.

The Fate of the Skaal


As it turned out, the draft Aleron had felt was in fact a secret exit from the Temple of Miraak. As the group crossed from the horrid ruin into the sunlight, Aleron was shocked to realize that they'd been in the temple through the evening and night. It was the morning sun he saw, a morning as beautiful as any he'd seen. Jagged, snowcapped peaks were all around, with only hinted spots of green where trees clung to life in the distance. He could see nothing but the mountains, no cities or plains or gently rolling hills. Here in the midst of the peaks, it was like an ocean of colossal white waves, frozen in time. The sight of Solstheim spread out before him took his breath away.

"Gods," he said aloud, and all the Nords echoed him, except for Frea, who'd seen this land since her birth. Teldryn scoffed.

"We must be on our way, quickly," Frea said, rushing out from the hidden entryway into the wild snows. There was something of a path, if only the millenniums-old remnants of one. "It is not good for outsiders to be in the wilds during the night. It gets very cold here in the mountains. We must hurry if we are to reach my father by evening. He will know more than I do about Miraak."

Aleron followed in frustrated silence. Miraak. The man had brushed him aside like a child, kicked him down and set his daedric minions on him. He'd not even felt the need to kill the lesser Dragonborn. Gregory's voice came into his mind: No matter how good you get, boy, never think you're the best. I assure you, you are not. He had thought it one of Gregory's many instances of useless degradation - Aleron had never shown the man the slightest hint of hubris - but now he understood.

What he could not figure out, however, was what he was going to do. Obviously, this Miraak had to be stopped. Not only did the ancient Dragonborn want to kill Aleron, but he wanted to somehow dominate this entire island and set himself up as some sort of god-king. And why would he stop there? The man could obviously command dragons, however little sense that made to Aleron. The Greybeards had said that dragons were solitary creatures, only ever giving their alliance to Alduin because his Voice was the strongest. Dragons, beasts fully capable of destroying entire towns, treated like pets; and he was one man with a handful of friends and a dog. Hopelessness tried to strangle him.

.

They made their way through the mountain passes, and at times Aleron could see other marvelous vistas. Lake Fjalding glimmered in the distant south, where the rivers Iggnir and Isild converged, forming a glimmering eye, a mirror for the celestial bodies. The land falling away in jagged starts to the east was fascinating to him. From the mountain passes he could occasionally see the smoke rising from the distant Skaal village, but each time it amazed him that anyone could live in such a place. The village seemed an oasis in the wilderness that made Skyrim's forests into palatial gardens by comparison.

Around noon, they passed a glowing green standing stone, around which more of the Skaal were building some strange monument. Seeing it, Frea began to shed silent tears

"That is the Wind Stone," she said, lamenting but never slowing her march homeward. "That is where most of our people are being enslaved. It began during the nights. Now they work all day as well. This must end, somehow. We must help them."

Valdimar stopped, looking down at the crowd around the Wind Stone. "I count more than a hundred. How many are left in the village?"

Frea stopped, finally, and her head fell to her chest. "Eleven," she whispered, just barely loud enough for Aleron to hear.

They reached the village before dark, cold and hungry and very tired. It was a hunting village, and it looked surprisingly like one Aleron had seen in Bruma, just south of Pale Pass. All the houses were large, clearly grown up and expanded over generations; yet still they were quaint, simple. Snow clung to everything, even now in Spring, and that surprised Aleron. He had not thought they were still so high in the mountains that the snows would not have melted. A massive horker was hung in the village square under a pavilion; its blood filled the snow and earth beneath it, but still some dripped from its sliced-open throat. Aleron had seen a few horkers while traveling to Northwatch Keep, but this one was even bigger. The three-tusked water-cow - as the Bretons of northern High Rock called them - was much larger than any normal cow Aleron had ever seen; it would feed these few people for months.

A young girl ran to meet them, and Frea knelt down to embrace her. The girl had tears in her eyes, but she said nothing. After a moment, the girl broke away and ran into one of the log cottages. That was their only welcome. The girl did not even speak to the newcomers, just hugged Frea and left.

Without saying anything about the girl, Frea led them further into the village. There was a cleared area, just in front of the largest building, a greathall of some kind. In the clearing, four Skaal knelt around a small circle of earth that had been dug out of the thin layer of snow. A great wind gusted in a circular column above that patch of earth, and the sound of it was deafening. He realized as they neared that the people were praying in a language he had not heard before. Their heads tilted upward to the sky, they chanted too quietly for him to even make out most of the words. Frea stopped beside the oldest of the group, kneeling and placing a gentle hand on the wrinkled man's shoulder.

"Father," she said. "I've returned."

The old Nord stopped his chanting, blinked a few times, then looked up to his daughter and her guests. "Who is this?" he shouted over the sound of the whirlwind. "What happened at the Tree Stone?"

Frea looked abashed. "I was not able to find the source, Father. I am sorry -"

"It is alright, Frea," the old Nord interrupted. "I'm sure you did all you could. The All-Maker will send us guidance."

"Yes." She gestured to Aleron. "This man may have found what I was sent for. He says he has seen Miraak."

Aleron felt somewhat awkward, standing while the others kneeled, but he was not sure it would be proper to kneel among this group; this seemed a spiritual ceremony, if an unfamiliar one. The man Frea had spoken to craned his neck to stare at him, questioningly, and Aleron's discomfort deepened. He contented himself with squatting, a precarious stance in his armor.

The old Skaal looked no more or less pleased that Aleron was now on his level, but simply asked, in a very deep and serious voice, "And who are you?"

Aleron gave his name, then added, simply, "And I have seen Miraak."

"I am Storn," the old Nord offered. "I am the Shaman of the Skaal. Come to my home. Frea will keep the circle for a while."

The old Skaal shaman rose from his kneeling position with surprising strength, and headed off toward a small log hut to the southeast of the greathall. Aleron followed, with his companions, but Storn called back to them, "Only the one, though you may bring the dog if you wish. My house is not large."

It was a true enough statement, as Aleron learned when he entered with Meeko. The dog laid himself down by the fire, but there was not much room to do otherwise. Even the two men could only take benches on either side. Cook pots and piles of furs and simple dishes littered the small area, but all in a seemingly organized sprawl. Aleron saw two small rooms off of the main, but both were as full. One had an enchanting table covered in what must be clothes, and the other was cluttered with ancient maps and very old books.

The humbleness of the place surprised Aleron, who had thought that a village shaman would surely have one of the larger homes among his people.

"So you have seen the First Dragonborn, have you?" The shaman's tone did not give away any sense of eagerness at the news.

The First? Aleron thought. And the prophecy said that I am the Last. It was not a comforting thought. The Last might only mean that he would be the last to be born blessed with the blood of Akatosh, not that he would outlive the First. And prophecies never guaranteed victory. Many a prophesied hero had fallen believing that - such was the main plot of Turiel Nirith's The Hope of the Redoran, one of Aleron's favorite books. In truth, it was only assumption that could name Aleron the Last. Perhaps another, come many decades from now, was fated to battle Alduin? That would be a comfort, but Aleron doubted he was so lucky.

