Blood and Silver IV

It had been three days by Falrielle's count. Three days since she left the Silent Stone Inn. Three days of listening to the merchant ramble on about the value of Whiterun horse meat. Three days of a bouncing wagon that did little to soothe Falrielle's racked arse.

The morning began smothered with a dreary blanket of mist. Falrielle kept her ears pricked up, listening for any signs of ambush whether it be brigands or the Reachman savages. This time, she told herself. This time, she would die like a proper Nord – fighting to her last breath.

The wagon hit a rut and bounced high.

'Watch whaur yer gaun!' she growled. 'If the wagon breaks and ah hae tae carry everything oan me back, ahm nae giein ye a single Septim, ye hear?'

The merchant laughed.

'You ride with Hafr, stranger,' he said with a smile that revealed a few missing teeth. 'And Hafr knows quality when he sees it. This wagon and the girls, Frida and Frima.' He continued, gesturing at the mules. 'I bought them a two winters ago and they have never failed me! Not once! And I've checked the wheels every night, so no need to fret.'

Falrielle frowned and turned away. They were near a river. Not only could she hear it, she could also smell the waters churning. The merchant seemingly read her mind, said 'The Karth. We're on the right track,' and whistled a happy tune.

The elf flinched.

'Whai urr ye whistling?' Falrielle barked. 'Are ye trying tae let thaim ken whaur we ur?'

The merchant laughed again, ignorant of the icy daggers Falrielle shot at him with her eyes.

'You're not from around here, are you?' He shook his head. 'Forsworn and bandits don't come around these parts. Too close to the city you see and if any of them find the courage to come close.' He pointed his sausage like fingers in the distance. 'Up there, can you see it?'

Falrielle squinted and saw dark shapes, like giants in the fog.

'The beacons will be lit and all of Markarth will descend upon them like Ysgramor and the Companion Five Hundred on the elves.'

The sellsword didn't feel assured but neither was she in the mood to complain. To tell the truth, Falrielle almost welcomed the prospect of crossing axes right now. It would've at least given her something more interesting to do than counting trees or rocks. There was a fox, an orange mangy little thing that stared at them. That was different.

The wagon suddenly jumped and Falrielle landed so hard that she was sure that she'd find a bruise that night.

'Fuckin!' Falrielle said. 'How much longer before we get there?'

'Just over that hill,' the merchant answered cheerfully. Falrielle wanted to punch the man but found the strength to resist. She instead bit her finger so hard that she tasted blood.

That fire didn't quite die until they crested the hill. The wagon stopped, the merchant formed a self-satisfied smile on his face, and whipped the mules into action.

They descended down a mighty valley of barley and rye. The Karth ran through the fields and stretched out to the far north. The merchant pointed at something beyond the basin, something massive hiding in the shadows of the mountains itself. Markarth, the City of Stone, the City of Blood and Silver, the City of the Reach, and the City of Sellswords.

'It is said that the Dwarves built the city,' Hafr began, a hint of wonder in his voice. 'They did so, thousands of years ago and to speak truthfully, the Dwarves didn't just build Markarth. They carved the city into the very rock.'

Falrielle squinted and saw what the merchant spoke of was no exaggeration. Hafr continued speaking to fill the silence. He told her that long ago, the valley was once a forest before the Dwarves took an axe to the trees to feed the furnaces of industry. Below, ore veins creep so deep that after thousands of years of mining, the blood of the mountains has yet to run dry.

The mines are also why the city exists, Hafr explained. Markarth boasts some of the deepest, darkest mines in all of Tamriel and some veins had been worked since before the rise of the Septim Empire. The mountains bled metals of iron, copper, lead and of course, silver. It is said that the finest silver, some gleaming like solid moonlight, comes from Markarth. Clouds of dark smoke hung over the city.

'Whits that?' Falrielle said as she pointed at a smaller settlement sitting right out the massive walls of the city. The little thing looked like mushrooms that grow on the roots of a great tree.

'That's New Markarth,' the merchant answered. 'We call it because it's new.'

'Aye, fucking imagine that,' she said dryly.

