Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.
--A--
Chapter Thirty-Six
--A--
"I didn't expect to see you back so…my goodness!" Tar-Meena jumped as she set down her pile of books on the study table, getting her first good look at me. "What happened to you?!" She demanded, eyeing me closely with unabashed concern. "Is it contagious?"
Mages are the biggest wimps on the face of the planet when it comes to getting sick. Still, the open question is far preferable to people making up their own myths and stories, so I laughed, instead of taking offense. "No, it's not. I got burned by a book." I answered. "Not one of my shining moments, but," shrugging I stood up, leaning Frostreaver on my shoulder. Contrary to Tar-Meena's promise to keep it safe, I found it standing with a broom in a corner of this very office.
The ignominy of getting relegated to the same corner as a broom – which had dust gathering on it! That is not 'I'll keep an eye on it', this is 'now where shall I put this...oh, we got new books? I'm on my way – as soon as I put this thing down! I'll move it later...' and later never comes, moments. A warrior's soul is in her sword – I'm never letting this thing out of my possession again. If it has to exist somewhere, it can exist safely underneath my bunk, wrapped in dust-repelling silk or something. Maybe I can find a wooden case for it.
I'm never letting it out of my possession – or Cloud Ruler Temple – ever again, except when it's in use.
"You got burned by a book?You mean…" Tar-Meena looked around, then lowered her voice, edging closer to me, her eyes fixed on my face. "You found the Mysterium Xarxes?" She marveled, a slow smile creeping across her reptilian features.
"I certainly didn't lose it, and no you can't have it."I predicted her next question.
"It was worth a try," Tar-Meena shrugged, chuckling.
"Actually, we're working on a way to destroy it." I lied. I doubt something like that destroys easily, or without the help of the Arcane University's entire contingent of battlemages. Even then, from what I've gleaned on the subject, it's not truly 'destroyed' it's 'returned to it's plane of origin'. Well, it's more like wishful thinking - if I could destroy that thing, I certainly would.
Tar-Meena deflated. "Dare I ask why you're back here so soon, then? Another riddle? Or did you simply want help destroying it?" Her sullen tone indicated if this was the case, I knew how to see myself out.
Scholars are so funny, and Tar-Meena is a sense of subtle humor all on her own.
"No – I'm actually investigating a lead." Another night of nightmares prompted Jauffre to approve my request for permission to leave the Temple for a bit. Martin was disappointed, but promised to continue practicing with Cyrus – or, I promised, I'd kick his ass when I got back, no matter what crafty spellwork he tried to use.
Okay, I'd kick his ass gently. It isn't as if he's on my shitlist.
At least he was smiling when I left – albeit in amused disbelief at my lack of subtlety more than anything else. He also took a moment to tell me – again – the side effects shouldn't be too terrible, as long as I keep my word about avoiding the Gates.
At least I've stopped shivering from chill at odd moments. It's late spring – it'll be miserable in Leyawiin. Hot and humid, and it just sticks to you.
I also admit freely, the idea of Mehrunes Dagon's band of fanatics getting a hold of his artifact here in the realms isn't exactly encouraging. That's the 'step ahead' I hinted about to Jauffre – if they want it, I want it more. It's not the Amulet of Kings, I don't expect to see that for quite a while – I refuse to believe 'if ever' – but every little bit helps. If I were Dagon, and I knew I had persistent pests trying to foul my plans, I would want all my artifacts back with me – so no one could use them against me. I have no doubt the Razor would make an appearance in the hands of some Ogre-sized Dremora (or maybe a human) champion.
I don't want to know what happens when Mehrunes' Razor stabs someone. I'll bet it isn't pretty.
I'll tell you what else isn't pretty – or wouldn't be – Jauffre (or others) finding out I had Mehrunes Dagon's artifact and brought it back with me. Fortunately, no one – not even Jauffre – knows exactly what I'm after. Which is good, really, the secret will stay safe with me. Daedric artifacts tend to come to people for a reason, even if said people have to go looking for them. I wish I could use it as a bargaining chip, but Mehrunes Dagon would probably just step on me, squish me into scrib-jelly and take it from my smushed fingers. Or pick it out of his foot, if I had my wits about me.
"Which lead is that?" Tar-Meena asked, tapping a finger against her jaw, shattering my reverie.
"We talked about Sundercliff Watch, the supposed resting Place of Mehrunes Razor. I need it – to keep it safe." I announced, watching Tar-Meena's face. I think she'll see the practicality of knowing where the Razor is, and know it's in fairly safe hands.
This isn't like me walking around with the Amulet of Kings in my pocket for a month – this is completely different. I've grown up quite a bit since then, if I may say so myself. Though, my argument boiling down to 'I want it so he can't have it' might debunk that theory.
"Ooh," Tar-Meena nodded, slowly at first then getting faster. "Yes, I suppose they would want it too. And I certainly don't want to think what sort of damage they could do with it –it's supposed to be quite powerful, quite malevolent."
"Could it burn me, like the Mysterium Xarxes did?" I asked, trying not to sound too worried. I suppose a more accurate question is 'can it burn be because the Mysterium Xarxes did?'.