He shook off his wonderings. "I read a book that we found in his temple, and it took me somewhere - to Hermaeus Mora's realm, I think. Miraak was there, and he controlled not only the monsters of Oblivion, but dragons. I don't understand it, but I know what I saw. He treated the dragons like pets, not as allies. I am Dragonborn, myself, but I have never heard of any way to control dragons."

The old Skaal smiled for the first time, and Aleron saw that it was a warmer smile than he'd expected. "I can shed some light for you. My people's history is long, and I know it well. Miraak's connection with Herma-Mora makes many things clear. We know that he used Shouts to challenge the dragons, Shouts that even the dragons did not know."

Aleron was baffled. "The Thu'um is the dragon language. How could there be Shouts the dragons did not know?" He was missing something obvious, here, but he could not see it.

"I do not know much of the Thu'um," the old man continued, clearly irritated at having been interrupted. "Shouts and dragons were never our concern. However it was done, the voice of Miraak was said to have dominated the lands and skies. It was only for his pride that he fell, so our histories have been passed down."

"And that is the connection," Aleron concluded. "The Daedric Prince of Knowledge must have taught him those shouts. Miraak is in league with Hermaeus Mora. Gods! As if dragons and the First Dragonborn were not enough."

He looked at Storn, the old Skaal shaman eying him with a sense of measuring. Aleron was certain, in that moment, that he liked the man. That measuring look carried none of the coldness that did Gregory's or Delphine's. It was the look of a smith already contented with his days work, deciding if there was enough time to do more.

"I wonder if I dare summon him," Aleron mused aloud. "What was his day; has it already passed? I don't think he has a shrine outside of Cyrodiil, though perhaps Miraak had one hidden somewhere."

The shaman's look became hard. "Do not summon the demon here, Dragonborn. Long has Herma-Mora sought the knowledge of our people. He is a trickster, and a crafty ally of the Adversary."

Aleron stood and turned toward the door, hiding his frustration. "This must be stopped, shaman. Somehow, Miraak must be stopped. And it seems I'm the one to do it. If Hermaeus Mora is involved, I have to summon him."

Storn sighed and placed his hands to his knees. "Sit," he begged. "There may be another path for you. Though I am loath to set you upon it. It is the path Miraak walked."

Aleron turned. "What do you mean?"

The old Skaal's eyes grew distant for a moment, and then they focused on Aleron like an auger. "It is said in our histories that Miraak began his journey at Saering's Watch. Something he found there led him on his path. We are warned away from that place. It is evil. A place of the Greedy Man."

"But you know where it is." It was not a question. If they were warned away from it, then they knew where not to go.

"Frea will take you there."

Aleron sat down, smiled at the shaman. "You said your people didn't go there."

Such sadness came into the old man's eyes, a father's sadness, that Aleron thought he would change his mind. But instead he pulled the fur cap from his snow-white head and turned those moistened eyes to the Dragonborn. "Sometimes evil must be faced."


Marcurio Octavos sat in his new favorite spot, a chair beside the large firepit in the Windpeak Inn. He smiled to himself as he watched the city folk merrily going about their day. They should be nervous, huddling together in families and watching for the first sign of Imperial forces. Everyone knew that Dawnstar would be sacked any day. Even the Stormcloak soldiers seemed to know it, however little it dampened their spirits. They, like everyone else in Dawnstar, looked at the world in a new light.

Last week, they'd all been near to tears with dread, horrible nightmares plaguing every one of them. It had apparently been going on for some time. Now the petty fights of jarls and kings and even emperors seemed trivial.

"Do you ever stop feeling so good about yourself?"

Marcurio looked beside him to see Erandur pulling up a seat. He had his usual grim look, his expression grayer even than his skin. The Dunmer was very stoic, even among his kind; though, knowing what he knew about the elf, Marcurio supposed he couldn't really be any other way.

"I feel good about helping people, friend. I should think a priest of Mara would understand that."

Erandur's eyes dropped in embarassment. "You feel good about yourself, about being the man of the hour who saved the people of Dawnstar."

"You'd feel good too, if you'd let yourself. I swear, in all my days, I've never met a more gloomy Dunmer. And just think of what that's saying! I'm not old, but for melancholy to even be noticed in a Dark Elf is like picking out the blackest spot in the night clouds. You should be happy. You've as much to do with saving these people as I."

"I've more to do with endangering them in the first place, though."

That was true enough. The nightmares had, in a way, been his fault. But the elf he'd been when at fault had little to do with the elf he was now.

"Lest you forget, my good Dunmer, I have walked a mile in your shoes - so to say - and I saw that you never had much of a choice."

He'd gone with Erandur to Nightcaller Temple, seen the Miasma the Dunmer mage had unleashed within, the dense magical fog that had driven everyone inside the place mad while they slept away the centuries. In fact, with the aid of the Dreamstride, he'd seen the entire century-old affair through Erandur's eyes, back when the elf had been Brother Casimir of the Cult of Vaermina. But because of that intimate knowledge, Marcurio knew for certain that without such an act, Vaermina's Skull of Corruption would have done far worse than cause a few bad dreams.

"These people owe you a lot. And for a wonder, they seem to know it. You've had no shortage of free drinks these last few days. I've been to every other major city in Skyrim, and Dawnstar is definitely the friendliest to mages."

"Too friendly," came the voice of Madena. The jarl's court mage was across from them, standing cross-armed and staring into the flames.

Marcurio chuckled. "Skald ask you to fight again?"

Jarl Skald the Elder, ruler of Dawnstar and The Pale, was a harsh old man, holding only loosely to sanity in his conviction to the Stormcloak cause. He railed against anything within the city that he saw as lacking in fervor to that cause, going so far as to jail Brina Marilis and Horik Halfhand just for wearing Legion insignias on their clothing - no matter that they openly spoke out against the Legion's defense of the Talos ban, that they swore to fight for Dawnstar when the time came. Skald seemed to forget that Ulfric Stormcloak himself was once a young Legion commander, as were most of the Stormcloak generals. Dawnstar's own Frorkmar Banner-Torn, who would lead the last resistance of The Pale, had served with the Legion just three years back. Marcurio was diligent to always wear blue, but he still got wary looks from the city guards. They would not ask him to fight, not a Nibenean mage; but they might very well have arrested him before a few days ago. As for Madena, Skald was foolish enough to think that one mage could turn the tide of the war.

The Breton court mage laughed. "'A mighty battlemage,' he told me, 'could do the work of a hundred soldiers.' Honestly, what has the man been reading?"

Erandur just scratched at his beard, but Marcurio smiled and looked into his wine. "Oh, I think I could do the work of fifty, maybe, but a hundred is absurd."

