Saraven woke late, he was sure of it. Impaled and burned bodies chased him through his dreams, screaming that it was his fault, he was too late. He ended the night standing in a sigil room, dremora standing in a circle as they taunted him with the severed heads of mortal prisoners. One of them had been the Orc Garva. One had been Galmir. One had been Lavinia. They stared at him with wide, accusing eyes above their gaping mouths, dripping spines hanging from their necks.
When he at last opened his eyes it was with a gasp of relief. He was disoriented for several moments, trying to remember why he was in an actual bed in a warm room.
Skingrad. I am in Castle Skingrad. He was ashamed that he had not stayed up to make sure Zudarra got here safely. He had fallen right into bed and just assumed J'zalla would take care of it.
He went to check outside his door. A stool now sat out there that had not been there before, holding his mail and padding. They were neatly folded and clean. He hooked it all inside to get dressed, then ate and drank from what remained on the table. If she had not come, if he was going to have to chase her across country, he would need his strength. He made the bed as best he could and left the clothes they had lent him folded on the coverlet.
Presently a strong fist banged on his door.
"You've got your beauty sleep, Saraven," said Zudarra's muffled voice. The Saraven who promptly opened the door was fully dressed and fresh faced - as fresh as his deep-lined, perpetually tired eyes would allow. She recovered from brief startlement and grinned at him, the troubled thoughts of last night forgotten. Zudarra was well fed and bursting with energy now.
Orphean had been gone when she woke from her shallow, dreamless slumber near noon to find Galmir already up and eating breakfast at the table. Her armor and his clothes had been cleaned and returned. Now she was dressed and armored with Galmir in tow. Zudarra had given the Bosmer her shoulder bag to carry, several of the uneaten fruits tucked discreetly away inside. They shouldn't miss the food and the extra set of clothing, and didn't heroes such as themselves deserve it?
"You're looking better," Saraven said. He did not smile, but the lines around his eyes shifted in such a way as to suggest he might have been thinking about it. "Did they feed you after all? Morning, Galmir." He emerged into the hallway, armored and armed.
"They did," Zudarra answered, turning to walk with him down the hall. "A free man wishing to serve his city, if it makes you feel any better. I tell you, this hero business has some perks."
Galmir returned Saraven's greeting with forced cheer, flashing a brief and unconvincing smile. He was healthy enough to think straight and was no doubt dwelling on the things Zudarra had seen in his mind the night before. In a few more feedings he would be a proper zombie, she hoped.
Yesterday seemed far away and difficult to envision in this clean and ordinary hallway, but reluctantly Saraven acknowledged that they needed to move on as quickly as they could. Ask around about where the Hero of Kvatch was last heard from. Go in the opposite direction around Cyrodiil. I think he must've gone to Chorrol and northward, or we would've caught him up in Anvil. Unless he's gone straight to the City to defend it. No one's heard of any gate opening in the Capital.
Yet. It was just as likely he was attacking the outlying cities first, to weaken the nation as a whole before he moved on its capital city. Skingrad had been the center of the West Weald, Cyrodiil's bread basket; with its farms and vineyards laid waste the people of Skingrad would have to hurry to replant enough food to get them through the winter, never mind supplying anyone else.
It's the Nibenay Basin that matters now. Leyawiin, then Cheydinhal. He did not think Bravil was in much danger. It was to wet to burn, and dremora that set foot in its narrow, steep streets would probably be stabbed, robbed naked and rolled into the canal before they knew what was happening.
Speaking to a couple of guards confirmed Saraven's speculation: Got-No-Home had closed a gate to Oblivion in Chorrol and there was no news of any attacks on the Imperial City. Word was that the Legion had recalled troops from other postings in preparation for the inevitable attack and refused to send reinforcements to any of the other Cyrodiilic cities, let alone other provinces. Callous, but prudent, Zudarra thought.
Zudarra was not happy with the prospect of traveling all the way to Leyawiin, so far from Anvil, but there seemed to be little choice. She was Bal's puppet now, as much as it enraged her. But with a strong ally like Saraven at her side, Zudarra found she was not especially fearful of the dremora. Their excursions into the Deadlands had gone well so far.
