Chapter 21
The night of the jailbreak was one long remembered in Markarth, and indeed, across the Reach, for many years to come. Depending where your sympathies lay, it was either a night of extreme horror, or one of jubilant celebration. Madanach had given instructions to his people that anyone who yielded was not to be harmed. He also sent word through his network to claim responsibility for the recent murders, including poor Eltrys, though he insisted that covert arrangements be made to provide for his widow.
Rhiada knew the truth, however, and she remained in her home that night and mourned, praying the Divines would deal justice to the man who was truly responsible for her husband's murder.
Marcus found himself escaping down the tunnel Madanach and his men had carved deep into the mine, which broke into the ruins under the city of Markarth. There they came face-to-face with the guardians the ancient Dwemer left behind to protect their city. With several Reachmen witchblades, including Madanach himself who was a formidable ally, they made short work of the automatons, but Marcus privately felt he would not have wanted to confront the mechanicals on his own, especially the one Duach called a Dwarven Centurion, a colossal figure made entirely of bronze that blew boiling hot steam at them. One of the prisoners was parboiled before they realized the thing was still active.
The frostbite spiders gave them little trouble, and when they finally neared the entrance of the ruins which led out into Markarth, Madanach called a halt. Ahead, a young woman in Forsworn gear approached and greeted him.
"Madanach! You've made it!" she grinned. "Here, I've brought all the things you requested." She pointed to several satchels lined up against the wall. Madanach motioned to his men to armor and equip themselves.
"And what of the other things?" he asked her, cocking an eyebrow.
"They were a little harder to get, but I had some help from our man inside," she said. She came over to Marcus and presented him with his Blades armor, weapons, and everything that had been taken from him.
"Thank you," he said gratefully, eager to get back to some semblance of "normal."
"The rest of you go on ahead and wait for me by the entrance," the King in Rags told them. "I need to talk with our friend, here."
He led Marcus a little way off before speaking.
"Now, then, young Dragonborn," he said. "This is the way it's going to be. I've had Kaie recover all the things that were stolen from you. You better get ready before we break out into the city. And take this; it's blessed with the old magicks. Something to remember me by. "
"What happens now?" Marcus asked.
"Now?" Madanach grinned. "I announce to all of Markarth that I have returned. Don't worry about your name. They'll know who to blame – and fear – after today."
"And your dream of an independent Reach?"
Madanach nodded. "It might take years, but I'll organize the Reachfolk again. We'll reclaim our land, and then, once that has been firmly established, we'll have peace. A kingdom once more."
Marcus gazed at the old man. He wondered how many years Madanach might have left to him. Living in the conditions of Cidhna Mine couldn't have been good for him. Despite the fact he was a murderer many times over, and a manipulator of the highest degree, Marcus felt more than a little sympathy for his cause.
"If I can help in any way, I'll do what I can," he promised. "I'm not a Jarl, or High King, or Emperor. If I could, I'd boot out the corruption here and give you the lands myself. But maybe I can make some diplomatic inroads for you. Lay some groundwork and get people to start talking."
"Hmm…" Madanach rumbled. "Well, it's more than we've had in the past," he mused. "I personally don't think these Nords understand anything but a sword between the ribs, but my people are tired of fighting. We just want peace and a place to call our own. If you can Igmund to agree to leave our Redoubts alone, I think we might be able to meet him halfway."
Marcus grinned. "That's all I ask."
"In any case, young Dragonborn," Madanach said now, "I will send word to the Redoubts that you are to be granted safe passage. As long as you don't violate my trust in you, you'll be able to move freely through the Reach." Here he winked. "But if you upgrade your armor, keep the 'safe passage' sign clearly visible until your identity has been confirmed!"
In the end, the Night of Terror (as the Nords called it), or the Night of Liberation (as the Reachfolk called it) was really over very quickly. There were in fact few casualties, and most of those, coincidentally enough, turned out to be Thonar and Thongvor Silver-Blood, who refused to yield, and a couple dozen of the city guard who turned out to have far more coins in their possession than a simple guard could have earned in a year.
Jarl Igmund was mortified to learn that Thonar had actually thrown the Dragonborn into Cidhna Mine and was prepared to leave him there to rot. He was embarrassed to realize the extent to which the Silver-Bloods had manipulated and corrupted their way so close to the Mournful Throne. He was more than willing to declare all their properties default to the throne, including Cidhna Mine.
As for the Dragonborn, Igmund practically tripped over himself in his attempts to make it up to Marcus. A lesser man would have exploited such a situation, but Marcus wasn't looking for anything for himself. Yes, he was outraged at the way he'd been treated, but the man responsible was dead. Now was the opportunity to open up dialog for future considerations.