Madena flicked a small fireball at him, and he laughed aloud.

"You shouldn't bait the man," he told her, after his mirth was finished.

"I do not bait him."

"Every time, it's the same thing. You ask to leave, he counters by asking you to fight. You two have had the same argument a dozen times - not that he remembers them all."

They all laughed again, somewhat sadly, remembering the night Skald had burst out of the White Hall in nothing but his underclothes, demanding that all the fighting men of the city join the Stormcloaks. That was just three nights ago, many months after Dawnstar's warriors had already declared for Ulfric.

"I don't see why you want to go so badly," he continued a moment later. "It's not as though you're in any danger. The Imperials don't want to raid the city, just hold it. You'll probably retain your position, whatever new Jarl they set up."

Madena's eyes grew distant. "I don't want a new Jarl. Skald is addled with age, but he's a good man. I suppose that's why I want to leave. Who knows what kind of person they'll set up here? Maybe healing crop diseases and injured miners won't be enough. I will not fight again. I will not use magic to kill, never again!"

No one spoke to calm the woman. She would calm herself. It was better that way, when remembering old horrors, old wounds. Madena had been a very talented battlemage, once, highly thought of among her fellow Imperial officers. But death had been too ugly for her, in the end. She'd moved to Skyrim after the Great War, and had not used magic for violence since.

Abruptly, Erandur straightened.

"There's a woman watching you from the corner," the Dunmer told Marcurio. "She and another one just came in a few moments ago, and they haven't taken their eyes from you."

Marcurio turned. Standing by the bar, smiling wryly at the shocked face he knew he must be making, was a Breton woman he never thought he'd see again.

"It can't be . . ."

Madena squinted, looking through the fire at the newcomers. "What? You know her? Who is she?"

Delphine started over to him, and he jumped, despite himself. He quickly asked his friends to give him a moment, then stood as the last living Blade approached him.

She kept that sickening grin. "Hello, Marc. I've got a job for you, if you're interested."

"I'm not," he managed to get out, more firmly than he felt.

She simply laughed at him. "Oh, I don't think you'll pass this up. You do still hate the Thalmor, don't you?"

He felt the low growl in his voice, but he didn't hide it. "What can you have for me that would do them any harm? Go back and hide under your rock."

That got her attention, and her narrowed eyes. "You know that the Dragonborn has been found."

"Yes. I've met him, I think. I didn't know him, to start, but I sent out a few letters. Hilarious, really, that he'd be your -"

"Then you know the hiding is over!" It came out in a hiss, but her fist pounding the table brought all the attention a raised voice would have. Her eyes darted toward the dark-haired woman nursing a fresh facial scar behind her."

"Ah." He understood. Initiated, but not in the know. "Recruiting pretty girls, now, stars in their eyes at serving the Dragonborn? They don't stay pretty in the Blades, do they?"

Delphine's smile was dangerous, now. "I promise, this job won't cost you your pretty face."

Marcurio shrugged. She'd had him at Thalmor. "What do you need?"

"Would you like to go to a party?" Her smile could have made icicles.


The journey from Skaal to Saering's Watch took longer than Mjoll would have expected. On the map she'd seen, it was no more than fifty miles as the eagle flies. She had traveled through mountains her whole life, and thought she knew what it was to wind through and up and down and around the earth as it rose and fell. She'd traveled through The Reach, through the Dragontails; but nothing was like these Moesring Mountains.

In all, the journey took more than a week. They climbed waterfalls, traversed meandering mountain streams, and trudged for long hours through snow that was older than Teldryn – Frea claimed there had been no thaw this high into the mountains in twenty generations.

She had found, throughout the journey, that she liked Frea. The Skaal woman was a warrior, as much as she liked to call herself a shaman. She had sat with Mjoll for long hours after the night camps were made, discussing bandit raids and bear hunting and Rieklings. Those last she had thought were only campfire tales. Frea did not claim to have ever seen one, but the Skaal legends apparently said they were like half-sized orcs, only blue with big noses, and feral. They rode bristlebacks into battle, and were known to hoard seemingly random items of human or elf make.

For the first eight days, they were attacked only once, by a group of a half-dozen or so spriggans near a waterfall that was nearly iced over. The monsters came at them from a cave behind the falling water, shrieking and burning. They were strangely troubled by Frea's axe, shying away from her during the short battle. That did not give them near so much terror, though, as Teldryn's Kono. The great Frost Atronach lumbered in among the forest spirits with a stoic menace that sent two of them fleeing. The daedra killed two spriggans with crushing blows that shattered their wooden bodies, while Mjoll and Erik killed two more. It was not until the day they would reach Saering's Watch that they were in any real danger.

.

"It's just around the next peak," Frea was saying, looking ahead to the rocky outcropping the map had named Benkongerike. "I have never been this close, but I think we should reach Saering's Watch by midday."

Mjoll sighed with relief; even she was tired of this march over so much snow, however much the sunshine should have brightened the day's work. Her breath caught slightly, though, looking at Benkongerike. There was something off about that rock formation. It was another among a hundred jagged peaks that she could see, only a little larger than the last peak they'd crossed just after breaking camp, but there was something wrong. She stared at the peak as she drug her feet through the snow, wondering. Meeko padded up beside her. The gray war hound nudged her hand, and she looked down at him. His teeth were bared, and he was crouched low as he glided along, his chest brushing the powdery surface. Mjoll's hand went to her sword, and she eased the shield from her back.

"What is it, boy?" She followed the golden eyes back to Benkongerike. She understood, now, seeing it at a closer angle than before. The rocks that were piled to make the massive pointed mound were a grayish white, looking almost like snow from a distance. But there was no snow - not on Benkongerike itself.

She freed her blade and cried out. "It's a den! Be careful!"

With that, dozens of small blue creatures flooded out from a nearly concealed hole in the great rock mound. A score of spears like thick-shafted arrows were thrown from small blue hands with precision and surprising force. Mjoll brought up her shield, trying to cover herself as well as Aleron's war hound. Frea and Erik dove behind Valdimar, who seemed to summon some sort of opaque magical wall.

Aleron made all their efforts pointless, though. As he drew his father's blade, he lifted his head and Shouted "FUS RO DAH!" at the sky. The oncoming arrows were scattered like twigs in a whirlwind. A few of the Rieklings faltered at the sight, shouting something that sounded like nuut-hai in excited tones; but most kept coming with spears held in hands.

It was a brutal fight, and Mjoll leapt into the battle with fierce determination. These beasts were small, only a hand's-width above her belt; but their stone spears they wielded with animal cleverness and agility. She used her shield more than her sword, and still she thought more than once that she would be overcome. She fought them off by the handful, surrounded and thanking the gods for the fine work of Aleron's steel-and-corundum plate armor. Even stone spears were dangerous in such numbers, but Aleron's work never faltered. Any spearheads that slipped through the joints of the plate were caught in the fine web of metal rings beneath, leaving only painful pinches and shallow gashes where skewered armpits or kidneys might have otherwise been the outcome.

