Chapter 18: Death's Trail
Pain was what woke her. Yrith did not know how long she had been unconscious. She did not know where she was. She did not even know whether she was alive. The only thing she knew at the moment was the pain and the incessant throbbing in her head. The ground was cold and hard under her, coarse on the bare skin of her arms and legs. She took a breath and it stabbed her chest. The pain was too real, she had to be alive. She had felt it before. Only now it was hers, and it filled her with fear greater than any she had ever felt before.
Digging her fingers into the soil, she inhaled again. It was all she could do. She was too weak to lift herself, too weak to even fully open her eyes, and so she only breathed, drawing in her surroundings. They hit her nostrils and filled her with images. The heavy taste of sweat and metal she remembered from her days in Daggerfall when she sneaked into the smithy on the western side of the city. Horses and hay, grasses carried by air that was far warmer than the Winterhold breeze. Ale and smoke from the fires, and smells far less pleasant. It was all unknown and threatening. Where was she?
With the next breath, the first sounds reached her ears and made the throbbing in her head even more painful. She let out a soft hiss, trying to force her hands to work, to at least turn and see more than just a piece of dry earth. They refused to oblige. She tried to move a foot, but something cold and heavy was wrapped around it, keeping it in place.
"I think the Breton's wakin' up," someone said. The voice hurt, obscured by its own sharpness. It was unpleasant, hoarse, yet high-pitched and screechy. Yrith groaned quietly, realizing how parched her lips and throat were. How long had she not drunk or eaten? She had no strength to stay awake, yet she was too exhausted to fall back to sleep. There was nothing she could do, and that helplessness terrified her more than the broken state of her body.
"You think?" another voice said, deep and rough. There was a slapping sound. "You really shouldn't do that, you might hurt yourself. She was almost dead when they brought her, but sure, she's wakin' up! Sheogorath's balls."
"Well, but she got that magic, y'know…"
Magic… yes, Yrith had magic. She needed to use it. To free herself. To heal her body. She closed her eyes, concentrating, searching for the power of her soul. It was swirling, like a caged animal assaulting its bars, fighting for a chance to rip its captor apart. But the cage was unyielding, and the beast was too weak and hurt to break it. With all the willpower she could muster, Yrith moved her fingers. The magic sprung from her chest, spread across her body, shot through her arms…
"Trollheaded fool. Like she could… blast!"
There was a loud crack. Out of the corner of her eye, Yrith could see the sparks enveloping her wrists, sending thousands of white-hot needles through her skin and filling her with yet more pain. This time, she cried out aloud, unable to contain the primitive sound. The magic was sealed within her, blocked by some sort of barrier in her wrists and ankles. She tried once more, and the pain paralyzed her. She sent her magic out to explore, but it would not pass through. She could not use it to feel or see anymore, it would stay and weigh on her body and soul. The fear within her grew and made her tremble. She took a breath, but it would not bring her the relief she craved.
"I told you, didn't I? That magic… Erinor said she'd heal quicklier thanks to it."
"More quickly, you moron. Well, well." There were footsteps, slow and heavy, causing a small earthquake inside Yrith with each stomp. She gritted her teeth, trying to shut the pain out, but it was rooted deep inside. As the man approached, he bent to her, his knees cracking and sending yet another wave of painful sound her way.
"Oy. Give that to me," she heard him say, his voice slightly muffled. He must have been facing the other man.
"What? You can't be serious…"
"I said give it to me."
"But Erinor said we're not supposed to kill her…"
"I know what Erinor said, now give it to me and stop staring at me like a squeezed slaughterfish."
Yrith heard quiet rustling, leather on leather, then a thud. There was a grunt as the man near her picked up something heavy. And then she felt something jab into her and her vision blurred and blackened. The man lifted her with a haft of a large axe, mercilessly turning her over. She slid off the handle and screamed with pain, digging her nails into the dirt underneath her. The thing holding her foot gave a clanking sound. Chain. The man laughed, the sound vicious and full of scorn.
"Well well, the princess has awoken. Oh, but is she crying? Look at the poor thing, Ary. What shall we do about it?"
Through her tears, she was staring at a red canvas ceiling. The area around her was confined by the same red walls, drowning everything inside in red tint. She could spot a pole holding the whole structure together. So she was in a tent.
"Hmm," the first man with the screechy voice hummed as he drew closer, sliding a finger over Yrith's face. She looked at him, trembling in fear, but still wishing to look in the face of her enemy. He would have been handsome if it had not been for the unkempt mop of umber hair, the overgrown beard and a scar that stretched over his tanned cheek and down his neck, gaping like twisted jaws of a sabre cat. He would have been attractive it if had not been for the grin he wore as he looked at her, eyes hungry and glinting with malice. Yrith wanted to pull away, but there was nowhere to go. She lay on the ground, helpless as he held her chin, forcing her to face him. "What a pretty face. Ah, but so sad. I think she could use some quality time, eh?"
The other man, still out of Yrith's sight, prodded her again with the haft, skillfully picking the sorest spot in her side. She moaned, tears rolling down her face and falling in the dirt.
"Give it a break, Ary. This one would not last a moment of your antics. Besides…"
"Besides," a third voice joined them, this one so cold Yrith felt as though she was being buried in the Midden's ice, "I believe you have been given instruction."
"Master Erinor…"
"Arius and Silvio. You Colovians know no restraint. Do I smell booze on you again?"
"I didn't…"
"Silence."
"Yes, sir."