"For myself I ask nothing, Jarl Igmund," Marcus told him. "But for the people of the Reach I ask much. I'm not a Nord. I wasn't born here in Skyrim." Boy, is that the truth! "But I've talked with the people here and I've done extensive reading of your histories. And I can see the people are hurting. This Civil War hurts everyone, and when it's compounded by the struggles going on here in the Reach, the people you are sworn to protect are the ones who are hurt the most. It's time to start negotiating a permanent peace with the people of the Reach."
"The Forsworn?" Jarl Igmund scoffed. "Dragonborn, you must have had your brains addled in Cidhna Mine if you think the Forsworn would agree to any kind of peace."
"And that's exactly the kind of attitude that fosters and perpetuates the hatred," Marcus said. "As long as the Nords continue to view the Reachfolk as something less than human, they will continue to think that it's okay to treat them that way. You chafe at the restrictions the Thalmor have put on you through the White-Gold Concordat, yet you don't see the similarities when you consign the Reachfolk to work as glorified slave labor in the mine pits, or refuse to give them land they owned before the Nords came here, or raid their Redoubts because in your mind they're nothing more than animals."
"You would compare us to the damned Thalmor?" Igmund hissed, and Marcus knew it was everything the Jarl could do to keep his voice down, since the Thalmor kept a constant vigil for Talos-worshippers here in his own city. Day after day he had to watch them parade past his throne, smug in the certainty there was nothing he could do to remove them from his presence.
"Prove me wrong," Marcus stated flatly. "Start talking to them. Extend an olive branch, or whatever passes as a sign of peaceful intent here. Forbid the raiding of their Redoubts, and punish those that violate that edict."
"You're asking for more than I can give, Dragonborn," Igmund growled. "My own father was killed by the Forsworn, and our ancestral shield stolen by their filthy Hagravens!"
"Matriarchs," Marcus corrected firmly. "They're Matriarchs, and I've met a couple of them. I won't go so far as to say I feel entirely comfortable around them, but I've dealt fairly with them in the past, and they have dealt fairly with me." He threw all his persuasive voice at Jarl Igmund. "It has to start somewhere," he insisted. "If you want your people to have peace, you have to be prepared to give it, as well as receive it."
Igmund frowned. This wasn't the Dragonborn he had expected. The legends told of a Nord hero who would slay the dragons, destroy the World-Eater and save the world. This Imperial standing before him now seemed to be asking him to step down as Jarl and hand everything over to a band of murdering cut-throats.
"You say you've dealt with these Hagravens….these 'Matriarchs' before?" he asked thoughtfully.
Marcus nodded, on his guard. If his experiences in Skyrim so far were any indication, Igmund was preparing to ask a really big favor.
Here's the wind-up…
"I might believe you, if you could prove it," the Jarl said slowly.
…and the pitch….
"If you could retrieve my father's shield from Blind Cliff Cave, and return it to me, I promise I will keep a more open mind about the For—I mean, about the Reachfolk."
…and it's low and inside!
Repressing a resigned sigh, Marcus gave his most polite smile and promised he would bring the shield back.
Returning to the Silver-Blood Inn - which was undergoing some transitional throes at the management level- Marcus asked for pen and paper and was told there was none to be found. Rolling his eyes, he headed over to Arnleif & Sons to purchase some. He wanted to send a letter home to Lydia and the children letting them know he was fine, but would be delayed a few more days.
Inside the building, the first thing Marcus noticed was how barren the shelves were. Cobwebs were everywhere, and he began to wonder if they'd even have what he was looking for.
"What do you think it all means, Lisbet?" the man asked the woman behind the counter. "Are we going to be safe in our own homes?"
Lisbet….why does that name sound familiar?
"I hope so, Imedhnain," Lisbet said. "For now let's just get back to work." She caught sight of Marcus and motioned him forward. "You there, if you're looking to trade, just step up to the counter."
As he approached, Lisbet's eyes widened. "It's you!" she exclaimed. "The Dragonborn!"
At the exact same moment, Marcus remembered why her name sounded so familiar. It was in the journal he'd taken from the cannibal, Eola, in the Hall of the Dead. Lisbet was one of the members of the Coven of Namira. He felt more than slightly sick.
"Can you believe Madanach is on the loose again?" she asked conversationally. She leaned in closer so that Imedhnain couldn't overhear. "I hope the stories I'm hearing about your involvement in that aren't true!"
Her breath was foul, smelling of decay, almost choking him, and Marcus decided then and there his note could wait. "I hope the tales I've heard about you being a cannibal aren't either," he snapped quietly.
Lisbet's eyes widened in shock and dismay, but Marcus didn't stick around to find out what else she might say or do. He turned on his heel and left.
In the end, he borrowed pen, ink and paper from Rhaerek, Igmund's Steward and uncle, and sat down in a quiet corner to write his letter. He left quite a lot out, promising to fill Lydia in on the details later, sending his love to the children and promising to be home just as soon as he could.