She cut through the throng of blue beasts like crossing through a jungle, a deadly swinging goddess of death among her worshippers. And they fell screaming, their incoherent voices wildly reverent in their deaths. But there seemed to be no end to them.

Slowly the entire group made their way around the rock spire, gaining more and more distance from the source of the onslaught. She saw Erik take a nasty wound to his side as he rushed away to avoid being surrounded, his thick furs no match for even stone spears. Teldryn's strange armor did better against the spears, the dull red bug-shell plates turning aside the stone spearheads whenever they connected; but the armor had no mail beneath the plate, and soon the Dark Elf was laboring his breath and dripping a darker red from more than one joint. His Sanuye was helpful, though, burning the little blue bastards and frightening them enough to keep Teldryn from being surrounded. Frea hacked and slashed while Valdimar threw small fireballs and swung his strange ice-blue mace. Meeko ran through the horde, dodging attacks until he could get one of the Rieklings alone to tackle and tear out its guts.

Aleron was surrounded, Mjoll saw, but none of the beasts seemed to want to come close. They threw their spears at him, but he caught them all on his shield. He Shouted again, this time at the Rieklings, and the result was almost comical. Half-a-dozen of the little blue beasts flew through the air, every bit of a hundred feet or more.

"Run!" Mjoll heard Valdimar shouting behind her, and she turned. To her horror, she saw that there were scores of the Rieklings coming from Benkongerike, now some hundred yards or so back behind them. Far too many to defeat on an open battlefield.

She muttered a curse and ran, leaving the enraged demon-elves behind her. The whole group followed, even Aleron. The Dragonborn looked haggard from so much Shouting, but he did not slow down beneath the weight of his heavy steel armor.

More than once, the group had to stop momentarily to fight off a half-dozen or so Rieklings riding bristleback boars. They were clumsy on their mounts, though, and the skirmishes never lasted long. Still, the pursuit did not stop.

Less than a mile ahead, they crossed under a wide stone arch, ancient and crumbling. They heard a sound, then, like thunder with a voice.

"Dragon!" Erik called as they ran under the arch.

And then they all saw it, a great gold dragon with a tail like a spade. It roared in defiance at the sky, spewing flames in the heights; but it did not alight toward them. Instead, it crashed a great landing that they heard from around the next outcropping.

The Rieklings behind them started shouting wildly and retreating toward their home.

More dragon Shouts came from the direction of Saering's Watch, and Mjoll noticed finally that it was not an outcropping of rock that hid the beast. It was the remnants of a once great wall of worked stone. She could see now that the archway had been the entry into a courtyard of some kind. They were coming into a ruin, so old and decrepit that it was open to the sky, the mountaintop literally scoured off by some awful power.

Within the ruin, once they rounded the wall, Mjoll saw chaos.

The dragon was spewing fire and clubbing draugar with its tail. Its great wings caught four dead men in mid-charge, crumpling their decaying bodies. Near the carnage, there was a dome still standing of the original ruin. More draugar poured from the dome, but their fight seemed hopeless. The dragon was raging against them, killing them by the handful.

"Gods!" Aleron muttered, just loud enough for Mjoll to hear above the sounds of battle close at hand.

She put a hand on his shoulder. "A frightful scene, I'll admit."

His look displayed no fright; only confusion. "The draugar were made to serve the dragon priests - and, by extension, the dragons. Why would they be fighting a dragon?"

"I don't know," she said honestly. "Perhaps they're more of Miraak's. Whatever the case, they're all enemies to us."

The look in his eyes was like a cold storm in the Sea of Ghosts as he stared out at the dragon and the draugar. "Hold that dome," he said, pointing. "And don't come out 'til it stops."

"'Til what stops?" she asked. "You can't fight those draugar and the dragon alone."

He smiled at her then, looking as human as he she had seen him since before the Temple. "You'll see. Just hold the dome."

He strode off then, toward the fracas of monsters. Mjoll hurried the others toward the dome, fighting off protests from Valdimar and Erik.

The fighting in the dome was mostly ceremonial. The group cleared the area of draugar in a rush of steel and fire and teeth. But the ceremony did not end quickly. Into the small space draugar charged with abandon only to be achieved by men already dead. Erik sat slumped against the wall while Valdimar summoned enough magical power to heal the wound he'd taken earlier, while Frea and Teldryn fought at the door.

Outside the dome, toward the Aleron's battle, Mjoll heard the Dragonborn's voice Shout "STRUN BAH KO!" then silence. She waited only long enough for Erik to get back to his feet, then rushed out from under the dome.

"He said to stay!" Erik cried after her, but she did not slow. A moment later she heard Erik's footfalls catching her up.

.

By the time the dragon and the draugar were again in her view, Erik's longer strides had brought him close. They both stopped short, however, at the strange scene. From the quiet, she had assumed that whatever Shout Aleron had called must have killed them all. But it was not death that held the enemies in silence. Aleron was at the center of a horde of enemies, with a dragon before him; he was kneeling and breathing as though he'd run ten miles. His enemies, though, paid him no mind. They were all staring at the sky.

"What in Oblivion . . .?" Erik whispered beside her.

She looked to the sky to see what had enthralled them all. "Gods," she breathed.

The sky was a swirling black mass of clouds so thick and so close she thought she could almost reach up and taste them. Where had this come from?

And then the sky split and the world turned to blinding white light all around. There was no sound, only the light. A moment later it was over, and Mjoll saw that the mass of draugar were cooking in a scattered jumble, all but a few stragglers who rushed off in as many directions. And then, again, the sky erupted with lightning. This time, when she could sense herself again, Mjoll found she was on the ground, covering her ears. When she looked up, she saw Aleron walking up to the dragon. The beast's wing was shattered, torn and burned in a dozen places. It tried to back away from the Dragonborn, but it was clearly shaken.

Another lightning bolt crashed down, rending the air and knocking Erik and Mjoll down on their faces with the sheer closeness of its power.

"We should have stayed in the dome!" she heard Erik shout.

She stumbled to her feet, trying to reach the protection of the archway they'd crossed under before. "This way!" she cried back to Erik.

Behind her, she heard Aleron speaking to the dragon in its own language.

"Fos los dreh het, lir?"

In answer, the dragon roared. Looking back, Mjoll saw the Dragonborn step under the lunging head of the beast and drive his father's sword upward through its jaw. It went limp, and Aleron let the head fall beside him. Lightning crashed again beside him, but he did not stumble. He wiped the blade in the snow, sheathed it, and looked at the dragon expectantly.

She ran to him, shouting at him to stop the storm if he could. He stood staring at the sky, his mouth open in wonder or exhaustion, she could not tell. Finally, just before she reached him, he Shouted, "LOK VAH KOOR!" and fell to one knee.