The screechy man pulled away and vanished from Yrith's sight. The haft left her skin as the man known as Silvio dropped the axe to the ground. There was wild and hasty shuffling followed by a curse as someone tripped. Steel boots stomped on the ground. But the newcomer was quiet and collected, and by both his step and his voice, Yrith assumed he was an elf, likely an Altmer. He was entirely different from Lady Faralda, Leyna or Selas Travi. His step was firm but unrushed. Unlike the two men, he smelled clean, but not like Singird. His was the rich scent of redwort baths and jazbay grapes, underlined by the heavy fragrance of ermine fur. Yrith knew before she could see his face what kind of eyes would stare down upon her. She wanted to turn away, but at the same time, she could not. She stared back as he appeared, his features twisted in a cold sneer. She imagined this man walking away from a battlefield with blood dripping from his blade, graceful and basking in his own victory. Yet still, he would not truly smile, for losing had never been a possibility. She shuddered when she saw those eyes. Beautiful almond-shaped and deadly dark.
"You consider this pretty? I suppose simple minds enjoy simple things." He sat down beside her comfortably, enjoying the view of the helpless girl before him. "Ah, the fabled Yrith Ravencroft. You awoke even sooner than I expected. I hope you are pleased with our hospitality."
Yrith stared at him in shock. This man knew her, just like Selas Travi had. He called her fabled. And he mocked her for her pitiful state. The hopelessness she had felt just moments before vanished, replaced with sudden anger. Anger at Leyna for lying to her. Anger at herself for getting lured out and betraying Singird's trust. Anger at this man for the vicious sneer in his face.
"Who are you?!" she hissed, her voice a hoarse whisper that hurt her parched throat.
"Ah, that you would like to know, wouldn't you? But even if you did, what good would it be to you?"
"Why have you taken me here?"
"Your questions, dear Yrith, bear no importance. But I can promise you," he closed the distance between them, face inches from hers so she could smell the sweet, heavy perfume on him, "you will be relieved soon."
Cold gripped her and her stomach knotted. She felt sick and paralyzed, and everything was surreal. This could not be happening to her. How had she managed to get herself captured, with her body broken and her magic blocked? She could not feel anything. She did not know where her friends were. She was at the mercy of a crazed elf who seemed to revel in the dominance he had over her. Everything was red. She must have been in an Imperial tent, but who was he?
She took a breath and gathered her magic again, sending it forward in a rush. But it would not break through. It stopped at her wrists, sending yet again a painful spark that scorched her skin. She cried out, eyes filling with tears once more. The man's face widened in a cruel grin.
"Very convenient," he said as he lifted her hand, twisting it and flooding her body with more pain. Yrith could spot a thin silvery bracelet on her wrist, almost invisible but glowing in pale blue. It crackled lightly, reacting to every strand of magic that touched it. "Unfortunately, your magic will not help you. Nothing will help you, Yrith Ravencroft." He let the hand fall on the ground. More pain. His face blurred and darkened before Yrith's eyes. She let the tears flow, wishing for all this to end.
"Make sure she does not try any tricks. She will stay where she is, untouched, until the clash. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, Master Erinor," the two Imperials said in unison. There was more shuffling and clanking of buckles. Yrith assumed they were bowing. Then Silvio, the dark-voiced man, spoke, tone full of cautious respect.
"What about the other two?"
"Ah, these?" Yrith heard those slow, poised steps, then a moment of silence. "Let's see…"
A thud and a cry that froze the blood in Yrith's veins.
"Such refined features, eyes of pure gold and white-gold hair like the finest silk, even in these conditions… a result of careful cultivation throughout generations. Unfortunately, the dynasty is going to perish with this one. Selas Travi is dead. She is useless."
"You…" Leyna snarled. Yrith shuddered. Never before had she felt so much hatred in her voice, so much anger and hurt. It made her ache inside. She knew her pain. Leyna had just witnessed her own father die. A man she had loved and respected so much. "You'll pay for this. I may die here, but you will pay! You will die a heretic's death and never see Aetherius. I swear it on my father's honor!"
"Ah, it barks… but bite it cannot. Save your breath, traitor's child. You are in no position to make such promises."
"My father was no traitor!"
"Certainly not to you, was he? Now what do we have here?"
"You…" One more thud. Leyna stammered and shrieked, and so did the freshly woken Cain. Yrith clenched her fists, unable to stop the tears from falling. This was all her fault. Her foolishness had led them all here, and now Cain was paying for it.
"Damn it… it hurts… dammit!"
"Oh, it does, doesn't it?" Erinor drawled, the words sounding strangely sweet on his tongue. Yrith heard a hiss.
"Who in Oblivion… dammit… Yrith! You s'wit! What have you done to her?!"
"Ah, and this would be young Aldaryn. Also useless. A banished fourth son with no future. His family would think we're doing them a service by killing him… wouldn't they, young Cain?"
"Y-you…"
"Are we to get rid of these two, Master Erinor?" The high-pitched voice of Arius was slick with twisted pleasure.
"Stop…" Yrith whispered through the sobs, "please. D-do… do whatever you want with me… just… leave them alone… let them go…"
"No!" Cain cried. "Yrith, you can't…" he suddenly fell silent. Yrith felt another wave of cold take over. Her throat felt so tight she could not catch her breath. Why? Why did it have to be this way? By now, Singird must be going mad with worry. More than ever she wanted to feel his embrace. Perhaps she never would.
"Ah, so she is pleading. Silvio?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Hold young Yrith up for me. So that she has a clear view of her… friends."
The man with the deep, rough voice slid his hands under Yrith and lifted her mercilessly. She did not cry out this time, gritting her teeth, fighting a battle with herself. How could she give these men the pleasure? They reveled in seeing pain. She had to be strong. Even if she was to die, she had to be strong till the last moment.
Erinor came back into her sight, standing between her trembling friends with that sneer of his. Cain and Leyna were each chained to a different pole, each wearing the same two pairs of glowing bracelets as she did. They were half lying half sitting, filthy and ragged, but unhurt. A sigh of relief escaped her lips, gaining her a painful nudge from Silvio. She took a breath, stifling the moan.
Cain was glaring at his captor, cuffed hands clenched into fists, knuckles turning white under his ebony skin. Leyna's eyes were pinned to the ground, but when Yrith set her gaze upon her, she raised them to meet her. Yrith shuddered. The look Leyna gave her was not painful. It was not pleading or broken. It was full of hatred. Countless icy needles pierced her whole person. What had she done to be loathed so?