He spent a couple of hours at the forge run by a female Orc named Ghorza gra-Bagrol, who complained about her "useless" apprentice when she wasn't working on something else. Marcus felt sorry for the kid. If his own mistress didn't encourage him, how would he ever gain confidence in himself? Still, it was not his place to say, and every boss runs their business their own way. He made repairs to the Blades armor, replacing loose plates and mending torn leather, and worked at sharpening the Blades sword, though he felt Ghorza watching him keenly as he did so.
"You're doing it wrong," she finally told him.
"What?"
"Your sword," she nodded toward it. "You treat it like a Nord sword, but it's clearly not. And what about that one?" Ghorza asked him, pointing to Dragonbane.
"It's enchanted," Marcus said. "I don't know how to sharpen it."
Ghorza sniffed. "Same as you would the other. It's still a blade."
"I've tried," he said. "It doesn't seem to hold an edge when I do it."
"Let me see." She held out her hand, and Marcus handed the ancient enchanted katana over to her.
"Hmm….Akaviri steel," she said, examining it closely. "Haven't seen this in a long time. What kind of enchantment is on it?"
Marcus shrugged. "I was told it has shock damage, and will do extra damage to dragons."
Ghorza nodded. "What are you using to temper it?"
"Nothing," Marcus said. "I told you, I can't improve it. But I was told it takes quicksilver."
Again Ghorza nodded and finally said, "I can temper it for you. One hundred septims. It should take about an hour."
Marcus blinked, then grinned. "Yeah, sure! That would be great!" He handed over the coins and turned to leave, but Ghorza stopped him.
"Where do you think you're going?" she demanded.
"What?"
"Your payment includes a tutorial. I'm only going to show you how to do this once. Watch and learn. When you're good enough, you'll know what to do." And she proceeded to show him exactly how the sword should be sharpened.
Delphine had never showed him this, never told him how to care for the swords she'd given him. She promised Benor she would show him, but Marcus supposed that was because Benor usually used a battleaxe; a sword was something different for him.
Even Adrianne never stepped in to tell him if he was doing it wrong. He realized then that there was a world of difference between a blacksmith, like Adrianne, and a weaponsmith, like Ghorza.
"Akaviri steel requires constant care," Ghorza scolded him. "You've let even your non-magical sword get into terrible shape. You can't sharpen it the same way you would a Nord blade, or an Elven one, or even an Alik'r scimitar. Each style of blade requires a different style of maintenance."
"Can you train me?" Marcus asked eagerly.
Ghorza gave a short bark of laughter. "Have you got five years?" she grinned. "That's how long apprenticeships usually last, and I've already got Tacitus here. Though between you and me, you can't be any worse than him."
Marcus tactfully decided to say nothing.
"What can you teach me, then?" he asked. "I mean, I'll be around for a couple more days, at least."
"This is good for now," Ghorza said. "Practice this until you know it by heart, until you can do it in your sleep. Use steel on that one there, but quicksilver on this one. Keep them sharp, and you'll see the difference when you get into battle."
Marcus spent the next hour working on both katanas, taking them to Ghorza periodically for her to inspect. He still couldn't seem to improve Dragonbane any better than it was when Delphine had given it to him, but Ghorza was able to put a finer edge to it.
"Should last for a while," she shrugged. "If you bang it up, bring it back. For another hundred septims, I'll fix it for you."
Marcus thanked her and returned to the Silver-Blood Inn. He decided to get a good night's rest – or at least, what passed for it on a cold stone slab – and head out to Blind Cliff Cave in the morning.
Blind Cliff Cave turned out to be a series of caves linking buried ruins with a crumbling tower set far back into the hills. Entering the first cave near the road, he attracted the attention of the lookouts and gave the sign of non-aggression. The Reachfolk within apparently never got the memo, however, because they attacked at once. Angry beyond words, Marcus backed out and wondered if Madanach had played him for a fool.
He promised me safe passage, he fumed silently.
For the Redoubts, his inner dragon reminded him. Not for every single camp, outpost and watchtower in the Reach.
"Now we're splitting hairs," he grumbled.
How would you expect him to get word to everyone, without some form of mass communication?
"Alright, alright!" Marcus muttered. "I get it, it's not his fault." He realized he had no choice. He didn't want to create any ill feelings among the Reachfolk, but if they were going to attack him, he would have to defend himself. "Any ideas on how to minimize the body count?" he asked sarcastically.
There's no need to be snide. You don't have to go through. Go around.
"That's a sheer cliff face!" he protested.
No, it's a crumbling cliff face. And it's not so bad further south.
That was true. From his vantage point by the road he could see the slope lessen as it met the tributary which spilled into the Karth River. It was rugged, but climbable. An hour later he'd pulled himself up past the worst of it and could see a long expanse of rolling green leading up to a broken tower.
