XVIII
That night
The carriage had not yet stopped outside the Frozen Hearth before Vinye sprang from the wagon, Malys and Cosette close behind her. They had just seen the College come into view at last from behind the veil of wind and snow that normally concealed it—and Vinye had felt a stab of fear in her heart when she saw the smoke rising from the battlements.
"Hey!" the Altmer barely heard the driver roar behind them. "Don't scare my horse, you inconsiderate—!"
None of the three mages bothered to hear him as they sprinted over the footbridge and into the courtyard—where a scene of devastation greeted them.
Cosette merely gaped, but Malys swore under her breath. "We're too late," whispered the vampire as she took in the sight.
The statue of Shalidor was nothing but bits of dust and rock, as was the magickal font at his stone feet. One side of the wall was cracked and crumbling, and Vinye noticed a strangely shaped depression in the rock—as if something … no, someone … had been smacked against that wall with the strength of a dragon.
What in Auriel's name … ? Vinye wondered, trying not to picture what could have done that to such a solid construction.
So absorbed were the three mages in the sight of the carnage that they did not immediately see the Breton running up to them. Phinis Gestor looked quite out of breath—though whether from exhaustion or from anger was unclear.
"Where in the name of Anu have you been?" the conjuration master blustered. His arm was in a sling, and there were several blisters and burns on his face. His tone might have been called hostile if not for these.
Nevertheless, Vinye was still shaken by the chilly reception. "We were trying to collect more Dwarven artifacts … Arch-Mage's orders," she replied. She told of how Solyn had turned on them, and tried to eliminate them in the process.
Phinis' scowl only deepened. "I hope that was important to you all," he said bitterly, as Colette, J'zargo, Faralda, and a young Dunmer woman who Vinye did not know arrived behind him. "Because as you can see, Solyn didn't just stop with you three. He launched an assault on our College, and he very nearly succeeded in destroying it!
That news did not altogether surprise Vinye—her hunch had been correct. But something wasn't adding up here.
"We had a hunch he'd be going after Winterhold," Malys said. "We tried to come as fast as we could—we wanted to warn you about what we found out about him! We wanted to defend against—"
"There was nothing you could have done," interrupted the Dunmer. "The ash spawn struck hard and fast—before anyone had time to blink. The guards were overpowered in moments. Our spells were almost useless. If it wasn't for Grimnir, things would be much worse."
"Ash spawn?" Cosette wondered. "How do you know what they're called?"
"I've seen them before, in the southern regions of Solstheim—although they were a lot easier to take down back then than what we had to face today," said the dark elf. She extended a hand. "Brelyna Maryon, House Telvanni. I used to be a student here with J'zargo and Onmund."
"I remember that name," Malys spoke up, shaking her hand in kind—though wrapping her sleeve around her hand first to conceal her undead flesh. "Tolfdir told us you were helping to recolonize Morrowind after the eruption—you and one of the other instructors here … Drevis, was his name?"
Everyone present suddenly looked very stricken, and Vinye's heart sank—that sort of expression never boded well.
After a few seconds of everyone chewing their tongues, evidently unsure of what to say, Colette finally spoke up. "Tolfdir and Drevis Neloren are dead," she said gravely.
Cosette started, and Malys looked like she was biting back a curse. But Vinye suddenly felt as if a lead weight had just been swung into her stomach, and she felt a coldness seeping under her skin, a growing sense that she was freefalling through an endless abyss. Tolfdir, dead … that's impossible … it can't be true!
Perhaps sensing her shock, Colette went on, "They fought well, but … " She swallowed imperceptibly. "Their bodies have been … I'm not sure if I want to say. And what's more, what happened to them hasn't been seen in almost three hundred years—and never outside of Morrowind."
"Does it have anything to do with House Dagoth?" Malys inquired, her voice unusually thick. Vinye saw Faralda wince, and the Dunmer woman—Brelyna—stepped up and cleared her throat.
"The way they were mutilated suggests it was," Brelyna told them. "In the time of the Nerevarine, there used to be "ash zombies" running about on the slopes of the Red Mountain. They looked almost exactly like Toldfir and Drevis did down there—gray skin, hollowed-out heads.