"I…don't know. Logically, perhaps not, but since this is Mehrunes Dagon we're talking about…you'd better wear gloves, just in case." Tar-Meena advised. "I'll get a map. This is still Blades business, isn't it?"
"I have orders to do what I can to stop Mehrunes Dagon's followers." I announced, not quite meeting her eyes. Again, truth from a certain point of view - and I am the best woman for the job. I do specialize in artifact recovery.
Yeah, yeah. Excuses and justifications – I know.
"Good enough," Tar-Meena nodded, shuffling out to fetch a map. Flexing my hand, I blew into it, watching the compass-spell Martin cast there glimmer to life.
Abysmal sense of direction or not, I don't intend on getting lost. This is too important.
Speaking of important – if Frostreaver was in the corner with the broom, where's my armor?
--A--
A stroke of luck fell my way – I arrived at Sundercliff Watch, a ruined fortress above ground – after dark.
Tar-Meena discovered there was no proper survey ever done for the underground portion – so my job expanded to clearing it out so a cartography team could go in later. I think she was joking, but I'm not sure – scholars have a funny sense of humor. Maybe it's safer to assume she wasn't joking.
The cover of darkness, and my improved dark-vision granted me an unprecedented advantage over the band of idiots camped out near the eastern wall of the ruins. Equally fortunate for me, the fortress lay surrounded by trees and thick undergrowth, evidencing a stint of dereliction spanning decades. Maybe even centuries – partly due to the fact it's supposed to be quite a distance south and west of where I actually found it. I never had call to bless my bad sense of direction, but for once in my life it actually got me where I needed to go.
Someone, somewhere, is watching out for me.
As for the fools camping out, they moved with no concern for the fact anything might go sneaking around in the underbrush - or slithering under it like some parody of a snake, as in my case. They had no concept of keeping quite, in case of hidden watchers. Idiots.
Then again, they're Mythic Dawn – every last one of this dozen-strong recovery team wore the red robes, though given the way they're drinking, they're obviously not professionals of the same caliber as the Fighters' Guild, not the way they're laughing and chattering without care for anything or anyone watching them.
I'll say it again: idiots. Every last one of them.
This is a common mistake of rookies and lackwits. Rule One of Dungeon Diving: with ruins like this, you never assume you are unobserved. In fact, boundless paranoia is even advisable, especially when no one knows what's down beneath the surface level. The unknown levels tend to host all sorts of nasty surprises – hence why no one knows what's down there – no one's come back to tell the tale. So I have no problem, not one, in allowing them to go first. I'll just follow behind and keep an eye on things.
If they're not too inebriated to move come morning.
Rule Two of Dungeon Diving – don't ever go down there at night. You never know when ruins play host to vampires, and if they're desperate enough to take refuge in a dungeon, you can bet they probably aren't feeding regularly enough to say hello to you before attacking, let alone giving them resistance to the sun. So worst comes to worst, head topside and let them follow you. An ugly way for them to die, but most of the time they retreat quickly enough, and you can safely regroup.
Or run like hell, depending on the situation.
--A--
Sundercliff Watch proved the biggest, deepest, darkest most nasty-infested place I ever set foot, bar none. Even Oblivion didn't get to me the way this place did. Maybe it was the cultists versus the private army already taking refuge down there. Or the private army versus the vampires. It might just come down to the fact that as far as dungeons go...this one was simply too big to be allowed. More like the evil answer to Cloud Ruler Temple – only not so well-appointed. All I know is none of them are interested in anything except eradicating anything else down there – apparently the other Dagonite sect the mythic Dawn was looking to contact were killed off when the Dunmer moved in – and taking the Razor for themselves.
So what did I do? I let them fight it out, and cleaned up anyone who was left. Not exactly brave, but decidedly intelligent. I shall take a moment to marvel at my own cunning.
The hard part wasn't the Mythic Dawn. It wasn't the Dunmer army (though if they'd noticed me, it would have proved the biggest brawl I ever took part in – not what I'm here for, not remotely appealing). It wasn't the covey of vampires lurking in the deeper recesses of the cavernous complex, starving, mindless brutes. It wasn't even the Dunmer mage I found at the end of my quest – eyeing Mehrunes Razor with a hungry expression I didn't like to see.
No. The mage actually got himself killed by the hard part – a massive guardian I at first thought was a construct of some sort, heavily armored, wielding a war axe my father could swing around like a toy. Highly resistant to magicka, I found it less resistant to cold steel – or Frostreaver's bite. Still, it wasn't an easy fight – I refused point blank to eat any sort of beating heart, which is what seemed the indicated way to proceed. I might be Oblivion-touched, but I'm not a cannibal. That's icky.
This staunch refusal to do any such foul thing was also, looking back, what triggered the defense mechanism – the construct (or whatever it was) hosting the beating heart.
Still, the fight left me winded, but surprisingly enough, unhurt by my usual standards (broken ribs, extensive burns, or seething temper…nope – I'm great). The worst is a twisted ankle. I pivoted off-balance to get out of the way when the guardian finally collapsed, but it wasn't so bad I couldn't limp around on it. It'll ache for a few days, but I've had far worse injuries in more pressing circumstances before.