When they went to ride out, quietly ignored in the bustle of the courtyard except by the very polite guard who had fetched the horses, Saraven nudged Ves forward and his knee clicked against something metallic in his saddle bag. He hooked his leg around the saddle horn to flick the flap open and peer inside. There was a sack of what looked to be about 500 gold coins. He blinked as he resumed a more normal riding position. Presumably the same had been done for Zudarra. The Count had anticipated them in several ways. It was a little eerie. Saraven was grateful for the rest, but he was just as glad to be out and on their way again.
They decided to cut through the Southwestern forest of the West Weald on an old, overgrown back road to make better time. It would shave a day or two from what would otherwise have been at least a five day trip.
The sun had set hours ago. The forest was not very thick, leaving the twinkling stars unobscured to guide their way. Zudarra was leading her horse while Galmir rode. Now and then the Bosmer would jolt awake, grabbing Shadow's neck and jerking up his chin from his chest when he felt his body begin to sag off the saddle.
Zudarra looked to Saraven, gray skin nearly silver in the moonlight.
"Are you going to rest on your own tonight, or will I collect you from the ground when you drop?" she asked amicably. The broken remains of an old fort was growing closer, not far off the trail.
"Now is no time to start developing a sense of humor," Saraven said dryly. He was not at the point of collapse, but he was beginning to feel weary, and Galmir was obviously on his last legs. "But I'm not averse to pulling off. Shall we head for the fort?" He clicked his tongue at Ves as he guided the horse that way.
Zudarra grunted assent and plowed into the underbrush in the direction of the fort, ignoring the stray bramble that scratched at her armor.
The part of the fort that extended above ground was nothing more than a single tower. A crooked pillar that once held an upper level still stood, but the ceiling and the stairs leading up had crumbled and were now nothing more than slabs of ancient stone jutting from the grass, leaving the place open to the elements. The tower had been built into the side of a hill, and an arched doorway in the tower wall led to the subterranean levels. Remains of a rotted door lay scattered by the entry, moss and weeds growing in the wind-blown soil a few feet past the entrance. Ugly yellow lichen clung to the wall here, giving an impression of disease on otherwise gray-white stone. Stairs led down into dark depths and nothing more could be seen.
There were mortal scents, but so old as to not trouble Zudarra. Travelers like themselves had probably rested in the fort some weeks ago. Other than that, the place smelled as natural and clean as the rest of the forest.
Zudarra tied Shadow to a tree outside and dragged Galmir down by his collar, who teetered on his feet for a second after being plopped down. He squeaked a thanks to Zudarra and turned to retrieve his bedroll before following her into the fort.
"We're, uh, not going down there, are we?" he asked, peering down the dark tunnel with his bed under an arm, having been fully awakened by the frightful prospect.
"Don't worry. You'll be safe with us. Basically nothing can surprise a betmer vampire in Nirn. I'll light a torch for you and me." He grabbed a broken spar and a greasy scrap of canvas from the wreckage of the doors, wrapped one around the other, and lit it with an honest-to-gods flint and tinder. To use a fireball to light a torch would be a waste of his magicka, and he had no mage-light.
The steps led downward some way, slick and mossy in the dark. At the bottom they ended at a hallway that split to left and right. The torchlight flickered on the remains of a barred portcullis-style door in one direction. Saraven could see the handle meant to open it on the other side. The other way seemed clear.
They came to what had once been a dining area, in a room that branched off not far down the hall, which continued down another flight of steps. Rotted gray tapestries hugged the wall or lay in tatters on the floor. A long table was still standing in the center of the room while chairs and cabinets had either rotted to splinters or been broken up for kindling, as evidenced by an old ash pile in one corner of the room. A few blackened planks still sat in the center. The stone floors were slick with moisture and dotted with the occasional droppings of wild animals who had wandered inside. Zudarra wrinkled her nose at the mildew, but the air was far fresher than the caves of the Deadlands had been.
Galmir had his bedroll clutched to his chest, eyes fearfully darting back and forth as he examined the place. Shadows seemed to fly from corner to corner every time Saraven's arm moved the flickering torch, and Galmir jumped every time movement caught his eye. Zudarra thought that she heard movement from further down and decided not to say anything about it. Probably bats or raccoons; nothing worth hearing Galmir have a fit over.
"This is good," she said, tossing her bag on the cleanest spot on the floor she could see, near the old fire. "Hurry up and eat and go to bed, we have a lot of ground to cover tomorrow." Galmir followed her orders reluctantly, rolling out his bed while continuing to glance around and look over his shoulder at every tiny noise made by the others.