Next to Leyna, Erinor slowly unsheathed his dagger in a single practiced movement. Yrith's eyes widened in fear.
"Well then," the elven man said, placing the blade on Leyna's cheek. She froze, forgetting her breath. Then she closed her eyes, two solitary tears sliding down over her face. Yrith's vision blurred again. Fear paralyzed her and made her lose breath. What was she supposed to do now? Would she be forced to watch Leyna die in front of her? She wanted to cry and beg, but she couldn't. It would change nothing. It would only serve for this man's vile entertainment.
He changed his grip, sliding the dagger lightly over Leyna's skin. A thin red line appeared.
"Well?" she hissed. "What are you waiting for?!"
"That you would like, wouldn't you?" Erinor said, his voice the sweetest whisper. He pulled away and twirled the dagger in his fingers. It sailed to Cain's neck. Yrith's insides turned in her. Her eyes burned. There were no more tears she could shed. Her strength left her entirely. She hung limply in the hands of her keeper, wishing the end would come soon. If she could just be the first to go…
But then, Cain would have to watch her part. The loyal Cain who had only sought to protect her. The Cain who had stood by her side, expecting nothing in return.
She forced herself to raise her head again, eyes hard as the finest steel whose color they bore. And as they landed on Cain's face, the Dunmer's lips quirked in a sudden smile. He looked up at Erinor, defiance in his eyes contrasting the state of his body.
"Thank you muchly," he snorted, "for making me feel right at home."
"Silence." The dagger left his neck, replaced by a flash of magic that made Cain cough and gasp for air. "Just in case you get any strange ideas, little Yrith… remember that there are things far worse than death that could befall your… friends."
"You… coward," Yrith hissed through gritted teeth, not believing her own words. "Too afraid to face me. Too scared to…"
The dagger shot out in two swift movements, leaving a perfect cross over Leyna's cheek. The elven girl screamed, curling up as much as her chains allowed. Yrith froze in horror.
"That was one. Anything else you would like to tell me, little hatchling?"
She shook her head obediently, feeling her will break under the weight of his look.
"Ah, so you can listen when you want to. Release her, Silvio. The two of you will not touch the young Ravencroft in my absence."
Yrith felt the hands that had held her retreat, letting her fall in the dirt.
"And the other two?"
"You are allowed to… discipline our guest lest she try something unseemly. Try not to overdo it. We do not want any casualties."
"No casualties… right," Arius guffawed. "S'pose that's good enough."
Erinor gave a nonchalant shrug as he looked at Yrith once more, cold smile still playing on his lips. "One more thing. Do not feed our guest. At all."
"But master… you told us to keep her alive…"
"Oh I will keep her alive. Just… barely." With that, he walked out, his richly woven robe flapping about him. As the last inch of his soft leather boots disappeared behind the red canvas, Yrith fought to suppress the acute burning in her eyes.
She did not know how much time had passed since she had fainted. She felt even weaker than before, and her restrained magic had a suffocating effect. She felt as though she was shrinking, more and more with every passing moment, until she would explode. But she had no strength to command her magic anymore, not even to send it against the bracelets on her wrists. She faintly noticed someone coming to her side and imbuing her with a tiny droplet of their own magic, sending it trickling down her stomach and through her body. So that was her food now. She did not even try to open her eyes. She did not care anymore. She would wait till the bitter end.
Voices reached her through the barrier of her pain. She knew them and they were not friendly. One screechy, one deep and hoarse. They hurt. She tried to deflect them, but they kept coming, drowning her head in painful tremor.
"I gotta tell you, Erinor's a fool if he thinks Toddvar will back away cuz of her." That was the screechy man. Arius, that was his name. She tried to slide her hands to her temples, ease herself of some of that ache. They would not move. Her body had never felt so heavy before.
"You better hope he doesn't hear you," Silvio's hoarse voice joined. "Anyway, he said something about breaking his morale, didn't he? Hah, morale! Some people are so simple."
"That's just plain st…"
"Shhhh! You're really asking for trouble saying things like that!"
"Well, but have you seen General Toddvar? That General Toddvar? He's like a mountain, and when he goes to battle, that axe never misses. And I mean never. He never falters, never backs away and those people that follow him… they're like crazed. I'd say it'll take more than a death of one girl to break the guy."
"Hey…" Silvio's voice dropped into a whisper, barely audible to anyone outside, but roaring like a thunder to Yrith. "Truth be told, I agree. I don't think the elf is half as smart as he thinks he is, and Toddvar is like a damned Dwemer centurion. But it's not like keeping the girl will kill us, right? I mean… she doesn't even eat."
"Right… but he could at least let us have some fun with her."
"Well, you can have fun with the elf."
"Bah! I'd rather die than touch that thing with my bare hands!"
Silvio let out a yapping laugh. "Well, apparently this little thing has some scary wild magic that's going to eat us alive if we dig into it."
"Oooooh, look at my hair standing!"
The two of them laughed at that, buckles on their armors clanking as they shook. Yrith fought not to moan, not to express the pain every outburst of theirs brought her. The poor joke lasted for a while of their entertainment before it finally became quiet. She took a careful breath, absorbing the moment of tranquility. Perhaps she could fall asleep again. Forget this all was happening and keep in the dark forever. But…
A sudden thought woke her to full attention. Those men spoke of Toddvar, but he could not have been the real reason she was kept here. For that, Erinor had been too smitten with her. He had kept repeating her name too often for her liking, savoring her pain, enjoying every moment that he could look at her tormented face. He had spoken of her magic and bound her with bracelets strong enough to suppress her power. But if what Master Neloren and Selas Travi had told her was true…
"The enemy fears you, Yrith. You're not prepared yet. I can feel your magic swirling inside you, wild and uncontrolled. But when you are, you must find him."