The Shout left him dazed. He shook his head from side to side as if shaking off a fly. She put a hand on his shoulder to steady him, and he spat.

"Something's wrong here," he said as he calmed. He studied the dragon, but he did not get any closer. "Something's very wrong."

Mjoll was confused. He'd killed the dragon. She grabbed his head, looked at his eyes. He did not seem sick, any more than usual when he shouted. She looked up to see the sky clearing, the clouds rolling away as if driven by the will of Kyne. What could be wrong?

The dragon. It was not disintegrating. Aleron was not absorbing its soul.

She looked back to the Dragonborn. "You said earlier that something was off about this whole ordeal. Maybe it has something to do with why the dragon was fighting those draugar."

Aleron did not answer, but rose and began looking around; turning and darting his eyes about like a deer with hounds on the chase. The others were arriving now, Erik from the arch and the rest from the dome. "There's something else." He spun and drew his sword. Mjoll followed him to see a tall man walking toward them.

He wore strange robes and a mask that looked like nothing she could describe. "His soul is not yours to take. It already belongs to me. I command it, and it will not be taken unless I will it."

Aleron placed himself between her and the new enemy. "Miraak. I will not be defeated so easily this time."

Miraak? This man? He did not seem so fierce. He laughed beneath his mask.

"You have nothing to fear from me, Dragonborn." He said the last with contempt, as if mocking the very idea. "Especially not here. If I wanted you dead, I could have killed you in Apocrypha. You are a curiosity, in truth. You are young to call the storm. Younger still to calm the skies. You have not Alduin's talent for it, but your Thu'um is strong. I wonder if you could defeat him. Not likely; but you would give a valiant effort, I think."

Aleron slashed at the ancient Dragonborn, but his sword swept through the figure like mist. There was such anger in the Breton's blue eyes that Mjoll thought he might set the air on fire.

Miraak, unperturbed by the strike, instead peered at the sword Aleron now held in his hand. "Dragonbane," he whispered. "How could you have that sword? It was . . .. Aah. Yes, I see. She whelped you."

A low hiss of breath came from Aleron. This Miraak was talking of his mother, somehow.

Miraak didn't seem to notice the fierce hate growing in Aleron's stance, the tenseness that seemed it would snap his spine. "The blade is mine. As was the girl to be; gifts from my master. I had wondered. But never mind. I will have the sword again; when I demand it of you, you will give it to me gladly. Now, it is time for me to leave."

Suddenly, the dragon began to dissipate as she'd seen the others do before. Aleron focused, preparing himself for the absorption, a small smile of triumph flattening his lips. But his face went hard again, as, instead of flowing into Aleron, the dragon's essence was consumed by Miraak, who did not so much as twitch an eyelash in response. When it was done, and the dragon nothing but bones, a black void opened behind the ancient Dragon Priest. He stepped back into it and was gone.

She heard Erik whistle, and Valdimar cursed. Aleron simply walked over to the dragon and started picking through the bones. He muttered to himself, but he did not shout or rage. He picked up scales and some pieces of bones and shoved them into his pack.

"What are you doing?" she asked him.

He did not answer. She thought perhaps it was best to let him alone for awhile.

Valdimar came up beside her, scratching his days' growth of beard. "We'll check around this ruin. It seems abandoned, now, but you never know. Keep an eye on him, will you girl."

She gave him a sharp look. Nodding to Frea, she told him, "You just keep your eyes off that one. There's enough going on around here; we needn't add that sort of trouble."

He only smiled at her, an old wolf's smile.

Erik went with the others, but Meeko padded in among the bones to heel his master. Mjoll watched Aleron, the dog seeming to calm him a bit with its presence. If ever there was a man with too much on his plate, he looked it. He'd been defeated again, losing the battle of wills for that dragon's soul. Yet in all that, there was no waver in him. Whatever he was doing, he held to his purpose. His will was set. His honor was set. Mjoll smiled, knowing that she loved him. I think I don't care to wait anymore.


Erik shoved aside a coffin to get to the flight of stairs he sought. This great exposed ruin was collapsed in many places, but the staired hill that looked almost a simple outcropping of gray rock was likely the best place to find another of those Dragon Word Walls that they had seen before. If Aleron was supposed to learn something that an ancient dragonborn had learned thousands of years ago, then Erik thought it most likely to be found on one of those walls.

The stone stairs were littered with debris, though. He had to stop every third step to toss another ancient skeleton or a piece of broken wall down the hill. He kept looking back to Aleron digging around in those bones. The man was wound up tighter than ever. He needed a drink, and a very willing woman - she would need to be eager, for all the fury that man would probably let out on her. He could not, for the life of him, understand what would possess a man to swear away women. Piety was all well and good, but what did celibacy ever have to do with holiness. Dibella's priestesses certainly didn't make that connection. For them, love-making was holiness, an act of beauty and pleasure for the sake of those gods-given gifts themselves. Yes, the Dragonborn needed a drink and a woman. Come to think of it, so did Erik - a few of each, preferably.

The sun was starting downward by the time he reached the summit. There was an altar, there, a great stone table stained a dark red centuries ago. On it were the bones of the last victim of the Dragon Priests who would have once ruled here.

"Poor bastard," he said aloud. "Bet you thought you were going to some celestial glory for your sacrifice. Well, I suppose the world is never in need of fools." He heard Valdimar arrive atop the stairs, behind him.

"No, it is not." Valdimar clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Speaking of which, how's your injury?"

Erik looked down at the fresh scar running down his side. It was hidden beneath his furs, now, but he could still feel where it had been. "Better than new," he told the old housecarl with a sly wink.

Valdimar laughed in exasperation. "You know, boy, some armor might do you good. More than that scale jerkin, even. Why'd you stop wearing that?"

Erik grimaced. It would have saved him some pain in the fight with the Rieklings. "All this fur is hard enough to move in. I couldn't wear both. I figured it was either die freezing, or die stuck with a blade. At least the blade I can fight."

"Frea's armor and furs don't seem to slow her down," the older man told him. That was true enough. The Skaal woman looked like a bear in her ornately carved steel armor. Underneath the breastplate and pauldrons was black fur thick enough to keep warm atop the Throat of the World. But despite that, she moved well enough. "Maybe you just need to get a bit stronger, eh?"

"You know it's not strength. You're Nord enough for that, mage or not. You need to be able to move to use two-handed weapons. I can't wear a breastplate like that and use Lopper correctly."

"Chainmail does well enough."

Erik saw the large wall at the far end of the summit. Those were dragon runes, or he was a Foresworn. "I'll talk to Aleron about some chainmail when we get back to Skyrim. For now, take a look at that."

Valdimar knuckled his back and started down the stairs. "I'll get the Dragonborn. Don't strain yourself waiting for us up here."

.