Saraven found a sconce into which he could jam his makeshift torch. It guttered and crackled as the flame consumed oil and dreck. The shifting shadows did not bother him. He had seen too many horrors exposed in broad daylight to fear the darkness even before the gates of Hell had opened into Tamriel.
He rolled out his bedroll near to Galmir's, then sat on it to eat dried food from his saddlebags and drink from his water skin. Hopefully the Bosmer would feel safer in between him and Zudarra. Saraven would sleep in his armor as well as the inevitable gorget and bracers. He generally did when out in the world by himself.
The last time he had slept outside alone had been a month ago, he realized. It had been under a tree twenty miles outside of Kvatch. It seemed a lifetime ago now, inconceivably far away in time.
At least Zudarra would not be tempted. He hoped. Removing the gorget would take minutes of lacing, which was a lot of premeditation for someone in any control of their thirst at all. When she'd lost it inside the gate she'd just bitten it with her teeth. He could still feel tiny indentations in the leather if he touched it just so.
But that was from exposure to daedric blood. She's not like that all the time, or even most of the time. He acknowledged it in strict fairness, not merely telling himself what he wanted to hear, he thought firmly. When they'd both eaten and Galmir was curled up in an unhappy bundle, Saraven went to extinguish the torch, then made his way back to his bedroll from memory, another skill acquired through long practice. It did not take him long to fall asleep.
Zudarra watched them quietly until their shifting had ceased and their breathing became slow and regular. It did not take long, after an exhausting day of travel. She sat leaning against the wall, still in her armor, wondering if she should have brought her bedroll inside as well. It would have been very hard to rest with both of them nearby, their hearts pounding in the silence of the ruin. She had resolved to feed tomorrow, to stretch Galmir's limited strength as far as she could, and the hunger was just starting to become distracting again.
Two black-robed, hooded figures flew down the overgrown path on horseback, a shining ball of white light lagging behind several feet in the air above them. A body-sized bundle wrapped in dark cloth lay stiffly across the lap of the first, an Altmer on a white appaloosa mare. She sat tall and proudly upright, watching the passing scenery keenly. Presently she slowed her mare to a walk, throwing up a black-gloved hand in signal to her companion. The hoofbeats of his bay gelding slowed behind her.
"It's not far, now. Wait, there it is," The Altmer, Psyna, said, lowering her hood to reveal a smooth, youthful face, narrow and high cheek-boned as befitting a well-bred mer of her race. Thick braids of golden blonde hair hung on either side of her pretty face, the rest of her long locks falling freely. Her thin eyebrows arched severely, giving an impression of haughty annoyance most of the time.
Psyna pointed to the ruined tower.
Jerian nodded. He was a withered Breton, sporting dark bags that pooled under deep set eyes and hollow cheekbones, all dominated by a hawkish nose that seemed far too strong a feature compared to the rest of him. Scraggly strands of white hair clung to the sides of his scalp, the wind from the ride throwing his comb-over into disarray. He sat hunched, narrow shoulders stooped forward, but perked at his companion's words and turned his horse off the road. A questioning wicker from further up stopped them both in their tracks.
"Someone is here," Psyna hissed. She dismounted quickly, throwing her reigns over the limb of a tree, and eased forward through the foliage to get a better look. After deciding the outside was abandoned, she returned to Jerian and pulled the large burden from her saddle to lean it against the tree.
"Two people left their horses tied up outside. They must be spending the night in the fort," she whispered. Her serious aspect melted into glee. "Our luck has never been better."
"Indeed," Jerian returned, sliding laboriously from the back of his gelding. He moved stiffly as he followed the Altmer back to the fort. He wore no gloves, and every knuckle of the man's thin hands were ringed with glittering gems.
They moved slowly, soft-soled shoes whispering quietly across stone. But Zudarra heard the ruffling of cloth as it drew near, just outside the door. She turned her head toward the entry in time to see a gloved hand followed by a golden face thrust into the room, and then a blinding ball of sickly green light was barreling toward her face before she could stand. Magicka tingled like prickers against skin as it hit her face, and Zudarra found herself toppling sideways, unable to catch herself, limbs still locked in their position. Her armor crashed jarringly against the stone.
Saraven's eyes snapped open at the world-filling rattle of steel on stone as a green glow pierced his eyelids from outside. Zudarra? His hand seized on the hilt of his sword where it lay next to the bedroll as he rolled automatically to one side, away from Galmir, shedding the blanket as he went.