Blind Cliff Bastion. There's a walkway from the tower to the cliff face. Help Melka, and you'll get the shield.
"Who's Melka?" Marcus asked, but the dragon had withdrawn once more. There were more Forsworn waiting around the tower, and though once more, Marcus gave the sign of non-aggression, they attacked him first, leaving him little choice but to cut his way through their ranks. Finally, he stood at the door leading into the Bastion within the cliff.
Help Melka, his inner dragon had said. Was she a hostage here? Or perhaps she was a Reachwoman who needed to have something done, and would give him the shield in return? Squaring his shoulders and cracking his neck, Marcus opened the door.
"Who comes?" a voice hissed. "Who comes to aid poor Melka? Poor, poor Melka! Locked in a cage by e-e-evil Petra! Hate her!"
Marcus had heard that kind of voice before. "Melka?" he asked, approaching cautiously. In the dim light he saw a Hagraven, hunched over and miserable, locked in a cage that was almost too small for her to move around in.
"Yesss!" the unfortunate Hagraven hissed. "Kind, kind, meat! Let me out! Help me kill Petra! Stab her! Pluck out her eyeballs!"
"Why do you want to kill Petra?" Marcus asked, not sure if releasing Melka would be the right thing to do.
"She stole my tower!" Melka growled. "Mine! Hate her! You! You are such a nice Breton! You will help Melka kill Petra! Get my tower back!"
"Um…I'm not a Breton," Marcus felt obliged to point out.
"Oh?" Melka stopped her ranting and peered curiously at Marcus with her beady black eyes. "Well, you all look alike to Melka."
His dragon advised him to help Melka to get the shield for Igmund. Now might be a good time to try to negotiate that deal, since he still wasn't certain he could trust Melka. He didn't know how long she'd been held imprisoned here, but she seemed decidedly…unbalanced.
"I'm looking for something that's supposed to be here," he told Melka now. "A large shield, Dwarven-made." He gave her the rest of the description Igmund had given him. "If I let you out, will you help me get it?"
"Shield, yessss," Melka hissed. "Hrofgrir's shield! Melka remembers. Melka will help! Just get my tower back, and the shield is yours!"
Marcus nodded and pulled the chain that opened the cage. Melka stepped out and stretched, fluffing out her feathers and flexing the claws on her hands and feet. "This way!" she grinned. "Petra's followers will be waiting. Many traps to avoid, but Melka knows! Follow Melka!"
With Melka's assistance, it was easy to avoid the deadly traps. Melka herself was a one-woman – bird? – wrecking crew, and Marcus had little to do except follow along and provide assistance where needed. In the final chamber he stayed well out of the way as Melka and Petra flung fireballs at each other, catching the few remaining Forsworn in their midst. The Hagraven duel resulted in their mutual elimination, however, and Marcus felt a bit sorry that Melka would never enjoy ownership of her crumbling real estate again. He found the shield and returned to Markarth to Jarl Igmund.
"I have to say in all honesty that I didn't think you'd succeed," Igmund told him. "I see you're made of sterner stuff than I thought. In any case, you've done me a great service, and I'm grateful. There is room in my court for a new Thane, and it would be my privilege and pleasure to grant you that title. There is but one requirement you would need to fulfill."
Here we go again… How he kept his eyes from rolling he would never figure out.
"What is that, my lord?"
"I could only grant the title to someone who is known throughout my Hold, and who owns at least one piece of property in my city. You've already helped my people by uncovering the corruption ring run by the Silver-Bloods. Speak to me when you've acquired the property, and I will be happy to name you my Thane."
Marcus bowed and left. Thane of Markarth? But he was already Thane of Whiterun. Apparently, that didn't make a difference. He remembered the conversation he'd had with Lydia months ago, on this very topic. It had been her opinion at the time that the Dragonborn should be a hero for all the people of Skyrim, not just the Nords, and not restricted to one Hold, or loyal to only one Jarl.
Marcus had no intention of becoming Thane of Windhelm, unless and until Jarl Ulfric stepped down or was killed, and he didn't think he could stand being Thane to someone as clueless to what went on in her own Hold as Laila Law-Giver, who had a Thalmor plant in her own court. He didn't necessary like Igmund, but he didn't dislike the man, either. And if he was to keep his promise to Madanach to work toward an independent Reach, he might have more influence with Igmund if he was a member of the court.
He still didn't want to move his family out here, though. Blaise had just started his own apprenticeship with Adrianne, and the girls had their friends in Whiterun whom they'd be very reluctant to leave. Come to think of it, the only child he'd seen here so far was the jeweler's daughter.
No. His family would stay right where they were. He'd come out here to visit and to check on his property – once he bought it – and to see if there was anything Jarl Igmund needed, but he wasn't making Markarth a permanent home.