He was right, of course. Aleron shuddered and coughed and actually pounded his head against the stone altar hard enough to draw blood; but in the end, he said he knew now what he had to do to save the Skaal.

"The word of power here is GOL. It means EARTH, more or less, and I'm sure it's what Miraak learned to start him on his path."

"Just earth?" Erik asked. "What does earth have to do with what's happening here?"

Aleron leaned back against the altar as Valdimar bent to heal his fresh head wound. "It's a word of command. Part of a Thu'um I need to finish, somehow. Earth is just the best translation I can think of. There is something of dominion in it. Perhaps earth-bones is closer, but not much. It is a call to everything. I think it's what is being used to control people."

Frea had a light in her eyes, of hope, Erik thought. "It is the Stones that are controlling them," she said. "Does this mean you can free the stones?"

Aleron nodded. "I think so. Somehow Miraak has connected the stones to himself. But GOL should connect them back to this world by calling them to me."

Frea's axe came out, but Valdimar held her arm. "You were warned, Dragonborn. Don't go down his path. The All-Maker's creation is not meant to be abused in such a way."

Aleron walked to the Skaal woman and looked her in the eyes. "I'm not. I don't know how to explain it, but the corruption doesn't come from this word. Whatever the rest of this Thu'um is, GOL just . . . calls to attention."

There was more explanation, but Erik understood little of it. Frea insisted that this GOL word must refer to creation itself, and thus be connected to her All-Maker. That was the only way, so she said, that Miraak could corrupt the island so totally. All Erik needed to know was that Aleron needed to get to the All-Maker Stones, and Shout at them. That shouldn't be so hard, really. It might take a few weeks, at best. But even Erik could see that this would not be the end, even if they succeeded. What would stop Miraak from doing it all again, spreading his corruption just as before?


Spring was nearly past; but this far into the mountains of Haafingar, Skyrim might as well have been in the depths of winter. In fact, Marcurio had never seen a winter this harsh as a child growing up in the Imperial City. He'd been in County Bruma, a teenager working for the College of Whispers, before he ever saw real snow.

But Elenwen's Thalmor Embassy was nestled deep in one of the coldest regions of the Fatherland. While Solitude and Dragon Bridge were generally not so bad - in terms of weather, anyway - northern Haafingar was all sparsely populated mountain passes, evergreen trees, and snow on the ground until late spring. Yet to be here, in this position to strike a blow to the Thalmor, he would have fought through all the cold of winter in the Wrothgarians.

He looked down at his fine clothes as the carriage rolled through the great wooden gates. They were good enough for any Nibenese Lord; the russet-colored quilted doublet alone must have cost as much as a decent farm horse. The shoes felt like he'd owned them for a year, no matter they were clearly new-made. The gold embroidery on the shirt-cuffs and edges was vaguely elven, and as fine a work as could be found among Solitude's tailors - and they were accustomed to garbing the High King and Queen of Skyrim. She was accustomed to such, anyway: Endarie was the finest tailor in Skyrim, an Altmer woman with more than two hundred years experience making fine clothing for nobles and kings. She'd had a short tongue with him, but otherwise she'd treated him well as he allowed her to measure him inch by inch. He still had no idea what Delphine had done to pay the woman. She could not have that much money lying around, however crafty she was.

The walled compound that had become the Thalmor Embassy some fifteen years ago was now three buildings of moderate size and mostly Nordic architecture. The noble from whom it had been acquired was now either dead or rotting in a Thalmor prison in Aldmeris. Only the main building remained of the original holdings, however. The solar and the guardhouse were both new, built within the last year since the start of the Stormcloak troubles.

Marcurio stepped from the back of the cart and dusted off his clothes. It was important to act the part of Morel Nemesio, Nibenese lord with small holdings in the Rift. He accepted his bag from the cartman, then swatted the fellow behind the ear for brushing against his coat. He hoped Eitri didn't mind too much; the man was as deeply in Delphine's pocket as he himself now was, but he hated even to pretend to misuse a commoner, hated those who would do it, those who had once done it to him.

"Here," he called to one of the Thalmor attendants who had come to see to his arrival. "My man will be back in three days. I assume the party will not be done before then."

The party set aside for Fire Festival would last from Turdas through Loredas, certainly, but it was polite to make certain. Not that it mattered. Eitri was not coming back, whenever the party ended. Marcurio would have to make his own way home. It shouldn't be too bad, really. Most of the snow was melted, however cold it seemed to his southern blood.

"Yes, of course," said the imperious Altmer in black livery, not bowing for this mongrel lord. Even servants among the Thalmor were pompous. Likely he was not a servant, in truth; likely all the servants were soldiers disguised to manipulate the number of soldiers recorded within the compound. "If I may see your invitation, please?"

Marcurio handed it over without the slightest hint of nervousness, yet still the servant eyed him curiously. Have to keep my eyes on this one, when I make my move.

The elf was definitely a soldier, whatever his clothing; he took the parchment from Marcurio's hand with a snap-quick movement, much as a commander receiving orders from a courier, and read it without relaxing his shoulders. The invitation vanished into the Thalmor's coat sleeve, the he barked a quick, "Follow me, if you please."

Marcurio waved for the servant to move on, and he was led to the front door of the largest building. The servant never gave his name, and he did not feel inclined to ask for it. A lord would have no need of a servant's name, certainly. At the door, he was passed off to a deliberate soldier, who gave his name as Geldrien, and who bore a black leaf of rank on his golden armor - the armor was not really gold; all elven armor and weapons had that coloring, though, from the moonstone and quicksilver used in the making of their metals.

"It is good you are early, Lord Morel." The officer had an easy manor, which usually meant he was the most dangerous. "The drinking starts tonight, and the fire displays by the robes are always the most entertaining on Fire Festival itself. Likely, we'll all be too drunk tomorrow night to notice the fires. I'll show you to your room - too much work for the servants to do as they should. Or, if you like, we could have a drink first. To tell you the truth, I'm quite fond of Cyrodilic brandy; and it's usually gone by the second night."

Marcurio smiled placidly. "I'm fond of it myself."

"You're in the brandy trade, I hear. It must be even better down south." Geldrien smiled, nothing at all to indicate he'd just tried to catch Marcurio in a lie. These people were very distrustful.

"You heard wrong, I'm afraid." He waved off an apology from the Thalmor officer. "My holdings in Cyrodiil mostly handle trade on the Niben - such as it is, these days. I had hoped that my holdings in the Rift would offer supplement to the slow trade in the south. So far, my efforts have been thwarted. Allegiances are so easy to find out, these days, however hard I try to keep them quiet. It is picking up, now that the Stormcloaks are mostly out of the Rift. But I'm afraid I've lost so much in the first year that it will take five to be profitable again."

Geldrien led him through the main entryway into a greathall, where there was a bar set up just in front of the kitchen. "Let's hope you don't have to spend it all in this frigid, backward, gods-forsaken land."

