and shoving under my good arm.
I was utterly defenseless until I could get out to Lore and pack the damned artifact away. The situation would have been laughable if I wasn't already aware that I was dying.
I drifted past the Blades who were resolved to stay and continue guarding the sanctuary. Nodding my thanks to them, I passed back through the door into the outer hall where there were more steps to climb and more hallways to maneuver through. I took each step slowly, careful of my waning health. I had to preserve as much strength as I could for the road that still lay ahead. I had to make my way back through the mountains up to Cloud Ruler, yet, and I'd be damned if I came so far only to die now. Martin needed me, regardless of his feelings for me…or mine for him. I limped my way back to the entry and shoved against it with all my might.
The door gave way and I stumbled out into the mist; the sun was filtering through softly among the trees and fog of the mountain. It was a welcome and surprising sight after what felt like hours in the wretched tomb of a fortress. I felt my body shudder with delight at the fresh air and prospect of water, sleep and, most importantly, food and potions for healing. As I leaned against the open door and took my first step back into reality and relative safety, I felt my legs finally give way.
No! Just a few more yards- Lore is just beyond that wall, there! Oh, mercy- Lady Azura, help me! My thoughts ran amok in my head as I panicked. I could barely lift myself to my hands and peer upwards, my body was so weak. The armor of a god and king lay beside me in a dusty heap, glittering blandly on the ground. I felt tears threaten once again and willed them away, but it was too late. The panic had done its job and I could feel hopelessness beating at the edges of my already erratic pulse. If I could only just…
There was a whinny somewhere above me and I shielded my face with my good hand, wondering if I had missed some horror outside the fortress- another skeleton, a bandit, perhaps a ghostly horse? Then there was a warmth upon my arm, nuzzling below it to reach my face and I nearly laughed.
Whiskers- real, live whiskers- belonging to my real, live horse. Lore was alive. He was safe and had managed to tear himself free of the tree limb, as he usually did. For the first time in weeks I praised his ornery nature and allowed him to check me, nuzzling me all over with his lips and teeth, looking to make sure I was still alright.
"Lore, closer, boy," I whispered to him hoarsely. I needed to reach the pouch on his back, for it contained the rest of my stock of potions and food. I would need to heal myself as best as possible before even trying to mount him and ride him to Cloud Ruler. Using his saddle as leverage, I pulled myself up and tugged several bottles and packages from the bag before collecting the armor and awkwardly storing it in their place. He whinnied joyfully, glad to see me standing. I managed a weak smile and patted his nose before downing several bottles in a row. Wine, mead, and mostly potions made their way to my stomach before I even looked at the loaf of bread and hunk of cheese I'd been saving. I tucked them into a side pocket and waited a moment for the magic to take effect.
Not surprisingly, it didn't heal all my injuries, but it helped with the pain enough that I could swing myself up into the saddle (with the help of a nearby rock) and tug my sword from its sheath before settling into my seat. I stroked Lore's neck once more and handed him a carrot before I urged him forward. Only when we were back on a recognizable road and had left the wolves and other dangerous creatures behind us did I evaluate the damage to my leg and arm more closely. The potions had stopped the bleeding in my thigh, but I could still see the veins pulsing beneath the wound, which had turned the nasty black color of too much congealed blood. The edges looked torn and it was no wonder I'd finally collapsed back at Sancre Tor. It was a miracle I hadn't collapsed earlier, inside.
Sighing and patting a cloth at the wound as much as I could, I finally packed it in and pulled my armor back over it. I would have to deal with it later. As for my arm, I daren't move it anymore than I had already, or the bone might move even farther out of place. I didn't have the training necessary to save myself the pain of re-breaking and resetting it later on, so I left it. We made our steady and painful way ever further up the mountains and I continued to make soothing noises to my horse, reassuring him of my presence. He seemed skittish and nervous of my injuries, as though he were worried for me. I did my best to speak gently to him as I was able, for the breath was still coming slowly to me and my throat felt parched.
I no longer cared for what Martin might think of my appearance when he finally saw me; for me, now, there was only the mission and I was only the Emperor's champion. I had seen death full in the face this time and it had scared me. If I didn't want the same fate for thousands of innocents; if I didn't want it to visit itself upon my beloved Martin- for I could call him my beloved, now- I had to make myself strong and focused.
There was no time for anything else. Only my work. Only saving the empire.
Lore seemed to sense my resolve and my waning strength and he hurried forward into a clip, his ears laying back across his head and his mouth pulling at the bit. I let him lead, for once.
For once, I agreed with him. Yes, I thought wearily, let us go meet our King, triumphant and worthy. And let us trouble him not.