Was Erinor that enemy? No… they were cautious and evasive. Subtle. But this man loved to flaunt. He was nothing but a tool, she was certain of it. A powerless little pawn that strived for recognition. If she had met her enemy, she wouldn't have known, or she'd have long perished. But she was still here, waiting…
Suddenly, she found the thought ridiculous. She was the daughter of Damasy and Adine Ravencroft who had trusted her in their mission. She had surpassed her classmates and gained the respect of the Collegium. And she had left Singird alone…
She could not die here. She could not just wait until death came to claim her. Something was about to happen, but perhaps that could also be her chance. And in the end, she was not so powerless. For some reason, Erinor had not deprived her of her magic. He had only blocked it, with a few simple circlets that, ultimately, were still made of magicka. Perhaps it worked like a door that could only be opened from the outside, while on the inside, it only had a doorknob. But then, some thieves could open such a door in a snap. She would only have to become one that can get through a magical bracelet.
Slowly, quietly, she drew in a breath. She felt so weak… but she was still alive. People were waiting for her, depending on her.
She opened an eye and saw two pairs of steel shoes. She would be constantly watched, and any sign of movement could put Cain and Leyna in danger. Suppressing a sigh, she closed her eyes again, pondering her options. As long as she would play nearly dead, they would be safe. A sneak thief works in silence, with absolute precision, touching, trying with care, until the lock gives an almost inaudible click. A sneak thief is resourceful and finds ways and means others would never think of.
Inwardly, she smiled to herself. If Erinor could feed her his magic, then so could she.
The night was dark and moonless. Not many could boast about having visited the Midden and making it out alive. Singird had done so twice in one day. Only three people knew that he had left. Faralda, Drevis Neloren and Phinis Gestor, the three whom he had chosen to trust. Of course it would not take more than two days for the rest of the College to notice, but by that time, he would be long gone. He had only packed little to sustain him, relying on whatever his journey would serve him. The College barely had enough to get by as it was.
As he descended the cascades of ice, the sea welcomed him with soft splashes. The night was so serene as he roamed through it, picking the exact same route as previously, following Yrith's and his own footsteps. There was not a single snowflake falling down from the skies, and the wind was just enough to lightly swing the twigs of the scarce Winterhold trees.
Keeping to the shadows, he approached the city and watched a group of guards walking cautiously toward him. They held their torches high, backs pressed together as if in defense formation. Rumor of the battle just around the corner must have reached them. Singird suppressed a bitter laugh. He could not imagine anyone trying to invade this dreary place.
Casting a quick invisibility spell, he crouched behind the trunk of likely the oldest tree in the city, hidden from the light of the guards' torches. He let them pass, holding his breath.
"… and apparently the Imperials got hold of some secret weapon against our General Toddvar," one of them whispered as he scanned the shadows inches from Singird.
"Hah, right, they're bluffing. Secret weapon, but everyone knows about it."
"That's what I told them…"
The voices faded away as the guards went to examine some remote corners of the city. Singird slipped past the tree and through the bushes, following the path to the Winterhold pass. He kept to the shadows, maintaining a pace not too slow and not too quick. Winterhold had no stables and hiring a horse to gain a lead was out of the question. Perhaps in Dawnstar fortune would smile on him and he would find a reliable steed, but that was at least two days away.
He sighed… two days during which anything could happen. Two days when Yrith would be held captive, likely hurt and poorly treated. And that was only the beginning. What kind of face would she be wearing when he finally found her? If he could make it in time to find her alive…
Clenching his fists, he picked up his pace, eyes turned to the horizon. Somewhere in the distance, beyond the gold-hued mountains, was the great city of Solitude, and inside it was the man who could make a stop to this.
Singird halted as he approached the battlefield, scanning the land before him. There were two paths that would let him avoid it. The southern route led through a mountainous region, past the freshly excavated Saarthal and round the ancient Dwemer city of Alftand that was known to teem with bandits on the surface and the Falmer in its depths. He had no wish to fight either. The northern path followed the shoreline, keeping within the firing range of several Nordic tombs where the undead liked to dwell. Not a pleasant prospect either, but at least he would be facing his own ancestors with no qualms about sending them back to their slumber. With a sigh, he stepped to the north.
The road was quiet, leading him down the shore and along the coast. The Sea of Ghosts was dark and murky, and occasionally he heard the grumble of horkers. Sabrecats enjoyed roving around the shore in search of prey, hunting for fish that strayed too far from the safety of their depths. Singird's hand groped about his chest until it found a moon-shaped Dwemer amulet, a memento that had been passed from father to son in the Larkwing family, ordinarily disguised as a plain paperweight. It had saved his life more than once and he counted on it to do it again.
When the sunrise drew near, he decided to camp in an alcove formed by a great rock several hundred paces away from the sea. It would provide enough of a shelter for a short rest, even though he could imagine a cleaner and softer place to lay his weary body. He spread out his bedroll, too thin for his liking, and buried himself inside, chewing on his last supply of dried fruits.
The morning was grey and quiet, but more than an hour passed before his eyelids finally sank to relieve him of his exhaustion. Still, images of the war and Yrith, laying down hurt with her silver eyes full of tears, haunted him even in his sleep. As wind carried the splashes from the sea afar, he dreamt of squelching blood. When the first seagull's cry tore through the air, he heard cries of agony. Then magic crackled and threatened to swallow everything alive, drown him in blinding light…
His eyes cracked open at once. The moon amulet was glowing bright turquoise and magic was indeed crackling in the air, deflected by the faint barrier held up around him. It dispersed with the last bolt of lightning that would have struck him down had he not jumped out at once. In a single swift movement, he shook off his bedroll and called forth two atronachs, one a mass of stones and lightning, the other a graceful flaring creature. They both fired at once, one missing and the other crashing into a bright shield of translucent magicka.