The merchant chuckled. 'I'll explain. Do you know what's the problem with city walls? Other than the tolls; the walls don't get bigger when the city does. Usually, we'd break down the walls and built then wider but do you know anyone who can builds walls like the Dwarves?'

Falrielle shrugged. 'Cannae say ah hae.'

As they neared the outer wall, the cart halted before a long line of fellow travellers. Hafr grumbled as he readied his purse. Falrielle caught a familiar scent of death in the air and it came from the city.

'Dae ye smill that?' She sniffed again to be sure. 'Smills like someone died.'

'What do you mean? I don't-' the merchant said before contorting a dour grin. 'Ah. Up there, do you see it?' He continued, pointing at the palisade.

Heads, impaled upon iron spikes lined the walls. Each head was in differing states of rot. Some were still freshly pink and the flesh still firm. Some had blackened and greened, and began to slough away. Others were bones, bleaching in the sun. All had an expression of terror, forever frozen on their dead faces.

'Reachmen,' Hafr explained, voice a whisper so as not to be eavesdropped. 'And Nords. And murderers. And scholars. And witches. And tradesmen. Normal people, most of them.' Falrielle counted. For every ten paces, an iron spike thrusted proudly towards the sky.

'The fuck did they dae?'

'Collaboration,' he said tersely. 'What you see here is the handiwork of the Bear of Markarth.'

'Who?'

'Who? What do you mean, "Who"?' the merchant sputtered. 'He was all the taverns in Skyrim ever talked about! No matter, I'm in a mood to talk but where do I begin? Hmm… how about the start?' He cleared his throat.

'Long ago in eras long past,' he began with his best imitation of the skalds. 'When dragons soared in the sky and Snow Elves walked the earth, Breton slaves, fleeing the whip of their Elven masters looked east for freedom. Braving blistering winds and deathly mountains, these Bretons eventually found their sanctuary in the rocky crags of the Reach. Over the centuries these people would form union with the Nords, build kingdoms, and their descendants of the two races are the Reachmen.

The Reachmen kings, while strong were never quite numerous. When Emperor Reman marched into Skyrim, the Empire smashed the Reachmen kings and scattered them across the land. Throughout the ages, the Reachmen would try time and time again to reclaim their independence and like the coming of spring, all melted away like snow.'

'Whit happened then?'

'The Great War did. With the Empire stretched thin, a Reachman warband who call themselves the Forsworn took Markarth from within and declared independence. They weren't too bad of trading partners, I'll admit. They kept the roads clear and tariffs low although they did have Nord landowners hung from the walls but that's beside the point. A few months ago, Jarl Hrolfdir, the true Jarl of Markarth had gotten tired of being a landless wanderer, turned to a young warrior and-' He snapped a smile on his face.

Falrielle turned and saw a gang of men, armed with an assortment of clubs, pitchforks, and other polearms approaching them. Leading them was a skinny man wearing a dark iron hauberk over a green tunic. In his hands, he wielded not a dagger nor a cudgel but a thick ledger.

'Name and business,' the skinny man said with a nasally tone.

'To the point, I can respect that,' the merchant said. 'I am Hafr, humble merchant of horse meat, this is my help, Falrielle, and these are my mules, Frida and Frima.'

The merchant continued to answer questions and at one point, argued that the cost of admission and the tariffs were too high although Falrielle wasn't really paying attention to any of that. No, she was more interested in the iron gibbet which hung from the gatehouse itself. Two people were rotting inside. One was a woman; she still wore her tattered dress. The other was either a very short man… or a child.

'What are you supposed to be?' yelled a man with a nasty scar on his face. A guard, Falrielle guessed. He didn't wear a uniform but he was brandishing a spear and a shield bearing goat horns on a green field. Probably a volunteer, too unimportant to be paid in coin but these types got their kicks elsewhere.

'That's some Falmer, that is,' giggled a stocky man with a fire-kissed plait. The man stank of goat. 'Saw one myself though they don't usually have eyes.'

'Then what are you supposed to be?' the scarred man said. 'Some kind of mutant? A freak?' he added with a menacing grin.

'Fuck aff,' Falrielle said quietly, eyes front.

'This one's got a tongue!'