"Tired of my company already, Geldrien." Marcurio smiled. "I must be losing my charm."

As they approached the bar, a small Bosmer stepped out from the kitchen with a crate of bottles - Surilie Brothers' Wine, from the labels. His flaxen hair was swept up into the absurd-looking mane the Bosmer so often wore, and he wore an unctuous grin for the officer. He set the bottles down, straightened, and wiped his hands with a bar towel. "What can I get you?" he asked with a voice just as oily.

Geldrien seemed to know the Bosmer. "Malborn, my good mer. Could we sample some of the Cyrodilic brandy, perhaps. It's not too early, and her grace is not about."

Malborn's sycophancy became nervousness as he looked around sharply. "Certainly, Captain. But I would be more careful. Her Ladyship has a way of turning up at the pop of a cork. Though in a different way from this one." He nodded, and Marcurio and Geldrien looked behind them to see a tall Nord with messy sand-colored hair in fine raiment.

"Erikur!" the Thalmor captain exclaimed. "Come. Come and drink with us. We're starting a bit early."

Marcurio knew the name, but he had never met the man before - thank the gods! Erikur was a thane of Solitude, and he was as powerful as anyone with that title could be. More so, probably.

"This is Erikur," Geldrien told him, "of the court of Solitude."

Marcurio took a sip of his newly proffered brandy before greeting the Nord. He could not let on that he knew anything of the politics of Solitude. "What station do you hold in the High Queen's court, my good man?"

The Nord looked insulted, but not overly so. Marcurio smiled. It was a tight line he found himself walking. "I'm a thane. In the future, you might want to gain that information before talking with someone. Risk looking like an idiot, and all that."

Marcurio feigned insult, but the Thalmor captain stepped in quickly to sooth the situation. In moments, they were all talking of Erikur's vast holdings within the city of Solitude, and how many thought him a good marriage for Elisif, if she was truly to become High Queen.

Mostly, Marcurio listened to the others, pretending interests in elven weapons trading - a lucrative enterprise that had made Erikur quite enormously rich. The Nord came quickly to disregard him as any threat, but still Geldrien gave him wary looks when he thought he was not seen. Yes, this place might turn out to be a harder nut to crack even that he had thought.

After an hour or so, Geldrien led him off to see to his room. He was surprised when the barman stumbled into him almost as if he were drunk, but the officer apologized for the man and they quickly found his rooms. The captain left him there, a small but lavishly furnished chamber near the west end of the main building. He found his belongings there, all quite carefully rummaged through. Most would not have noticed anything at all, but Marcurio had a trick of tying a very specific knot into the inside any case he meant to leave with another. It would not hinder a would-be thief or spy, but he would know if his things had been opened. Fortunately, he needed no contraband for his intended task, and so he had smuggled in nothing dangerous.

He set to changing for the evening's festivities, when he noticed a thin piece of parchment in his coat pocket. It was not sealed, only folded up tightly. It read, simply, Wait for Razelan. He did not know how it had gotten there. He had kept a wary eye on Geldrien and Erikur, aware that either one could - however unlikely - be his contact. Neither of them had gotten that close, not enough to slip a note in his . . . that sneaky Bosmer. So Malborn was Delphine's plant. And he worked in the kitchens. That would be very useful.


Aleron eased his father's sword, Dragonbane, in its sheath. It had never really needed that, he thought, but it was something his logical mind told him was necessary, and he did it without thinking. There was no telling what traps Miraak may have laid for him, what might happen when he Shouted at the Wind Stone. But it had to be done.

He gripped the sword hard, looking at the structure the Skaal villagers were building. It would be a dome, when it was finished, with patterns he doubted any man knew the meaning of etched into the support columns. The stone itself protruded from a shallow pool of water, barely ankle deep. Somehow, the water felt warm. Slaves. All these people had been enslaved by this first Dragonborn. The man had been blessed by Akatosh beyond mortal power, only to become something worse than the dragons. He would use these men and women, even the children, until they fell dead. He would break through into this world and build an empire more horrible than the Aldmeri Dominion ever dreamed of. The Thalmor would be like friendly uncles next to the slave-emperor Miraak. His priests would rule after his death, would put an end to the worship of the Gods; only Miraak would be worshiped.

The slim blade whispered as he freed it. This had to be done.

"Alright," he said, staring at the stone. The others spread out behind him, their weapons also at ready.

"You can do this," Valdimar said from behind him. "Your logic is sound, as I understand it. This will work."

Aleron sighed. "This had better work," he whispered to the Stone.

He took a deep breath, and he felt the word break free from him, felt all that it was, all of the land called to attention. "GOL!"

For a moment, as he took a step back and looked around, nothing happened. The workers stopped moving, but they seemed no more aware of what was happening around them. Then the Stone started to glow red through cracks in the surface. The villagers all about howled, then began to run away as fast as their tired legs would carry them. The adults pulled the children along wailing. Their faces were no longer expressionless. They were terrified, but perhaps that was a good thing.

Then the entire structure started to glow, and Aleron could feel an immense pressure building in the Stone, in the air around it, in the earth beneath. The ground shook. The air seemed to swell.

Suddenly, sky exploded like lightning without the flash. Thunder ripped through the world, and an unseen force shattered the structure surrounding the Wind Stone. Rubble flew in every direction outward from the Stone, hurled as if thrown by a god. The water barely rippled, but after the earth stopped shaking, the pool turned black.

Frea ran off to find her people, but the others stared.

"Did it work?" Erik asked.

A low rumble from the water answered him. Then Teldryn moaned as a figure started to rise from the water.

It was as tall as a giant, all black, with a body somewhat like a man's. the hands were armored like a black lobster, but with the rigid tails of stinger-fish protruding from each crustaceous finger. Its shoulders flared out in pointed extensions of bone like a Telvani Wizard's collar. Its head was horrid, if somewhat more pleasant than that of a Seeker. It was like some blunt-faced slaughterfish wearing a half-dozen crab shells as a helmet. The water was oily, now, and it slid off too slowly as it mixed with whatever slime the creature excreted on its own.

"What in oblivion is that?" Erik asked, stepping even further back with his battleaxe held out.

"It's a Lurker," Teldryn replied in a voice that said he was not too happy about knowing.

The monster screamed at them, a deep base rumble loud enough to shake the earth, and the water whipped them all off their feet.

Aleron sputtered, his barbute's open face letting the water in unimpeded. It tasted like overripe fruit. He rolled, and the shellfish foot came down where he'd been. He heard Erik roar at the beast, and it answered in kind. At one knee, he looked up to see Erik driving the thing back with agile swings of his Lopper. When it tried to rake at him with those spiked fingers, the tall Nord leaped aside and came up swinging.