Singird skipped and jumped, dodging one missile after another. The road along the coast was blocked, lit by fire and lightning. Behind him was a solid rock. The only remaining option was to his right, along the mountain of stone and ice. It would almost certainly be a trap. He still tried.
He ran and ran again, hands flashing with magic as he cast spell after spell. Ironflesh, a ward, another atronach as the fire creature fell in a blast of fire, a lightning strike to hit an enemy and replenish his magicka, a banishing spell to send a freshly conjured enemy atronach back to Oblivion…
He counted at least five people assaulting him. He would not stand a chance. And so he ran, cursing his luck as he thought of the humble supplies he had left in his resting place. He would never see them again. Now it was just him and his pocket, luckily filled with enough coin to get him by once he arrived in Dawnstar.
He slid past a rock to vanish from his pursuers' sight, ready to disappear entirely, but the invisibility spell faded from his hand as soon as another opponent emerged before him, a triumphant smirk defining her face.
"You have nowhere to go, little mage. Give it up!" she laughed as she raised her hand. Singird roared just to give himself courage, cloaking himself in fire as he summoned a blade and a ward, charging right at the woman. Her eyes widened in surprise. She could only let out a few weak shots before he reached her. The fight was short. She carried no weapon on her person and only relied on her spells. He could sense panic from her, panic that had been born from her own haughtiness. He gave a primitive, beastlike smile as he plunged his ghostly sword in her chest and sent her gurgling to the ground. He did not bother pulling it out and ran on. That was little mage for her.
Up, up the hill, up the steep slope that fought against him. Another rock stood in his way. He sent a quick ice storm blast for distraction, slipping behind the would-be obstacle. Muffle, then invisibility, and he was lost to their eyes entirely. Holding his breath, he hurried up, reaching a plateau with a beacon and a modest cabin attached to it from the side. There were two open sheds, each holding a pile of hay. Singird forced himself to stop and think. If he was pursuing someone, the first place to look would be inside the buildings or in the hay. He frowned and restored the spells on him, squeezing himself into the gap between the two sheds. He was just in time to see the enemies appear in his sight. The leading man, a Breton with eyes hungry like wolf's and muscles hard and lined like thick ropes wound tight around his limbs, kicked the nearest chunk of snow.
"Damned son a crippled clannfear," he hissed.
"Shall we split then?" a Dunmer woman next to him proposed in a smooth voice, nodding to the two paths spanning from the beacon. One led south into the mountains. The other circled the beacon and continued down, back to the shore. Singird felt a slight tug of satisfaction, seeing that the woman, along with a man that was, judging from the same mop of wavy chestnut hair and the same slightly crooked stance, likely her brother, bore countless minuscule wounds from the ice storm.
"No, he may be a Nord, but he's a mage above all and spent most of his life buried in texts. He has no stamina to run that far in one go. He is hiding here somewhere. Tanris, you will follow me inside. You three will search every corner of this place. Don't forget who your enemy is. He may be very crafty, don't let your guard down for a moment."
The five of them exchanged nods before the leader disappeared in the depths of the beacon in the company of the Dunmer woman. The rest began to search. Singird tensed as two of them advanced to his hideout, but just as he expected, each took one pile of hay, ignoring the seemingly empty gap where he stood. He stifled a sigh of relief. This would be a good moment to make himself scarce before the spells on him would wear out.
Protected by the muffle spell, he sneaked out in absolute silence, making his way straight between the two people who were far too preoccupied with their own search to notice the slightly quivering air at the place where he walked. Slowly he backed away, making his way to the slope while constantly watching his surroundings. Just a few more steps and he would be safe.
"Over here!" someone cried. It was the third one, standing just a few paces away from him. A moment later, Singird jumped aside to dodge a firebolt. Lucky these scoundrels were foolish enough to talk before they fired, he thought to himself sardonically as he deflected the next missile with another ward. The invisibility spell flicked away immediately. Singird noticed snow on his sleeves, likely fallen from the cliff under which he had been standing. So that was what had given him away.
He darted out again, dodging, summoning creatures to his aid, deflecting. So many shots missed him by inches, making him panic and search frantically for an escape route. The only possible way was the slope down, but the descent itself was dangerously steep, not to mention the potential avalanche that could come down from the cliff. If he could somehow switch places…
He smiled to himself. Of course he could switch places with them. Why had he not thought about this before?
Skipping around to avoid the incessant shots and hide behind his atronachs, he scanned the cliff and did a quick math. A step to the left, then down, then two left, one right to avoid a missile, two left… the closest man suddenly ceased his fire. Singird gave a beastlike grin. He was running out of magicka. One last step…
And he had them exactly where he wanted them. He raised both hands, summoning the biggest fire blast he could produce. It shot up, to the south-west. The two men in the rear began laughing.
"Where are you aiming, Master Conjurer? Sending the gods' wrath upon us?"
"Exactly," Singird mouthed as he fired another ball of fire. The cliff shook, the snow began melting. Now all three of his opponents looked up, turning away from Singird, and he could only imagine the dread in their eyes. They bolted out at once, but too late. Third shot sent the ice and snow down, burying them deep inside. Singird could hear their cries until they were stifled, perhaps for good.
He did not waste any time. Turning away, he muffled his step to prevent leaving footprints and slid down the slope as fast as he could. Dawnstar was still almost a day away, a day he would have to spend with no food and no way to take a rest.
When he finally reached a hollow he considered safe enough to make a stop, with enough routes for potential escape, he leaned to a tree and let out a long, exhausted breath.
"So this is what it has come to," he said to himself as he slid down along the trunk to squat. The blood of four people was on his hands for just the first day of his journey. In his mind he was trying to convince himself that he had only acted in his defense, but the weight was still tremendous to bear. It was different from the responsibility he had felt when his parents had passed. These people had died before his very eyes, by his own doing. He raised his hands and stared into their palms. He had never imagined how deadly they could become. And Yrith… how terrible must she have felt when she found her parents' corpses just moments after her own atronach had entered their home? He had never known. Not even now he could imagine her pain. He only wished to lock her in his arms again, to never let go.