'And a nice pair of tits!' giggled the stocky man. 'An elf though. What's an elf doing in Markarth? You a Dominion spy?'

The sellsword did not answer. She instead procured her canteen and unscrewed the cap. The scarred man knocked the canteen from her hand and spat.

'Elves,' he hissed. 'We don't like your kind around here. Markarth is an honest city. Markarth is a human city, not an elven city. Go back to your forest, knife-ears!'

Falrielle finally turned to glare at the guard. 'Howfur aboot ye gang fuck a goat, eh, ye glaikit Hillman?'

'What? A Paleman? A fucking Paleman elf? Don't you have some herring to go suck on?'

'Aye, yesterday. Delicious it was,' Falrielle said. 'Dinnae a milk-drinker like ye hae a goat tae fuck?'

'Knife-ear c-'

'What in Oblivion is going on here?' said the skinny man, the only one who was in a uniform. 'Gunder, Leif, back to you post. You merchant, carry on.'

The wagon lurched forward but not before Falrielle and the scarred man spat on the ground in front of each other. Falrielle stewed in her seat when the merchant turned to her and said, 'Where was I? Something about Jarl Hrolfdir?'

Falrielle nodded. 'Aye, ye wur getting at whit did he dae.'

The merchant leant over and looked her in the eyes with a wicked smile on his lips.

'He let the bear into the larder, and bears are messy eaters. Welcome to Markarth.'

Roofs of thatch and shingles. Walls of timber, daub, wattle, and drystone. Roads of mud and gravel. New Markarth was like any other Nord city. It even reminded Falrielle much of Dawnstar in the North, only with less fish, and more smoke and ash.

Hafr dropped Falrielle and her cargo at a warehouse, an inconspicuous if large structure nesting comfortably next to New Markarth's market district. The merchant then bid the sellsword farewell.

Squads of labourers scurried in and out the warehouse like an army of ants but Falrielle had to drag her crates of ores and the Imperial hootch in herself. Inside was stuffy and dim, and there were even more labourers milling about.

'Ye. Aye, ye. Who be the gaffer aroond here?' she asked one the labourers, a spindly looking thing.

The lad raised an eyebrow and blankly stared at Falrielle. 'Gaffer?'

'Aye, the gaffer. The fucking yin in charge – the bawsman,' she added slowly with emphasis.

The lad jerked his thumb at a man and continued on his way.

'Ye. Are ye the gaffer?' Falrielle said, reaching out and grabbing the foreman's shoulder.

'What? Gaffer? Who are-' the foreman turned and paused. The man had a red face and his clothes were soaked with sweat. He appraised Falrielle with a snarl. 'A Paleman? An elf? What is it you want?'

'Ah hae a delivery tae make and ahm needing somewhere tae stash the goods.'

The foreman snorted, rolled his eyes, and beckoned the elf to follow. The man led her to a counter and invited her to do battle. Not a battle of axes, or swords, or maces, or any kind of battle Falrielle was used to. No, this was a battle… of papers.

Wave after wave of documents, the foreman's assault was relentless. The man explained that the papers were for something called 'inn sure rans' and 'tek sis'. With a glance, he knew Falrielle did not understand a thing he said and he repeated himself but slower, as if that made any difference. Eventually he gave up and just had Falrielle make chicken scratches on books and papers. If only Ivar was still alive, she lamented. This was his job. Usually at a time like this, she and the others would be enjoying a good run of ale or exchanging fists at a tavern.

Just when the nightmare was over, a second more pressing battle began: the issue of payment. The foreman demanded upfront payment for 'services rendered' but Falrielle, unsure if he was trying to swindle her of her coin, insisted that she didn't need to pay him now. Falrielle wasn't quite sure what had gotten into her when she reached into her jerkin, whipped out the contract, and brandished it before the foreman.

The foreman snatched the parchment from her hands like a hawk striking a hare. The words had to be magical, Falrielle thought because as soon as the foreman laid his eyes on them, the man grew stiff and pale. When he returned the contract, the foreman was all smiles and courtesy. He bade Falrielle to wait as he fetched something.