He sent his letter off to Lydia, with a post script added requesting her to send him additional fund to purchase a home in Markarth called Vlindrel Hall. He made arrangement for it to be furnished with two children's rooms, instead of the optional alchemy lab and enchanting room, insisted on having rope and lattice-frame beds with feather mattresses instead of stone, and was promised by Rhaerek that all would be ready within the week. While he wasn't planning on having the children live here permanently, it would be nice to have a place where they could stay together when they visited.
At last the day came when Jarl Igmund named him Thane and gave him Argis the Bulwark as a Housecarl to watch over his property.
"Bulwark, eh?" he grinned, meeting the man for the first time in Vlindrel Hall.
"Yeah," Argis smiled, clasping wrists with his Thane. "It's because I'm so big. A bulwark is a defensible wall."
He was big, that was for certain. Even Marcus had to look up to him, and he wasn't short. Argis had sandy-blonde hair with streaks of red in it, a tattoo spiraling on one cheek and a nasty-looking series of scars across the left side of his face that had taken the sight from his eye. He wore steel armor and carried a standard-issue steel sword and shield. Well, he would have to see about getting the man some better equipment. Right now his coffers had been tapped heavily, with the purchase of the house, but if there was one thing Marcus had learned about Skyrim it was full of barrows, and those barrows usually held treasure.
A loud knocking on the door sent Argis to answer it. He returned shortly with a sealed parchment addressed to "Marcus Dragonborn."
"Who is it from?" Marcus asked.
"Dunno," Argis said. "I asked the courier, and all he said was that some creepy-looking fellow gave it to him to deliver. Then he lit out like a dozen dremora were on his tail. Thought he was gonna break his neck goin' down the stairs."
Marcus opened up the note and frowned.
"What's it say, Thane?" Argis asked.
"Just this handprint and 'We Know'," Marcus replied. "What kind of crap is that?"
"That's the Black Hand," Argis whistled. "You must have pissed someone off, beggin' your pardon, Thane."
"But what does it mean, 'We know'?" Marcus said. "What do they know?"
"It's a sign from the Dark Brotherhood," Argis explained. "They're letting you know they're aware of something you may have done. I'll be sure to get an extra lock or two installed on the door today."
Marcus sat down at the table, mulling it over in his mind. It had to be about death of Grelod the Kind. But he hadn't killed her, that was the thing! She'd died of a heart attack, or stroke, or something similar. Apparently, that didn't cut the mustard with the Dark Brotherhood. Well, screw them. He wasn't going to live his life in fear, looking over his shoulder every five seconds. As long as they didn't hurt his children, he didn't care if they knew, or thought they knew what he'd done.
Marcus awoke, bleary-eyed with a pounding head. What the hell happened? He hadn't had anything to drink the night before, beyond a mead or two with Argis before retiring for the night. He shifted, trying to bring his vision into focus.
This wasn't his bed. He was lying on a wooden floor, strewn with bones and viscera. A lantern flickered in one corner, and a sconce in the opposite, but other than that, it was dim in this room. Shack, he corrected himself as he heard the sounds of frogs croaking on the other side of the wall, and birds chirping restlessly somewhere nearby. Frogs. Swamp. He was in a marsh, somewhere, if the fetid odor of rotting vegetation was any indication.
Groaning, he tried to sit up. Fortunately his hands were free. Well, at least he wasn't a prisoner again…or was he?
"Sleep well?" a feminine voice purred.
Marcus allowed his eyes to dart around his field of vision, finally landing on a figure seated on top of a bookcase in the corner. The woman wore red and black armor similar to the assassin who had attempted to take his life in Ivarstead.
"Where am I?" he demanded, but even to his own ears the voice sounded wheezy.
"Does it matter?" she asked archly. "You're warm, dry…and still very much alive. That's more than can be said for poor, old Grelod, hmm?"
"Oh," Marcus said grimly. "So you know about that."
"Half of Skyrim knows," the woman chuckled. "Old hag gets butchered in her own orphanage? Things like that tend to get around. Oh, but don't misunderstand…I'm not criticizing. It was a good kill. Old crone had it coming. And you saved a group of urchins to boot."
"I didn't kill Grelod," Marcus pointed out. "She had a heart attack and dropped dead."
"Your methods are your own, of course," the woman smirked. "But you see, there is a slight…problem."
"The only problem I see right now is that you've made the mistake of kidnapping me."
"You'd do well to listen until I finish," the woman snapped. "You're very lucky you aren't paying for this with your life as it is."
Marcus realized it was pointless to argue with her. She had her own version of what had occurred, and nothing he could say would change her mind. "Say what you want to say, then, and let's get this over with."