"Galmir, wake up. Get up against the wall," he ground out.
It was still dark inside the room, but he could see the form of Zudarra lumped up on the floor, silhouetted against the doorway. The daedric sword sang as he drew it from the scabbard, poised on one knee, ready to dive in either direction. Anything that could drop the vampire in one hit was not about to be asked quarter.
Psyna stepped fully forward into the room now, lobbing another ball of green magicka toward the only other armed individual. Jerian waited patiently behind her, impassively watching with his hands tucked inside his loose sleeves, the scene before him veiled in shades of blue. A Bosmer was scrabbling out of his bed and shrieking bloody murder before he even had a chance to get his bearings, frantically grabbing his hair and twisting around. It was too dark for him to see, except when Psyna released the blast, and he screamed again at the sudden sight of the figures in the doorway.
Saraven threw himself forward in a maneuver he had used often of late, tucking and rolling over one shoulder with his sword held out to the side. The ball of power – paralysis, he suspected, a strength drain would be red – shot over his head and impacted on the floor behind him in the moment before he came to his feet. He could see a figure in a robe, the dim shape of pointed ears – mer, or a vampire who had once been mer. Either way, he thrust his free hand forward and let the lightning go without breaking stride.
Psyna seized as she was hit, convulsing noiselessly on the spot as lightning burned through her body and then through the soles of her feet. Galmir took off in a blind panic, old wood splintering as he crashed over an overturned chair and smacked his face against the hard stone floor.
Jerian's brow arched, and suddenly he seemed more interested than tired. He stepped back as his companion convulsed, snapping his fingers to activate one of the rings on his right hand. Purple light flashed out from the ring across his body, a skin of protective magicka flowing across his own. The color faded, leaving behind only a faint glimmer on the parts of his pale skin that his robe did not conceal.
Psyna crumpled to the ground in a smoking, twitching heap, leaving Jerian alone and unguarded. He raised both palms, one to the Altmer, and one to the ground in front of him. As blue light shot from one palm to his fallen companion, white light struck the stone in front of him. Light rebounded from the ground, shooting up and spiraling around a forming humanoid shape of pure white light. The light faded then, leaving behind a skeletal warrior, silver claymore already drawn in its bony hands. Its jawbone clacked open, empty sockets quickly scanning the room and falling on Saraven.
Zudarra seethed silently, unable to see Saraven from her vantage point, but she could see the flashes of light and heard his lightning hit a target. Her fingers twitched uselessly, but they twitched harder with every passing second as she slowly regained control.
Necromancy. Even now, when Dagon's minions walked in Nirn to kill and burn and destroy, there were men and mer willing to do as bad or worse. Saraven felt annoyance more than anything else as he followed on forward, fading aside from a claymore swing at his neck. The skeleton rattled and hissed at him as he spun away, to one side of the room where the second mage could not aim at him without coming all the way inside. He'd no idea how long Zudarra would remain paralyzed, but he'd better not give the man time to concentrate fully on her, either. Now he attempted to hook the skeleton's pelvis with the teeth of his blade, to knock it apart. His stroke connected, but his sideways yank just forced it to sidestep to keep its balance; the bonds that held it together were surprisingly tough.
He could not throw a fireball at the doorway without hitting Zudarra, and he didn't know if she was already injured or not. Presumably the old man had just shielded himself against lightning. Well, there was one way to verify that. Saraven dodged another heavy swing and threw the lightning again as he whirled past the doorway.
Electricity crackled across Jerian's shielded skin and he winced at the slight jolt that managed to penetrate his barrier. Smoke rose from his robes as it bore the brunt of the attack, and he patted out the little flames with one hand when it was done, lobbing a white ball of freezing magicka back at the Dunmer with his other.
Psyna was climbing to her feet now and backing against the wall to the other side of the doorway, glaring watchfully at Zudarra, knowing her time was almost out. Her robe bore burn marks across her chest where the lightning had hit, displaying little slivers of golden skin beneath, but the stench of burned flesh had receded as she healed. Any other companion Jerian might have let die - the corpse would have its uses - but Psyna was too valuable an apprentice to waste her mind.