Falrielle turned the paper over and over in her hands, and even held it against the candle light, as if doing so would work the magic or at least reveal some secret message in the paper. It did not. She was confused – what was so special about this paper? It was just paper, right? It didn't look any different from the kind the Imperials used to wipe after themselves.

The foreman returned with a wooden plaque. 'Here. Take this.'

'The fuck is this?' Falrielle said as she brushed her fingers over the plaque. On them she could feel that the panel had been stamped with strange runes.

'That's your receipt,' the foreman answered. 'It's proof that you have goods stored in my warehouse. Safe and sound, I assure you,' he added nervously when Falrielle stared blankly at him. 'Just give it to your master and they'll send someone down to pick their things.'

'Mah Master?'

'Yes, up in the Treasury house,' he answered with a stutter. Falrielle could detect the distinct scent of fear about him. 'It's in the Noriclett District up in Old Markarth. You can't miss it unless you try,' he added with a mirthless chuckle.

The sun was already hovering at its highest when Falrielle had finally left the warehouse. The sellsword shielded her eyes and frowned. Had it really taken her that long to sign some papers? How did Ivar make it seem so easy, she wondered? They were usually on their third drink when Ivar joined them. If Ivar were still alive, the morning drinking was long done and now was the throwing of fists.

Falrielle hawked, spat, and strode to Old Markarth. The sellsword could not help but allow her jaw to drop when she stood before the walls of Old Markarth. A city of carved stone was impressive enough but standing here, a literal axe's throw away did the descriptions for Dwarves' ingenuity little justice. Every section of the wall was not only beautifully crafted but it also had a very pragmatic sense to them. Perching on them like massive stone dragons were various war engines like ballistae, catapults, and strange poles of metal with a crystal orb at the top.

It truly was impressive, Falrielle thought. In particular its size. The walls dwarfed everything around it. Everything except the gatehouse.

The great arch of the gatehouse was huge, much bigger than already imposing walls of Windhelm. The heavy oaken gates were shod with a strange alloy between bronze and gold; the metal of the Dwarves perhaps? Falrielle was certain that a rampaging mammoth would only succeed at cracking its own skull were it to charge headfirst into these gates. Guardsmen, this time proper guards with proper uniforms and proper weapons manned these walls and scrutinised all travellers.

'State your name and business, knife-ears,' demanded a guard with a sneer that spoke of a lifetime of roughing up troublemakers, specifically elves and enjoying every bit of it.

Falrielle didn't answer. Instead, she showed the guard the contract. It endlessly amused her to note the panic in the guard's face when she saw the seal of a mattock crossed with a pickaxe. The guard looked like she had just kicked a bear.

'Please, right this way,' the guard said before turning to bark orders at her companions.

Falrielle gave the guard her best impression of a noble, the kind with that condescending smirk every on their inbred faces. 'Guid guardsman,' she said, as haughtily as she could without vomiting. 'How do ah git tae the Noriclett District?'

'Just follow the road up the Dryside in the north. Is there anything else you need?' she added hastily.

'Nae.'

'Welcome to Markarth.'

Situated on the roots of Karthmad and imposing its own shadow over the Karth Valley, Markarth is the lonesome capital and city of The Reach. Originally the surface outpost of the Dwemer city of Nchuand-Zel, Markarth, a name derived from Reachtongue meaning 'above the Karth' is no stranger to bloodshed and other diabolic activity ever since the disappearance of the Reckoning of the Dwemer in the 1st Era. A common saying in the city is 'blood and silver flows through Markarth and into the river Karth and it is this blood that keeps the lands fertile.'

The city's complicated past is difficult to forget and even more difficult to properly and completely archive but of note to the Vigil is the taint of Daedra upon the settlement.

Markarth, enduring millennia of bloodshed, congeals with dark magic. The Reachmen, known for their worship of the Daedra have been recorded to practice perverse rituals like human or elven sacrifices to their dark gods. More than that, the secrets of the dwarves, who lie quietly in wait in the earth below may belie a threat as to what may challenge the Oblivion Crisis of the previous era.

~ from Report: Markarth 4E 171 by Vigilant Hanzgrol collected in Codex Vigilas