J'zargo shivered. "If Grimnir found out what happened down there," he said, "this one would hate to see how much angrier he can get after today."
"Where is the Arch-Mage?" Vinye asked, noticing a distinct lack of the Dragonborn in the courtyard. "I'm guessing he's still alive, but was he badly hurt?"
No one immediately answered her. "The Arch-Mage will survive," coughed Phinis delicately, "but it took a great deal of his"—he coughed again—"not inconsiderable power to assist in repelling this attack. If it were not for his efforts, we would not be having this conversation—and Winterhold, I daresay, would be deep under the Sea of Ghosts by now."
"The good news is we swept every inch of the College, above and below," Brelyna said in a shaky voice. "There's no sign of ash spawn inside, outside or under College grounds. But … the bad news is that everything else went with them."
Malys tensed up. "What are you talking about?"
Colette's voice, if anything, was even shakier. "Soon after we found Tolfdir's remains, we discovered that that entire attack by the ash spawn was a diversion. It was a ploy, so that their real mission could succeed—and it did. It's … it's all gone. Everything Dwemer that was kept inside the Midden is gone."
Vinye felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. Kagrenac's Tools, she thought in dismay—Spellbreaker, Volendrung, the Aetherium they'd recovered … Solyn had taken them all.
They were gone.
"That's all that happened on our end," Phinis Gestor coughed. "Now, I hope you can give us a very good reason why three of Winterhold's best and brightest would be delayed in repelling this regrettable offense against the College. What have you found? What did you learn?"
Vinye only needed ten words to convince him.
That was how, only a few minutes later, the Altmer found herself inside the Arch-Mage's quarters again; only this time, she was staring at the man she'd believed was invincible—who could shrug off dragons like they were nothing—lying in his bed, concealed by a brilliant white sheet inscribed with glowing sigils and runes, running in concentric circles around an empty space slightly smaller than her fist.
That space framed the scarred lips and yellow teeth of Grimnir, half-open and jammed with a dozen types of glassware, each one feeding a different type of potion through his mouth into his body—some red, others blue and green, still others glowing with colors unidentifiable to the naked eye. He looked surprisingly small against the covers.
"What happened to him?" Vinye asked no one in particular. Her whisper echoed around the silent hall, and meshed with the continuous howl of the wind outside.
Faralda exhaled, and spoke quietly, so as not to disturb the Arch-Mage. "As a Nord, Grimnir possesses an ancient magic inside his body called the Voice. According to belief, the goddess Kynareth bestowed this magic upon men when the world was first shaped. Those few that can harness the Voice, and control it, are called Tongues—because this particular magic is not cast with the hands, like any other, but through the mouth; hence, the name."
"Tongues." Cosette repeated the word slowly. "I've heard of them. Most of the Nord chieftains in the First Era were Tongues. Even Ulfric Stormcloak could be considered one himself," she added grudgingly. "But doesn't that kind of magic take years, if not decades to study?"
"Normally, yes," replied Faralda. "But there's more to that legend. It's said that the strongest of these Tongues were blessed with the blood of Auriel—or Akatosh, the dragon god of time—and because of this, they became known as 'the Dragonborn.' These Dragonborn were gifted with especial knowledge of this Nordic magic—to the point where they did not need to study the Voice to grasp its power. They were able to gain knowledge of the Voice through means more … direct."
Vinye remembered the events of that dragon attacking the College—the day she had returned from Rkund, and witnessed Grimnir battling that ancient beast one-on-one. She remembered how he had snapped its neck, how its body had radiated with power, power that was absorbed into Grimnir's body—
And Vinye understood. "They're dragonslayers," she said. "They can absorb the knowledge of this 'Voice' by killing other dragons. Is that what you're saying?"
Faralda blinked. "Yes," she eventually said, "and Grimnir is one of those Dragonborn."
Vinye swallowed—even though she'd known this already, it did not make the blow to her stomach any less evident. With that, the truth comes out, she thought. Behind her, she sensed that Malys and Cosette were appropriately shocked—whether out of fright or respect, the elf could not tell. But that was not where her mind was right now. "What does any of that have to do with how he ended up like this?" she asked.