"Well, then…you see, that little Arentino boy was looking for the Dark Brotherhood. For me, and my associates. Grelod the Kind was, by all rights, a Dark Brotherhood contract."
"Then why didn't you answer the poor kid?" Marcus shot back, unable to stop himself. "Do you have any idea what condition I found that poor boy in? Exhausted, starving, living with the crap you make people strew around in your silly rituals? If I hadn't gone in and talked to him, he would have starved to death or passed away from sheer exhaustion trying to contact you and your 'associates'!"
For a moment, the woman looked as though she would leap off the bookshelf at him, dagger flashing, but she restrained herself with a monumental effort.
"Nevertheless, that contract was a Dark Brotherhood kill…a kill you stole from us. A kill you must repay."
"How about if I start with you?" Marcus had had enough. In what he would always consider her gravest oversight, she'd left him unbound with his weapons at hand. But even if he didn't have them, he was quickly becoming a formidable fighter. He was sick of assassins coming after him, sick of threatening letters being sent, of people watching his house and his family, of children being forced to endure an endless ritual with a rotting corpse in the hopes of making a contract to kill someone so deplorably evil that it was only by the grace of God he hadn't killed the woman outright.
All the rage and frustration he felt was aimed at this woman now, sitting there sanctimoniously judging him, a good man trying to do a good job, when she ran an organization of paid assassins whose only mission in life was to steal the joy from others.
"FUS RO DAH!" he thundered, smashing the woman into the corner and knocking her completely off the shelf. The entire shack rattled, and several loose boards in the corners fell to the floor. She landed on the floor with an undignified thud, and Marcus was only dimly aware of gasps of fear and astonishment coming from behind him. There was no time to figure out if they were friend or foe; the woman was up on her feet in a flash and had drawn a wicked-looking dagger that gleamed an eerie red against the ebony black of its blade.
Marcus had drawn Dragonbane; the katana had a shock enhancement he felt would serve him well here. He slashed and she caught his steel with her blade. Sparks flew as she twisted her dagger in an attempt to disarm him. He knew a better way to disarm, but the tingling rawness in the back of his throat told him it was too soon to Shout again.
She feinted with her dagger, but Marcus didn't fall for it, leaping over the low sweep of her leg as she attempted to take him out at the knees. He brought the Akaviri blade down hard in a twisting slice that would have decapitated her on the spot if she hadn't bent herself backwards at the waist to avoid it. Throwing herself forward, she tumbled over his head and slashed with the dagger, but he caught it with a backward block of his katana and spun around so quickly with a slice to her midsection that she couldn't quite get out of the way in time. The leather parted and a line of darker red soaked her armor there.
"You're good," she grunted. "It's almost a shame I have to kill you."
"You haven't done it yet," Marcus taunted. "Don't count your chickens before they're hatched."
Now the woman leaped and spun in a flurry of whirling attacks, and Marcus found it was all he could do to keep that evil-looking blade away from his vital organs. She caught him across his left arm, and he immediately felt the muscles weaken. Okay, so there was some kind of draining enchantment on that hell-spawned blade. Good to know. He felt his Thu'um recharge, and Shouted, "Zun!" at her, but though her grip fumbled a bit, she didn't lose her weapon. She was too strong, or the Thu'um was too weak. If he lived through this, he'd have to see if he could find the other Words to the Shout.
"Was that a Shout?" the woman said. "I thought your name was just an affectation."
"It was a Shout," Marcus replied. "Couldn't you tell when I knocked you on your ass off the bookshelf?"
"It would take more than someone like you to knock me on my ass," she retorted.
"Shall I make it two in a row, then?" he jibed.
The woman renewed her efforts to cut him down, but by now Marcus had noticed a pattern to her fighting style. It was one of the things he had been taught in his tae kwon do class, to watch your opponents and notice the patterns into which they fell when they battled. Every school of martial arts was different, but each school had their own style. Learn the routines, remain flexible, and you can easily outthink your opponent every time.
Now, blocking her moves, Marcus noticed she seemed to restart from her first position, feint high, before moving into second position, attack low. If he took the opening she appear to give him, she was ready to block at third position, and riposte at fourth. High, low, block, attack. To be sure he had it right, he put her through it again. Fifth position, sweep kick; sixth position, slash left; seventh position, block low; eighth position, whirl and stab right. Sweep, slash, block, stab.
Marcus grinned. He had her now. When she moved to her sixth position he slipped under her guard and opened a wide cut along her unprotected right side. Gasping, she staggered backwards, the evil blade dropping from nerveless fingers.
"Well…played…" she muttered, collapsing onto the floor as the pool of blood beneath her spread wide. With a groan she gasped her last breath and lay still.