Finally, the monster swatted Erik ten feet through the air with a great armored back-fist. And then another thing that Aleron had never seen stepped up to face the monster as Mjoll was slashing at its other side. Before the giant fish-headed Lurker was a Storm Atronach, something Aleron was only familiar with through books. Its face was a flat slab of living gray stone, and its torso was a large granite triangle in the midst of a swirling mass of smaller stones. It had no arms or legs, but floated like a spirit, and tendrils of lightning struck out at the Lurker to some effect. Teldryn leaped up from behind his Atronach, shouting "Good shooting, Patamon!" as he swept his ebony sword for the creature's head. A great fist grabbed the Dark Elf from out of the air, though, and Teldryn was thrown aside to land in a heap against the Wind Stone.

Aleron could not Shout at the Lurker, with all the others so near, but he rushed in and slashed at the monster's knee as it nearly stomped Mjoll to death. Water again reached up and knocked him off of his feet, and he thought he would be stomped, himself, before Valdimar's ice spike skewered the monster's leg above the knee. The foot missed its mark, but otherwise the thing seemed unfazed by the new hole in its leg. It spewed dark green slime at Valdimar. The battlemage tried to dodge away, but the spittle caught him in the arm, and he went down screaming in pain.

Mjoll cut a deep gash in its side that it brushed off as a bee sting. Aleron, back on his feet, finally had his opportunity to Shout. "FUS RO!" he shouted, FORCE BALANCE, wanting the most accurate force without the PUSH of DAH. The creature rocked back like a bell, but it did not topple. Finally, Mjoll's Grimsever cut through one of its legs at the knee. Water again whipped at Aleron, and he dove away.

On one stumped knee, the Lurker glared at Mjoll. She came up to finish the monster off, but it caught her by the throat in a lurch that was too quick to imagine from a beast so large. Aleron screamed, getting to his feet. It was going to crush Mjoll's neck.

Erik cried out as he drove his axe into the hideous crab-shelled head. "I am the Slayer!" The beast's arm went limp, and Mjoll dropped to her knees. "And that," the fire-haired Nord continued as he kicked the fallen Lurker, "is my friend!"

As Erik bent to pull Mjoll to her feet, Valdimar rose with a newly-healed arm to check on Teldryn. The Dark Elf seemed to be breathing, which should mean that Valdimar's healing would at least keep him alive. Meeko padded up from behind a piece of debris, a look of shame on his long face. The hound still sniffed uneasily at the fallen monster. Finally found something you're afraid of, eh?

Erik laughed aloud as Mjoll thanked him. The tall Nord looked at Aleron. "I thought you Dragonborns were supposed to be good at killing monsters. That, sir, is how it's done."

Aleron laughed with him, and Mjoll gave him a shot in the ribs.

As Teldryn was shakily rising to his feet, Frea came running from back up the pass, excitement clear in her gate and features. "It worked!" she shouted. "Your Shout freed the people from Miraak's influence! Thank you, Dragonborn!"

.

The next morning, Aleron found himself sitting with Valdimar and Frea and Storn in the greathall. Teldryn stood in a corner, reading a leather-bound book. With them was Fanari Strong-Voice, a brown-haired woman of middle years with a sense of authority and sternness that matched her position as leader of the Skaal.

"I thank you for agreeing to free the remaining stones." Her voice was no different from any other woman's, her accent the same as Frea's; the name apparently came from her tendency to speak her mind. "I name you Skaal-friend, with all my heart."

Storn spoke up, more solemn than Fanari. "We have not heard from those at the Tree Stone. Fanari says that there has not been enough time for our searchers to return, and she is right. But as Shaman of the Skaal I am attuned to our people and the land more strongly than she. Whatever Miraak has done at the Tree Stone is stronger than anywhere else. The other Stones are corrupted, sick; but I do not sense the Tree Stone at all. I do not believe the Skaal who remain there will be free until Miraak is dealt with.

Aleron sighed. As to Miraak, he was no closer than before. He knew now that he could break the mad Dragonborn's hold over the land. But for how long? How long until even the Wind Stone was under Miraak's control again? "I will free what stones I can. That may slow him down. Whatever he is doing, he clearly needs these stones, and so he is not able to directly touch Nirn. But when his touch does reach beyond Oblivion, directly, he will be able to take dominion over everything. Whatever the last two words of that Thu'um are, they're strong enough to command dragons, beings as old as the creation of Nirn."

He looked at the others, the Skaal and his housecarl. Valdimar shook his head, one last attempt to dissuade him. But he went on. "I know you all advise against it. I know the risks. But I don't see any other way; I must summon Hermaeus Mora."

The Skaal erupted in dissent, but he shouted over them. "You said yourself, Storn, that the land would not be free until Miraak is dealt with. I know no other way to reach him."

There was silence, finally, and Storn stood, looking at the hearth in the center of the room. His deep voice held little hope. "Long has Herma-Mora tried to steal the secrets of the Skaal. He is the devourer of knowledge. He cannot be here. Never!" The last seemed almost as much to himself.

Frea put her head in her hands. "Can you not try the book again?"

It was Aleron's turn to stand, now. It is no shame to know what you cannot do. "I have no doubt the black book will take me there again. But I did not stand a chance before. Those daedra were waiting for me, guarding what looked like a citadel. I don't see why this time would be any different. What I need is the rest of that Shout."

Storn turned around. "What if you had a different black book? If you were prepared? Could you take the citadel then?"

Aleron shook his head. "I don't know. That's a lot of what-if. I'd be willing to try, but . . . I did not even see a way to reach the citadel."

"There is no way." Teldryn had put his book aside and was speaking without leaving his corner. "No one's ever known what it was, but plenty of people have been to Mora's realm and seen that black tower. I saw it from a distance, the last time I was in Apocrypha."

The Skaal were all on their feet now, hands on weapons.

"Don't be fools!" Valdimar shouted at them.

Teldryn gave the bald Nord a thankful look, then continued. "I'm no affiliate of Mora's; but I've been to most of the Daedric worlds. For what it's worth, I think Mora would help you, Aleron. From what I understood, that tower was outside of even his control, and he was not happy about it."

The shaman sat, looking weary. "You would be walking Miraak's path even further, going to Herma-Mora. If you must, then you must. But beware the cost. Always men must pay for forbidden knowledge."

Teldryn stepped up to the fire. "He's right about that. Mora will want something of you, especially if you've summoned him."

Storn broke in. "He does not need to summon Herma-Mora. There is another black book. I have seen it."

They all stared at the shaman. Even Fanari seemed shaken. Frea looked poleaxed.

"Some weeks ago," Storn went on, "a Dark Elf came in secret to my home. He asked me many things, nearly all of which I could not understand. But mostly he asked me if our histories spoke of books. Black books. He wanted to know our relationship to Herma-Mora, and if we'd seen any of the books. He had one with him, though he was careful never to let it fall open - he kept it bound until he showed it to me. I sent him away, but I remember his name. Neloth."