J'zargo cleared his throat, and Vinye jumped—she'd forgotten the Khajiit had been standing there the whole time. "It was this Voice that allowed the Dragonborn to destroy the ash spawn. But it is also this Voice that is responsible for the state in which he lies now. J'zargo has told you, yes, of how he has slain many dragons in his day?"
Malys nodded. "So does that mean he knows much more of this Voice than any other Tongue in history?"
That prompted a short little laugh from J'zargo. "He would disagree," he said. "But this one thinks a reasonable argument could be made. Grimnir knows much about how the dragons Speak, yes—but he has delved so deeply into this knowledge that his greatest strength has now become his greatest weakness."
"Meaning?" Cosette sounded uneasy.
Faralda took the ensuing silence as an opportunity to step back in the conversation. "Over time, Grimnir's study of the Voice has taken him closer and closer to perilous ground: the nature of his draconic blood and soul—the right to dominion. Dragons are a very proud species, and they are power-hungry and nigh immortal as well. Grimnir harbors this pride deep within him … along with his lust for power.
"One day, he did the unthinkable—he used the Voice to tap into his own dominant nature. He nearly died doing it—and so did I. When I discovered what he had done, and recovered enough from the ordeal, I forbade him from ever using that Shout again unless innocent lives were at stake. But Grimnir repeated the experiment yesterday," the Altmer said bitterly, gazing at the Arch-Mage, "and history very nearly repeated itself."
Vinye, who had been listening with rapt attention, felt her breath catch in her throat as she remembered seeing the damage that had been done to the College on her way in. Had Grimnir done all that, she thought, just to get rid of a few intruders? "It must have been a display of power," she mused. "Maybe he wanted to send Solyn a message."
"Oh, there's no doubt about that," Faralda agreed. "But you weren't there yesterday. You didn't see what I saw when I had to suppress him. He didn't even recognize me—just one word of that damned Voice was enough for him to think I was another enemy. I'm quite lucky to be alive."
Vinye was aghast. Grimnir attacked Faralda with this Shout? She recalled his words to her in the Midden, the day before they had left to recover Volendrung and the last piece of Aetherium.
"One of us is going to die … "
"You say he'll survive?" Malys wanted to know. The split halves of her face both looked anxious.
Faralda nodded, and stole another look at Grimnir. "It'll take some time, but the Arch-Mage is hardier than most men I've met in my time. Whether that's the dragon or the Nord … " She trailed off, and coughed.
For a second, Vinye thought a look of longing had flitted over her face, but then it was gone, as swiftly as it had come, and Faralda once more looked as dutiful as she had before.
"Ordinarily, I would leave the Arch-Mage to his rest," she said, "but Grimnir asked that he speak with you before we began to treat him again. I know you've discovered much in the time since you last met him, but given his condition, I would ask that you please keep it brief."
She turned to Colette and J'zargo. "Wake him."
The two senior wizards each laid a hand on the sheet, where Grimnir's forehead ought to be. There was a brief burst of turquoise light from their palms. A few seconds later, something shifted underneath all the blankets, and a low groan escaped the scarred lips of the fallen Dragonborn.
"The mages have come back, Grimnir." Faralda had to bend down to speak to roughly where his right ear should be, and she kept her voice to a whisper. "They have urgent news for you."
Not waiting for any sign of recognition, Vinye stepped forward, and Cosette and Malys followed suit. Taking a deep breath, the Altmer repeated the same ten words she'd spoken to Phinis only minutes ago.
"Solyn is a Chimer. He intends to restore House Dagoth."
"Solyn … Chimer … Dagoth … " Grimnir's voice strained to he heard in the silence; it was neither angry nor thoughtful. Any semblance of emotion was muffled among all the glassware crammed in his mouth; the effect made everything feel doubly jarring to Vinye—it was as though he'd just aged thirty years.
How strange it was, she thought once more, that someone so strong could suddenly be so weak!
"He cornered us in the Rift," Cosette added, "and he took the Aetherium shards we'd collected earlier, along with Volendrung. He tried to kill us after that—keep us from making our way back to Winterhold."