Which is why I sit, leaning against a wall, Frostreaver resting beside me in easy reach, debating what to do now. Obviously, taking a moment for myself is in order. Unslinging my backpack I rummaged around in its depths, finally finding a wrapped portion of waybread, which I immediately opened, broke into smaller pieces, and began to eat, regarding Mehrunes' Razor, which now seems unguarded, fixedly.
I know better than to assume 'seems unguarded' means 'is unguarded' – a standard rule of the dungeon diver. Call it Rule Three, even. Ayleids in particular were masters of the hidden trap. Even form back here, the Razor feels decidedly malevolent, as if I were sitting in a room with someone in a bad mood. It's far was worse up close, though it doesn't make my old burns tingle, the way the Mysterium Xarxes does. I'll take it as a good sign, but not to the point of throwing caution to the wind.
The Razor hovered above its plinth, bathed in red magelights of a more intense color than the rest of the lights in the room – an almost cloister-like place, compared to the rest of the sprawling caverns. Believe it nor not, they have a whole village down here. No wonder no one's mapped the place out – it's too big, and too infested with nastiness. If I had my way, I'd torch the whole place. It's the only way it'll ever get properly cleaned out – unless my whole family decides to take a holiday together and we come here.
I'll have quite a job ahead of me getting out again. It'll be easier than getting in, though. Fewer enemies to fight. I'll bet Tar-Meena can get the battlemages all riled up – if she can, they can clean out the leftovers and have any treasure still down here. I've had enough of this place for a lifetime, and I wont' recommend it as a holiday destination. Nope I'm good to go – a better reward will be regaining the surface where there's breezes, stars, and open spaces.
Finishing my waybread, I took a draught from my canteen, put it back in my backpack, stood up and slid the pack back on. From my belt I tugged my gloves loose. I hate wearing gloves when I fight – it messes with my ability to grip things properly.
I learned from my experience with the Mysterium Xarxes – and what I learned is that you don't just handle Mehrunes Dagon's artifacts with your bare hands. This might be a little different, but I'm going to be a little more careful about it than I was previously.
Walking up to the plinth above which the Razor hovered, I checked for booby traps – not that I could see anything out of place. Caution, however, is something I'm learning – pain is a good teacher. Reaching up with an apprehensive breath, I grasped the Razor around its hilt. Even thought my gloves, the instant I touched it my skin rose into gooseflesh, the Razor itself feeling wet, slick and slippery. A strange vibration ran the length of my arm as I pulled it free if its invisible mooring.
Nothing happened, and I waited, poised to slash out with the Razor in case the guardian reanimated, or something bad happened – some new guardian, or some warning the artifact no longer rested in its proper place.
Seconds ticked by, meted out by the pounding of my heart, but nothing happened. Slowly, I folded the weapon shut. I'll take time to look at it properly once I get topside, back to…is it still daytime, even?
I have no idea how long I've been down here, though judging by how tired I am, nightfall could be well under way.
My skin continued to crawl as I held the Razor. Pulling off one glove with my teeth, I touched the engraved casing with one finger, briefly as if tapping a finger against a hot iron. Nothing. I pressed my finger against the cold casing, but nothing happened – no burning, no sudden unexpected flares of temper, just the unpleasant sense of slipperiness. It looks as though it really is like the other Daedric artifacts in our world: useful, usable, and detrimental only to the unwary. Which means I need to be careful never to cut myself on it – I'll bet this thing has a tendency to 'accidentally slip'.
If Martin thinks the Mysterium Xarxes is malevolent (it is, but it's more angry-malevolent, not nasty-malevolent like this thing)…imagine what he'd say if he knew I had this piece of shit. A faint grin touched my features at the thought. Nothing good, he'd probably get himself all worked up and worried over it. As if he needs something else to worry about.
Still, the Mythic Dawn knew it was here, they tried to collect it from their fellow Dagonites…so they obviously wanted it as much as their allies. We've gotten a step ahead. It's not the Amulet of Kings, but I'm sure when Mehrunes Dagon finds out things haven't gone according to plan he's not going to smile and tell the Mythic Dawn 'you did your best, try again'. I imagine boiling in oil, death and dismemberment are on the agenda – for the amusement of the Dremora and as an example to all future minions.
He's not exactly the forgiving sort.
Yes, best if a nasty little knife like this stays with a conscientious keeper. If he's got a problem, he can come talk to me face to face.
And bring the Amulet of Kings with him – the Blades can think of some sneaky way of getting it, while I run around trying desperately to keep out of his Daedric reach.
With this thought and a grin at the thought of Mehrunes Dagon's impending tantrum over skewed plans, I slipped the Razor into my boot, pressed firmly against my calf. The malevolence dimmed slightly, but I remained highly aware of it, feeling as if a slaughterfish lay pressed against bare skin, never mind my trousers were full-length, and the Razor didn't touch my flesh at all. Maybe that's why the aura's not so noticeable, something between it and me.
I should have used gloves or something to handle the damned book. Well, live and learn, and I certainly do seem to be learning.
--A--