He forced himself to get up. She was waiting, and there were still people after him. Perhaps they would think twice now that their group of six was reduced to two. Or perhaps there would be more coming. He frowned as he realized that meeting them was no coincidence. They were not after his belongings, nor were they random marauders trying to get rid of an unwelcome guest. Those people knew exactly who he was, even where he was headed. They were all mages. They had called him Master Conjurer, and they had followed him obstinately even after the death of one of their own. Someone was trying to stop him from proceeding. But how could they have known? Was the trust he put in his three fellow teachers misplaced?
He left the hollow with dark thoughts. As he ascended the slope ahead, a new view opened before him, a massive stone tower dominating a run-down fortress. That was the Nightcaller Temple, former home to the priests of Vaermina, the Mistress of Nightmares. Singird would have to circle it, not wishing for a night full of dreadful dreams. It loomed over the vast land beyond it, watched the city of Dawnstar below with its docks and the sea that stretched to the north. Far away in the distance were the Mortal swamps, and through the mist that hung over them showed the city of Solitude with its great bridge carrying the mighty Blue Palace. It was still many days away, for the swamps could not be crossed easily, but the sight made Singird feel just a tad lighter. Carefully picking his path, he stepped forward, eyes fixed on the murky horizon.
It was almost midnight when Singird finally arrived in Dawnstar. The rest of his journey had been surprisingly uneventful, but he welcomed the change with open arms. Weary from his battle, traveling and hunger, he aimed straight for the inn. The innkeeper kept giving him strange looks filled with curiosity, but Singird was too tired to engage in a conversation. He fell asleep before he could finish his meal.
Voices woke him the next morning, sending a painfully loud echo through the main hall and to all the rooms.
"And I'm telling you to get your lousy arse up! We're leaving now!"
"Ah, c'mon, capt'n! Just one more…"
"Don't worry, there'll be plenty of booze for you up in Solitude. Now move those lazy bones!"
"Up in the Winkin' Skeever, eh. D'you even know what they serve there? Ain't nothing but the Black-Briar swill! I ain't drinkin' that!"
"Yeah, we ain't drinkin' that!"
"Very well. Then I'll cut your pay in tenth and maybe then you won't be drinking at all. The shipment will arrive before sundown or you'll be the ones paying the fine. Your choice."
Singird jumped on his feet at once, cleaning himself with a quick spell. It was not perfect, and his braid must have been tangled by now, but there was not time to lose. He smoothed down his robes as he left the room, scanning it over his shoulder for anything he might have forgotten. But he had not brought anything with him save for the cloak that hung over his hand and the sack of coins buried deep in the folds of his robe.
The rather small space within the main hall was filled with sturdy sailors, muscles on one arm twice the width of Singird's thigh. Almost every one of them held a tankard, ale dripping over their unkept beards. The smell of the place hit Singird's nostrils with the power of the dragon breath. Sweat mixed with spirits and whatever the men had been eating, with a hint of dirt and soot. Singird suppressed the need to cover his mouth and made his way directly to the man standing on top of one of the tables, shouting at the lot with unmatched vigor.
"Get up, vermin! Move it!"
"Fine, whatever!" Grumpy murmurs hummed through the crowd as the people started rising, some more agile, others staggering and grabbing the shoulders of their equally sluggish comrades. Coins clanked on the counter as a ginger-haired innkeeper scooped them into a pouch.
Singird elbowed his way through the mass of stinking people, avoiding as much contact as possible. The captain, a mountain of muscle and tendons coated in bronze skin and hair dark and ruffled like freshly plowed soil, shouted for a good moment before most of his men crawled out of the inn, into the grey of the morning. At last, he jumped down from the table and dropped a curtsy to the innkeeper.
"Later, Thoring. Take care of your girl!"
"You take care of your boys," the innkeeper laughed.
"Hah! Those lads would survive the end of the world!"
"But we all did, remember?"
"More than once, dear Thoring. I ought to take the Dragonborn for a drink sometime. See ya!"
The captain turned to the door.
"Wait!" Singird hurried to his side. "You're the captain, correct?"
"What do you want, boy? You don't look like someone interested in our dealings."
Singird swallowed his pride at the unseemly address. "I heard you're headed to Solitude?"
"Yes, we are, and no, we are no messenger service nor public transport. So whatever you want, take it somewhere else."
"I respect that," Singird said with a bow, "but any other way would take days. I will pay you handsomely if you take me aboard. And I am…" he cleared his throat, "quite effective when it comes to cleaning." Offering himself in place of a cleaning lady. Singird could not believe his own words.
"Quite effective when it comes to cleaning," the captain repeated. Then he roared with laughter. "Can you hear it, Thoring?" He sized Singird up, dark bushy brows furrowing in distaste. "Fancy yourself a mage, eh? Up from the damned Winterhold, perhaps? We don't take your kind. Get lost."
"How much is it to change your mind?" Singird pressed on, stepping in the captain's way. He felt pathetic, staring at the pile of muscle before him. At least he matched him in height.
"Well, maybe you should use your cleaning talents for getting rid of that dirt in your ears, lad. I said no."
"Wait a minute," the innkeeper suddenly cut in as he hurried past the counter and to Singird. He grabbed his shoulders and stared into his eyes, face suddenly brightening with realization. "I thought I'd seen you somewhere, but I guess that was not you. You're old Larkwing's boy, aren't you?" Singird froze, hoping this would mean a friendly encounter. Now it was too late to back away.
"Larkwing?" the captain raised his brows. "Ranmar Larkwing?"
"That was my father," Singird nodded, scanning both men with suspicious eye. They were no mages. They had trouble recognizing him. And he would be long dead if someone here had wished so. He forced himself to breathe steadily. Surely there was nothing to fear.