"We have to find out where he's gone," Malys chimed in. "Dagoth Solyn wants to conquer Tamriel all over again—and we are the only thing standing in his way." She swallowed. "We need your help."
"No help!" rasped the scarred man under the sheet—and that sheet suddenly lurched upward a few inches. It did not tear or fall off—a fact for which Vinye was inwardly grateful, as she had no desire to see his already mutilated face—but the effect was still enough to make everyone present jump in surprise.
"No help," Grimnir said again, more subdued this time. His breathing was heavy and ragged. "I already … told you, Malys. I gave … Keening. I said … no more help. You were … on your own."
Vinye could not believe what she was hearing. There was no way in Oblivion that Grimnir would dare deny them help in this crucial time! His College had just been attacked without provocation, two of his best staff had been slain—as far as she was concerned, every single person in Winterhold had a personal stake in this now!
"Arch-Mage, everything has changed!" Malys said desperately. "None of us had any idea who Solyn really was before now! We thought simply cutting off our arrangement with him would be enough—we were wrong! He's been playing us from the very beginning—no," she added with a feral growl. "It's Dagoth Ur who's been playing us, even in death!"
"We know he attacked Winterhold," piped up Cosette. "If he had succeeded, he would have moved on to Winterhold, and who knows where from there? Eastmarch? The Reach? Would he have stopped at all of Skyrim? No! Solyn is a conqueror to the bone, Arch-Mage! He struck when we were at our weakest—and if the College had fallen, he'd have free rein to run roughshod over all of Tamriel."
"And who's to say that he won't come back here to finish the job before that?" Faralda retorted. "Solyn isn't the kind of person who likes to leave loose ends—didn't you three say that you found that out yourselves?"
Cosette's arms exploded with flames at almost the same time as her temper. "This isn't about any of us anymore!"
"THU'UMU FENT NAHLOT!"
The glassware around Grimnir's mouth shattered with the sheer volume of his voice, and Vinye felt a faint rumbling under her feet, as if the outcrop of rock that tethered the College to Nirn was preparing to split asunder. Cosette's fire was snuffed out in an instant, and every head and eye in the room swiveled to lock on Grimnir.
The Dragonborn allowed the silence—broken only by the steady drip of spilled potion on the stone—to settle for a few more eternal moments before he spoke. "You may do what you will," he said, still lying in his bed; the scarred mouth tilted slightly to regard the three mages. "I cannot order you to a meaningless death, but neither can I tether you here to the College, waiting for an adversary that might never come. I cannot help you, either—and even if I could, what reason could you give me?
"I have spent too long being used as a means to an end," Grimnir went on, before anyone could interject. "These people out there, they do not see Grimnir Torn-Skull. Sometimes, they do not even see Arch-Mage Grimnir Torn-Skull. No, they only see the Dragonborn." He pronounced that word with all the sting of concentrated jarrin root, and Vinye winced at the bitterness in his words. "It's time that the world learned to stop relying on the power of one man to change the world. That time is over. It's time the world grew up."
With those final two words, Grimnir sank back in his bed with a short burst of coughing—each spasm a cold nail to Vinye's body, colder than the ice magic of Malys. The Altmer felt bile rise in her mouth as she looked at the wretched form beneath the blanket.
What had the Dragonborn done—no, she amended, what had Arch-Mage Grimnir done—that he would become so bitter, so weary of the world around him? Vinye wondered if this was truly the same Nord who had defeated Alduin four years ago—there was no way it could be. That man had been hailed as a hero—but the old man beneath the sheet and shattered glassware was no hero. He believed himself to be a relic of the past—a weapon, a tool—when in reality, he was part of a culture that not only revered heroism and honor as part of their culture, but also looked to heroes and honorable men for guidance and intercession. How could he not see this simple fact?
What had happened to this man?
Faralda and Colette bustled forward in the wake of Grimnir's tirade. "We must begin," the Altmer instructor said quietly, though in a tone that was not to be questioned. Thus dismissed, Cosette and Malys slowly made their way out of the chamber, while the two senior wizards began installing fresh glassware and potions in Grimnir's mouth. J'zargo followed them before long, though not without taking a very long look at the occupied bed.