Now that he had a chance to take his bearings, Marcus looked around the tiny shack. Three people were kneeling against a wall opposite from where he'd woken up. Hooded, with hands bound behind their backs, they were clearly what the woman had referenced when she'd told him he needed to repay the kill he'd taken from the Dark Brotherhood. Probably by killing one of these three. He released them, but only the Nord man was grateful and promised never to breathe a word to anyone as he ran off across the marshes. The woman harangued him for treating her the way he had, even though he insisted he'd had no part in it. The Khajiit seemed to have been the one intended, since by his own admission he had many enemies. He took off on his own, leaving Marcus with the fishwife, Alea Quintus of Dragon Bridge, who nagged and badgered him all the way back to her home town. Marcus found himself reconsidering that perhaps she had been the intended target.
In the small lumber community of Dragon Bridge, Marcus approached one of the guards. "Who do I report a death to?" he asked.
The guard stopped, removed his helmet and looked at Marcus sternly. "Who's death?" he demanded.
"Someone from the Dark Brotherhood," he replied.
The guard's jaw slacked. "By Shor! You're serious aren't you? No one would joke about something like that!" He seemed to recover and pointed toward a long, low building. "Go see Commander Maro, there at the Penitus Occulatus headquarters. He'll want to know."
Marcus went over to the building and walked inside. Several Occulatus members were sitting around, sharpening weapons, repairing armor, taking a meal or resting. When he inquired about Commander Maro, he was directed toward an older man, hair graying at the temples, who glanced at him and said, "I think you're in the wrong building, friend. If you're looking for the inn, it's across the street."
"I was looking for you, actually, if you're Commander Maro," Marcus said.
"Well? What do you want?"
"The guard outside told me I should inform you, I've killed a member of the Dark Brotherhood."
Commander Maro straightened. "You have my attention, sir," he said. "Which one? Was it one of the lesser assassins?"
"I don't know who she was," Marcus admitted. "We never got around to introductions."
"She?" Maro demanded, with something akin to excitement in his voice. "Was she young? Blonde? Did she carry an evil-looking blade?"
"Yes, yes and do you mean this one." Marcus pulled the dagger out to show Maro.
"By the Eight!" Maro exulted. "I can't believe you actually did it! You've killed Astrid!"
"Astrid was…?"
"She's the leader of the Dark Brotherhood!" Maro grinned. "Or was, now, thanks to you! My friend, this is a stroke of good fortune! Long have I watched the Dark Brotherhood's movements, waiting for the time to strike. That time is now!"
"Glad I could help," Marcus said wryly, putting the dagger away.
"You can do more than help," Maro said, a gleam in his eyes. "My agents have recently acquired the passphrase to their Sanctuary in Falkreath. It is 'Silence, my brother.' Every assassin in that hole must be put down, or another will simply take Astrid's place. You, my friend…you've slain their leader. This honor should be yours."
Because of course it will mean you won't have to risk any of your men.
"Do this, and you will be rewarded most handsomely!" Maro continued. He marked the location of the Sanctuary on Marcus' map, and the Dragonborn promised to return if he was successful.
He wasn't doing it for Maro, or even for the Empire, he told himself. He was doing it so that no one would have to live in fear, looking over their shoulders, that someone might take a contract out on them, so that his children would never have to worry their father might be taken from them.
I'm doing it because it's the right thing to do, he told himself. He returned to Markarth, though it took him most of the evening to get there. Argis was relieved, beside himself with remorse and humiliation that his Thane had been abducted out of their own home.
"I put the new locks in, just as I said I would, Thane," Argis worried. "How could they have gotten in?"
"My guess is that they were already inside, hidden somewhere, Argis," Marcus told him. "Don't worry about it. It's not your fault. They've been gunning for me for a while."
"So you're going to Falkreath, then?" the big Nord asked.
"Yeah," Marcus said. "And you're coming with me. I need someone to watch my back."
Argis grinned. "Lead on, Thane."
It took them all day to travel from Markarth to Falkreath, and they ended up staying at the Dead Man's Drink to rest up before attempting the next, most difficult part of their journey.
"What…is the music…of life?" the sinister-looking door rasped at them.
This was it. Time to give the passphrase.
"Silence, my brother," Marcus intoned.
"Welcome….home."
The door opened of its own accord, and Marcus threw a glance at Argis, who nodded he was ready, before they moved quietly into the Sanctuary.
The first to challenge them was a big, beefy, shirtless Nord with bare feet and Marcus heard Argis' swiftly indrawn breath before the man noticed them and suddenly began morphing into something that was nothing like a man.
"Werewolf!" Argis cried, dismayed. "Don't let him bite you, Thane!"
The werewolf was amazingly fast, and incredibly powerful. He struck out with huge, clawed hands and lunged with razor-sharp teeth snapping within an inch of their faces. Slaver dripped from his jaws and his eyes burned with an unholy hate.