"Well then," the captain shook his head, fire in his eyes fading in painful memory, "I suppose that changes a lot. I owe you an apology. Your father was a good man. Better than most."
"You knew him?"
"Not too well myself, but he was one of the few not to treat us like filth when we delivered the Imperial cargo. My men loved him. But ever since he passed away, things have been turning for the worse. And the men are tired with the war going on. Your parents… they were protectors. Everywhere they went, people had respect for them. Bandits ceased their ravages, Stormcloaks and Imperials alike stopped their assaults. They kept the units in shape. Your father was an uncompromising man. He would make sure that anyone he deemed unreliable or incompetent was immediately expelled. People feared him, but the worthy looked up to him. And his men… they never mistreated a single soul."
"I… didn't know my father was a commander."
"Oh, he wasn't. Not officially, at least. But the generals listened to him. Even Legate Rikke held him in high regard. But why are we still standing here? Let's get a move on, the crew is waiting."
"Wait," the innkeeper said. "Young Singird."
"Yes?"
"You seem doubtful of your father. But believe me, that man had nothing but love for you. He spoke of you highly. Said you have the power to see the truth, even if it was buried ten feet under the ground. Take these words with you. They will show you the way in troubled times."
Singird clenched his fists. How many times had he woken up in the middle of the night, reliving the moment he had bowed to the Jarl of Faklreath? How many times had the memory of the messenger announcing their death come to haunt him?
"Then I failed him," he said bitterly as he turned away. He walked out of the inn without another word, followed by the captain.
"You really are his son, aren't you?" the captain laughed. "He was just as hard on himself. Hard on everyone, that's for sure, but himself he could drain entirely."
The road led them past a line of thatch-roofed abodes, not unlike those in Winterhold, but there was much more life in Dawnstar. From afar, Singird could hear laughter and the constant pounding of a smith's hammer. Children were running around playing tag. An elderly woman was offering the passersby alchemical remedies.
"Care for a drop of fearless elixir?" she said to the passing Singird, gifting him with a warm smile. He shook his head.
"Say… did my father ever complain about joining the Legion?"
"Complain? Dear lad, if I said he complained it would be like calling a giant a goblin. He was furious!" The captain threw up his arms, not minding the alarmed people in their way. A small girl slipped behind her mother, peeking at them in suspicion. Amidst the sea of grey and brown tunics, Singird in his gold-lined robe and a captain dressed all in red were certain to attract attention. "He talked about home a lot. And about 'stuff waiting to be done'. That this whole war is pointless. He even tried to prevent several battles. I guess you never heard."
They descended to the lowest circle. Several men were waving at them from a large white ship with red flags carrying the Imperial dragon insignia. The others were preparing the sails, making a quick work of the ropes and hooks that held them.
"I have not."
"'There's something rotten in the Empire,' he kept saying. Not once did he believe that the Legion stood for reason, but so did he doubt the Stormcloaks. It is like a plague that keeps spreading, and in the end, whoever wins will gain nothing in the face of our greatest threat."
"And by greatest threat he meant…"
"He never said. Always sounded so mysterious, but we all assumed he was referring to the Thalmor."
"I wonder if he did," Singird muttered, stepping on the plank connecting the ship to the pier on which they were standing. It was wet and slippery, and he was glad he was not carrying anything, struggling to maintain his balance. The sailors up on the deck encouraged him with cheerful laughs, helping themselves to whatever liquor they could find aboard.
"What did you just say?" the captain shouted over the voices, taking firm, practiced steps on the plank.
"Nothing," Singird shook his head. "Could I perhaps get a drink as well? I'll pay…"
"Absolutely not!" Then the captain stopped and turned around. "Unless you accept an invitation to our humble feast."
Singird gave him a smile. "It would be my honor."
It had taken him several hours to get used to the constant bouncing on the ship. When he had to step on the ground that suddenly did not seem quite as solid as it usually did, Singird could not even enjoy the view of the grand bridge formed naturally by a single piece of rock. Up there, a few hundred feet above their heads, stood the proud city of Solitude in all its glory. The snow had receded to a sudden outburst of greenery and the sea glittered with the setting sun. Incessant gongs and bells resounded through the vast docks, sailors shouting over each other in between the cries of the seagulls. Never before had Singird visited the capital of Skyrim, and now he was regretting he would not get to spend more time here, to visit the Temple of the Divines and taste the famous Firebrand Wine.
"So this is where we part, young Singird. It has been an honor. Try not to be too hard on yourself. For your own sake."
"The pleasure is all mine, Captain Winterbreath." Singird bowed and pressed a few coins in the man's hand.
"Ah, you never learn, do you? That part of you that doesn't want to owe people… you won't get far with it. And you know that Winterbreath is not my name, right?"
"It goes well with Captain," Singird shrugged.
"I'll have to have a good talk with those lads of mine, teaching our guests strange things. You take care now." The captain gave Singird one last pat on the shoulder before he excused himself. Singird watched him disappear in his cabin before he made for the city.
It was long dark when he finally reached the main gate. The guards flashed him looks full of suspicion, hands caressing the hilts of their blades. "Only burglars and vampires lurk around after dark. So which are you?"
"A late traveler," Singird said truthfully. "I arrived in the docks at sunset."
"A brave soul, traveling in these times. Or a foolish one. You may pass, but remember that no crime will be tolerated within the walls of this city."
"I will keep that in mind," Singird nodded. The gate opened before him, presenting a view of the main street. To his left, an ornate sign featuring a skeever with its tail wrapped around a plate informed him that the building before him was The Winking Skeever, the local inn. To his right was raised a platform with an execution block. As far as Singird knew, the last time this place had been used had been almost two years ago, during the execution of Roggvir who had opened the gate to Ulfric Stormcloak and thus sent the High King Torygg to his death. This incident was what had set Skyrim in such chaos. He averted his eyes with a sigh, making his way to the inn.