Zudarra's stiff limbs finally clacked to the floor as the spell ended and she was on her feet in a blur, daedric blade ripping free of its sheath. The Altmer tossed a fireball, which whizzed past Jerian in the doorway. Zudarra barely managed to dodge aside in time, fire exploding on the wall behind her. She growled low in her throat, glaring hatred at the mer, knowing she would die under Zudarra's fangs if it was the last thing she ever did.
Saraven slowed to see if his attack had any effect, gritting his teeth as he realized how potent the old man's shield really was, and then he belatedly twisted away from the ball of glowing white. It exploded against his left shoulder and side, needles of ice driving his mail into his flesh even as they froze the metal to his body. He felt the cold burn him where it touched, searing the ends of nerves, and then the pain redoubled as the weight of the mail tore it away from him again, taking skin with it. He bore it as he forced himself to move away from the doorway to the side again, breath hissing between his teeth. He heard the fireball and heard Zudarra move, though she was too fast to see – but she was up, that was what mattered.
He glanced up just in time to see the claymore descending toward his head. Saraven jerked away, made clumsy by the frigid agony in his left side. The blade crashed down into the floor beside him. He bashed at the undead's nearer arm-bones with the hilt of his blade, hoping to shatter its grip.
The heavy claymore clattered to the ground and the skeleton turned to swipe at Saraven's face with its hand. Bony nails raked across his cheek as the blow spun him around. Saraven rolled with the movement, taking the pain but keeping his balance. His arm came around in a hard back-swing aimed at the skeleton's spine. It hit with a jarring impact, and the thing fell apart, bones clattering on the floor before they vanished into nothing.
Zudarra faded from view then. Fear finally passed over the Altmer's face and she quickly raised a shield of magicka, encasing her form with a sphere of translucent purple light. She threw fire at the clanking that rapidly approached, always missing the invisible Khajiit by a hair as she zig-zagged behind Saraven and around to the other side of the doorway. The tell-tale sounds stopped suddenly, leaving both mages looking around - Psyna with fear, Jerian with slight interest.
Flames crackled from the Altmer's palms. She held them at the ready, back nearly against the wall.
"Come on, try it," she hissed, sneering, eyes flicking rapidly across the room for any disturbance in the dust or debris. Too late to act she sensed daedric steel penetrating her bubble, slowed by the shield but still powered by all the force a vampiric Cathay-raht could muster. The air shimmered with magicka and Zudarra appeared as her blade thrust through the Altmer's stomach. Psyna screamed, releasing twin blasts of fire but she was made stupid from pain and her aim was unguided. Heat roared on either side of Zudarra and Jerian stepped back into the hall to avoid a blast of fire that still managed to singe the tip of his nose.
Zudarra twisted the blade in the Altmer's guts, eliciting a sharp yelp and then nothing as the Altmer sagged forward, dead. A red waterfall gushed to the floor as Zudarra turned her by the hilt to position the dead mage as a living shield between herself and the human, who was stepping back into the room. His looked wearily at the corpse of his companion and sighed.
Saraven turned to look around as the skeleton fell. The Altmer was dead, spitted on Zudarra's sword. The Breton was still standing. Saraven flexed his frozen left arm, grimacing, and moved forward.
Zudarra heard the clack of bones on stone and knew Saraven had prevailed. She grinned at the Breton and launched forward, greatsword still held parallel with the ground and the Altmer dangling from it, but Jerian's hands were already raised as she began to move. An inferno of flame poured from his palms, engulfing both Zudarra and her meat shield. The body offered slight protection to her head, but fire roared at every side. The Khajiit's agonized scream was ear-shattering. She scrabbled backward away from the flame, stumbling on her burned paws and crashing down against the ground. The blackened husk impaled on her greatsword landed on top of her.
Saraven checked in his stride as Zudarra screamed. His heart jerked unexpectedly in his chest at the sound, and he fought memory as she fell –
one of the old ones burning, running screaming across a room -
-One of the young ones burning, flailing madly about the cave -
No. Zudarra was in horrible pain, but she was alive. Most of her face was blackened and hairless. Only a small circle encompassing her eyes and nose remained singed instead of thoroughly burned. She moaned on the ground, still smoking. Through the haze of pain she managed a twitch of her fingers, blue light spilling from her hand as the burns healed with torturous slowness. Saraven raised his face to the Breton's, his eyes flat and empty.
"You just cost me my apprentice and her body," the Breton huffed, frowning in annoyance. He looked from the fallen vampire to the Dunmer and held up a hand, icy white light swirling in his half-open palm. "I'd stop there if I were you, friend."