Growling and snarling, he was more than a match for two ordinary fighters, but Marcus wasn't ordinary. He briefly wondered with some amusement if Kyne's Peace would work on a werewolf, but he'd still never gotten around to activating it. There were too many other more useful Shouts he wanted first. He had picked up a few more in the last couple of months, and decided to try one now.
"KRII!" he Shouted, and watched in satisfaction as the werewolf shuddered from its effect. He seemed to weaken, and Argis renewed his efforts from his flanking position. Soon, it was over, and Marcus held up a hand for Argis to remain silent while he listened.
"Laas," he Whispered, and he saw four other auras light up, one quite close to them. Why hadn't that one come running to the aid of its fellow Brother? He couldn't have failed to hear the commotion.
Sibling rivalry, perhaps? Marcus mused. They might all be Dark Brotherhood, but that didn't necessarily mean they all got along. Well, it made things a little easier for Argis and him. The Dark Brotherhood were formidable fighters, if Astrid and this werewolf were anything to go by.
Dead now, the werewolf had reverted to his human form, and Argis stood looking at the body for a long moment. "What a waste," he muttered.
"Come on," Marcus whispered. "There's another around the corner ahead. Get ready."
It was an Argonian, who had a tendency to use invisibility on himself and strike from nowhere. He didn't count on the Dragonborn, who used Aura Whisper to locate him and strike true each time. Argis floundered around and got hit several times, but Marcus stayed out of reach of its poisoned blade and in a very short time, he joined his fellow Brother in death.
Just beyond the smithing area where the Argonian had been working, Marcus heard the familiar chanting, and to his surprise, saw the glyphs of a Word Wall lighting up.
"Thane?" Argis called. "What are you doing?"
Lun. Leech. This Word belonged to the one he'd used earlier, krii. He unlocked its meaning with his last dragon soul to fully understand how to use it. His Marked for Death Shout had just become stronger by a third.
Marcus and Argis then made their way through the rest of the Sanctuary, with Marcus using his Aura Whisper to locate their quarry before stumbling across them. Each of the last three assassins were formidable in their own right. The Dunmer woman in the alchemy lab fought viciously, and like the Argonian she used poisons on her blade. She kept returning her dagger to her scabbard and re-drawing it, and Marcus realized the poison was somehow in the scabbard, and she was putting on a fresh application each time she drew the blade. Both he and Argis needed cure poison potions when the fight was over before they were ready to proceed.
The Redguard assassin was the next they encountered, and Marcus was amazed at how he somehow managed, with his dual-wielding style of fighting, to keep both Marcus and Argis at bay while inflicting damage. Marcus felt it was like trying to fight a Cuisinart blender. But eventually the Redguard made a mistake and Argis took advantage of it, slipping under his guard and striking the fatal blow.
"Damn shame," he muttered, and Marcus was beginning to think Argis preferred the company of men to women. Not that it mattered to him. He was straight and preferred it that way. He just hoped it wouldn't make things awkward later.
The old wizard in the last room was the toughest by far. Immune to his own magic, he had no qualms about casting fireball after fireball at them, and the resulting shrapnel of crockery and other things that whizzed around in the resulting explosions had both younger men diving for cover and resorting to their bows in tight quarters to pick the old man off.
Finally it was done, and the two men carefully explored the rest of the Sanctuary to clear it of valuables before the Penitus Occulatus could come and search the place. Argis took the werewolf's battleaxe as a trophy and Marcus picked up another of the unusual gems he'd found. This made three.
It was done. Skyrim could rest a little easier knowing they need never fear that an assassin would come for them in the night, deserved or not, and Marcus felt he had finally settled a score. They returned to Dragon Bridge and reported to Commander Maro, who was delighted with the news, and promised to inform the Emperor himself at once. Marcus wasn't really sure he wanted that kind of notoriety. It tended to breed its own form of retaliation. Still, the reward was nice, and certainly helped bolster his already depleted coffers, especially now he had two homes to maintain.
And it's only going to get worse if I keep becoming Thane all over the damn place, he thought wryly.
"Are we headed back to Markarth, Thane?" Argis asked.
Marcus shook his head. "No. There's somewhere else I have to go. We'll head to Whiterun, and you can meet my family, and then we'll make plans from there for the next trip."
"Where are we going?" Argis asked, curious.
Marcus grinned. "Argis, have you ever been to Winterhold?"
[Author's Note: Yay! The Dark Brotherhood has been destroyed! Oh, don't worry. I only say "Yay!" here because this is what Marcus would do. I've actually played the quest through with a different character and found it interesting. Not as interesting as the Thieves' Guild quest, but still well thought-out.
Finally, Marcus gets to head up to Winterhold to see what he can learn about the Elder Scrolls. It's been on the back burner for a while, and now he feels that time is pressing, and he really ought to get moving on this. But things aren't going so well in Winterhold…stay tuned!]