The Winking Skeever was lively with sailors, soldiers, merchants, and also beggars who did not hesitate to stretch out their hands in a pleading gesture whenever someone took out their coin pouch to pay. Rarely they managed to capture the attention of the more prosperous folk who mostly treated them with cold looks and sometimes even kicks in their rears. The people of Solitude were much more colorful than those in Winterhold and Dawnstar. Dames dressed in velvet gowns and sirs in tunics bearing rich embroideries, gold and rubies adorning their necks and hands, hair up in complex tangles of braids held together by gleaming tiaras, all holding goblets with wine that was five classes above anything Singird had ever savored. That was Solitude. Amidst them stood a female bard dressed far too scarcely for Singird's taste, fingers dancing over the lute she held as she sang the Song of the Dragonborn. A good many people joined the singing, dancing wildly to the rather calm tune.
After a good while of simple observation, Singird made his way to the counter.
"Welcome to the Winking Skeever, young man!" beamed the bartender, a middle-aged Colovian who seemed to be in a mood just as jolly as all his guests. "What can I do you for?"
"I'd like a room for the night, a bath and a dinner."
The man tilted his head to his side, giving a look of feigned sympathy. "Well, too bad, my friend, but we're out of rooms."
Singird let out a sigh. "I suppose I'll have to find another place to stay then. Maybe I can get the local stables some extra business."
"Haha, I was joking, don't be such a grump! Second floor, first on the left. The bath will be ready in half an hour. That would be twenty septims, please. Thirty if you want to include a massage. Lysia over there is serving tonight." The man winked at him, nodding to a delicate ginger girl with a wide smile and large round eyes whose bright green gown was even more revealing than the bard's. Singird fought not to roll his eyes.
"Thank you for the offer, but I will have to pass tonight." He dropped a small stack of coins on the counter. The man took out a key and spun it on his finger before handing it over to Singird.
"As you wish."
That night, Singird had not slept a wink. The inn was rowdy and he was haunted by thoughts of his parents, his father whose trust he had betrayed, mingling with fear for Yrith. He had a vision of her lying in a dark place, trembling in the cold, skin dark with stains of blood beneath her torn robe. A thud came down and she screamed, calling his name. Singird sat up, catching his breath. Drowsily, he stumbled out of his room, to the landing providing view of the lower floors. Spilled liquor, one man cracking his fists, another lying face to a pillar. A circle of people around them, waiting for what was to come. Singird rubbed his head.
Locking his door, he threw a blanket over the whole of his person, pressing it to his ears. But the thuds continued, bringing images he was too afraid to look at, but even more afraid to chase away. Exhausted, he left his bed before sunrise for a sip of fresh air.
The city was quiet, with only the guards in red roaming the streets to maintain order. He wandered from one tall building to another, absorbing the quiet while admiring their sturdy stone walls, roofs that had been designed for the moss that now covered them and ancient gables tastefully divided in two by ornate wooden beams. In the distance, he could see the Blue Palace, its lustrous azure domes contrasting the greyness of the morning sky.
He passed the morning in silent meditation, waiting for the streets to slowly fill. He watched as merchants carried their goods to the market, filling it with various scents of fruits, pastries and meats, leathers and linens, even soil and seedlings. He did not need to find his way to the Imperial headquarters as he saw several men in red uniforms, the Imperial dragon embroidered on their chests, march up the steep path zigzagging to the top of a terrace. Casually as he could, he followed them through a massive stone archway to a vast plaza enclosed with walls and buildings from every side. The men dispersed to their positions, relieving others after their night shift.
Just to his left loomed a small fortress dominated by a round tower with its tip pointing to the skies. That was Castle Dour, currently home to the Skyrim's branch of the Imperial Legion. Singird's eyes found its door under the crimson Imperial banner. Two guards were standing at its sides, hands over their chest in a would-be threatening posture. Singird assessed his options. The city was peaceful. The morning welcomed it with its usual murmurs and people running back and forth, minding their own business. There were no signs of war, no signs of anything bothersome. And the guards looked bored.
He sighed as he slowly approached them, betting in his mind against the odds of having his pride shattered by the two men seeking purpose in guarding a door that likely went untouched for days. He opened his mouth to address them, but before he could utter a word, the guard on the left let out a snort, gazing somewhere past Singird.
"Tirrus, weren't you supposed to have a night shift?"
Singird glanced over his shoulder to see two other uniformed men, panting as they ran to where he stood. One of them carried a helmet under his arm, long dark wavy hair heavy with sweat. As he came to a halt a few steps from Singird, he wiped his brow clean, taking a few breaths to calm his heaving chest. The second guard followed him, not bothering to take down his own helmet.
"I was," the dark-haired man uttered with a shaky nod, "but I have news for General Tullius."
"You know the General doesn't wish to be…"
"Oh, he'll wish to see this," the man waved his hand. He glanced back to the archway as if expecting someone to chase after him. "There's been… an attack on one of our supply ships. They took down the whole crew. Not a single man left alive, security included. The docks are upside down."
The two guards by the door suddenly snapped to attention. "Divines preserve us. Which ship was it?"
"The Wintebreath. Didn't know the Stormcloaks used mages to do their dirty work." He spat on the ground in a gesture of distaste.
Singird felt all color leave his face. The Winterbreath… and a magical killer. This was his doing. Not only had he killed people on his way to Solitude, now people were dying for just talking to him. Whoever was after him, they were desperate to find him. Desperate enough to involve the Legion. Or perhaps this served in their favor. Perhaps this was their power play, a game to show him how far they could go. And if this was related to Yrith…
He clenched his fists, forcing his knees to stand firm. He could not let the moment pass. Not now.
He took a breath.
"Please," he said, painfully aware of how unnaturally raspy his voice sounded, "take me with you to General Tullius. I know of this incident. I was on that ship last night."
All four guards raised their brows, suggesting silently to take the joke elsewhere. Singird fought not to look away. This would be a long day.
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Oblivious IJ: Yep. Almost there. :)