"Sorry, Zudarra," Saraven said quietly. Then he hurled himself forward across her body in a diving roll, preparing an upward stab through the mage's ribs as he came up. Zudarra screamed again when Saraven's weight pressed against her burns.
Jerian threw his attack at the first sign of movement but the frigid ball blew past just above Saraven's back as he rolled. His eyelids shot open wide, eyeballs round and white in their deep sockets when the blade pierced his flesh. Daedric steel scraped sickeningly against bone. He swiped madly in the direction of the Dunmer's face, freezing magicka spraying from his hand.
Saraven kept his grip on the sword, twisting it roughly to open the wound further. He hunched up one shoulder to protect his face, but that worked only partially. Freezing power sprayed his head and left arm again, doing further damage on top of what had already been done. An agonized hiss escaped between his teeth. He shoved the Breton away with his good shoulder, yanking the sword out to produce a spray of arterial red. He twitched the muscles of his frozen left hand. Blue spiraled up around him as he staggered upright, partially healing the terrible freezing burns. New flesh crawled up under his mail to replace what had been torn away, steam rising from the links of his mithral shirt.
Jerian screeched as he was flung back and the teeth of the blade ripped through his innards, skull smacking against the stone of the hallway when he landed. White spots filled his vision. His fingers twitched and a ring on his hand flashed blue. He felt a shifting inside his wound as flesh knitted with flesh and the pain receded.
Saraven raised a boot and stamped down on the Breton's nearer arm, feeling bone crack underfoot. He bent to stab the sword at the old man's throat again and again, trying to hack his head off before he could again heal himself. His left side and the scratches on his face still hurt, but it was peripheral, able to be ignored until the thing that needed doing was done.
Jerian's screams turned to wet gurgles as his throat was slashed and blood bubbled out. He was dead soon after, staring glassy-eyed and slack jawed past the Dunmer as blood pooled around his head, drenching the thin strands of hair that lay across the floor.
Zudarra healed herself again and again, undead flesh mending reluctantly. Her blackened skin had faded to an unhealthy red, still dry and furless, when her magicka ran out. The stinking corpse on top of her and the remaining stench of her own burned fur caught in her nostrils. She weakly hoisted herself up on her elbows.
"Galmir," she croaked.
Galmir looked up from where he cowered beneath the old table at the sound of his name. In the darkness he could see the little blue sparks of Zudarra's last heal petering out, and his heart leapt to his throat at the sight of Zudarra on the ground. He had heard her scream before and saw the orange light beyond his closed lids, but his head had been buried between his knees and the Bosmer didn't know exactly what had happened.
Dread and fear clenched icy fingers around his heart, a fear greater than that which had sent him running at the sight of the strangers. He scrabbled out from under the table, half-crawling and half-running to Zudarra's side. She needed him! The death of the Khajiit was a horror he could not fathom. He didn't know why, but why scarcely mattered. He dropped to his knees beside her as she shoved the charred corpse and her greatsword away from herself.
"I'm here!" he cried shrilly, laying a hand on her arm. He was vaguely aware of Saraven and the Breton less than three feet away, but his eyes did not leave the injured vampire.
Zudarra grabbed Galmir's shoulder and hauled herself up to a proper sitting position before clamping her fangs on his neck, crushing him to her armored chest in her arms. He sighed and melted against her as she drank feverishly, the cracked red flesh of her face turning healthy pink and soft fur sprouting from the new skin.
Galmir thought only of her - how perfect it felt to be of use to Zudarra, how much he loved her touch and the sensation of his blood being sucked from the punctures. He felt so warm and safe, wrapped in a cottony cocoon of joy. But Zudarra did not think of him at all, only the pleasure of her drink and the newfound power that coursed through her body after her wounds healed.
Galmir's hands had been clutching at Zudarra's arms. Now their grasp faltered and his hands dropped at either side of himself, fingers twitching weakly.
Saraven knelt to wipe his sword on the dead man's robe, then quickly sheathed it. He turned to look for Zudarra. Her injuries had been serious. He might have to split the difference and wait on his own healing until he'd finished his night's rest. But no, she was all right, arms enfolding the Bosmer as she drank. Galmir looked pale and limp, arms dangling.
"Stop," Saraven said. He sheathed the blade quickly and got up to move toward them. "Zudarra, stop, you'll kill him." He bent to grab her arm. It was happening again, and there was nothing to protect her thrall from her. He thought he knew her well enough now to be aware that she would regret it if she took the sad little mer's life.
A new weight on her arm forced Zudarra's mind to take stock of her surroundings. Saraven stood beside her. Galmir sagged in her arms.
Yes, she realized, thoughts muddy and reluctant. I have to stop. She jerked away, almost letting the limp Bosmer flop to the floor, but she caught him around the shoulders. Slowly she stood, scooping him up in her arms. His head rolled against her chest, face unnaturally pale, but his eyes fluttered open and Galmir smiled weakly. She now had just enough magicka from her feeding to heal the puncture wounds that slowly bled onto his collar.
She glared down at Saraven, irritated that he had been right about something more than that her feeding was interrupted. Bitter shame heated her face, although he could not see. He must not see.
"He's smaller than what I'm used to," she snipped, unapologetic, carrying Galmir to his bed.
The Dunmer looked back steadily as he raised a hand to heal himself, the lines around his eyes deepening. Pain smoothed out and vanished from his frozen left side, the marks on his face blending into his dragon-wing tattoos and vanishing. He did not argue with her. What she said was not even a lie, and that was an improvement for these defensive outbursts.
Zudarra did not throw him down, but she rolled Galmir out of her arms like he was a piece of equipment and not a person, then kneeled to rifle in her bag for water. He'd landed on his side and flopped onto his back, so she raised his head with a palm and held an uncorked bottle to his lips along with a command to drink. Galmir obeyed, happily closing his eyes.
"Throw the bodies down the stairs in the hall," she commanded, not looking back at the Dunmer. "I'll go out and see if there's any more of them in a minute." The room stunk of charred flesh and death.
"Sure." He watched a moment longer to see that Galmir was really all right, and then he turned to grab the charred hunk of flesh that had been the Altmer and drag her to the stairs to tumble her down. The body shed flakes of scorched carbon all the way down into the darkness, whomp whomp thump.
Then he went to search the body of the Breton, making sure to collect his rings. He'd used one of them to heal himself, that seemed like something that might come useful later. Saraven set it aside from the others, sliding it over his thumb. I wonder if it will fit Galmir. Could be a nice backup when we come out of a gate. It would be a way to keep power in reserve and not have to worry so much about choosing which of them could survive not being healed right away.
He threw that body down after the other one. The robes made an unnerving flapflapflap as the corpse bumped and rolled its way down after the first.
Zudarra inspected the outside with Saraven when Galmir had been seen to, finding nothing more than two horses and what was obviously a body bundled up in cloth, some poor soul that would soon have been the slave of the necromancers. It had been human and seemed fresh, as corpses go; it smelled of chemicals more than decay to Zudarra's nose. She pulled down their bags from the saddles to look through, leaving Saraven to do with the body what he wished.
Saraven hauled the body off over his shoulder – it was heavy and cold - and rolled it down the stairs after its presumed murderers. Then he spent the last of his power sending a fireball down after all of them. The broken stairwell lit with an incredible WHOMP as the preservatives in the corpse caught fire.
"Arkay deliver you to your proper destinations," he said to them. It seemed necessary somehow. He left the fire burning merrily as he went back out to the horses.
"The man had some rings," he said. "This one confers fire resistance. This one poison." He held them out pinched between finger and thumb. "I'd rather keep the ice and lightning shields. There's a healing ring too, but I think we ought to give it to Galmir. We'll have a way to get healed when we come out of a gate running on empty."
"Good idea," Zudarra said, looking up from her inspection of the saddle bags to take the rings with her claws and slipping each onto different fingers. The fire resistance ring was a ruby gem that looked almost black under the night sky. She wasn't one for jewelry - these seemed big and gaudy to her - but it would be a blessing for a vampire in the Deadlands.
Zudarra reported her findings. They'd been carrying plenty of dried foods, alchemical equipment, a plethora of soul gems in various sizes. Zudarra didn't really know what most of the equipment was, but knew it must be valuable. There were lots of empty vials, a few filled with liquid. They were marked with blue x's, magicka restoratives. Zudarra tucked it all back where she found it.
The appaloosa whickered questioningly, snuffling at the Khajiit pawing through the bags. She had probably been exposed to enough undead that the scent of vampire did not bother her. Galmir had his own mount now, it seemed.