Vinye was last to leave—she wanted desperately to do so, but her legs refused to move, as if Solyn's paralysis spell had snared her once again. Her mind was a raging storm of emotion, focused solely on the scarred Nord before her. She could not decide if what she was feeling the most was pity for the broken Dragonborn … or sheer disgust for a man who had just acted no better than her father.
She did not wait to discover the truth for herself, though; after a moment of time that felt like an entire era, the high elf turned on her heel, and walked out of Grimnir's quarters without any intention of saying goodbye.
Rkund
The ancient golden doors of the Reliquary yawned open, and Dagoth Solyn strode through them, attended by a pair of his ash spawn. One carried the hammer Volendrung in both hands like a newborn child, while the other held Spellbreaker and the Aetherium-tipped pickaxe in each of its rough hands.
After taking care of the miners he'd hired to maintain the façade behind his true motives, Solyn had made his way to the lowest level of Rkund with all haste. The lamps were lit, and the automatons within stirred in their slumber at these new intruders. But Solyn knew how to control them; he had had thousands of years to raise the limits of his magic above the comprehension of others. A simple burst of calming magic from both of his hands was enough to pacify the guardians of the Reliquary.
As they looked on—could automatons truly see? Solyn wondered apropos of nothing—the Chimer made his way to the center of the chamber, where rested the three plinths constructed to receive Kagrenac's Tools. These Solyn produced from his own person, extracting them from his robe one at a time with each platform.
Slowly, reverently, he laid each Tool into its respective slot. First came Keening—Solyn could feel the history of this crystal blade simply by touching it, and he noted with calm surprise the presence of family here; Odros, he had been called. One of Lord Voryn's brothers, he remembered, and part of the nobility of his House.
Keening slid into its specially carved niche, and there was a faint rumble from above. Solyn and his ash spawn looked upward, their attention diverted, but after a few seconds of calm, the Chimer resumed his work.
He relinquished Sunder next—and again, Dagoth Solyn heard the echoes of the past as his fingers caressed the metal hammer. Vemyn, he had been called, another of his father's brothers; Vemyn had elected to guard this artifact personally. Solyn wondered if they could all see what he was doing now—Odros and Vemyn, and all the rest of them—and he could hear their voices in his mind, congratulating the prodigal son for pleasing his House, his family with this duty.
Another rumble issued from the rocky ceiling, louder and longer this time, as the hammer Sunder was fitted into its groove. Lastly, there was Wraithguard. There was nothing of his House to be traced within this artifact, though; both of these armored gauntlets were rank with the memory of Vivec. Solyn cursed him—that two-faced usurper had been the cause of all this, him and the rest of the greedy Tribunal!
As if worried that the remnants of that demigod's touch might contaminate him, the Chimer deposited the pair of gauntlets into its receptacle with a little more force than was necessary. But the action paid off—there was a third rumble from above, followed quickly by a deep crunch as something shifted in the rocks above, and the turning of many massive gears.
Solyn suspected he needed to stand clear—whatever was up there sounded rather large, and rather unstable on top of it. He blinked, for only an instant, and then he was at the edge of the Reliquary, having teleported to a safe distance from the Tools.
And he was right to do so; the next moment, the middle of the ceiling caved in on where he'd previously been standing, revealing a smooth, dome-like shape the size of a canton carved into the rock. That dome was fast descending, supported by a massive cylinder of metal and stone. The earthen contraption hit the central platform with a massive crunching noise—but it did not break; it went with the impact, drawing the endless tube of rock down with it into some unknown depth. Solyn noted that there was not a single gap between the cylinder and the space where the platform had once been.
Finally, the descent of the stone mechanism slowed, and finally stopped—and the Chimer was intrigued to see that on top of all this, the cylinder was hollow: an archway, just wide and thin enough to fit a fairly grown person, had actually been carved inside the solid rock, and wound around its axis like the thread of a screw.
Instinctively, Solyn knew what he had to do. He retrieved the three Tools from their places, and put them back in his robe. "Leave me," he instructed his ash spawn, and pointed to the one with the Aetherium pickaxe. "Return to the Cathedral. Begin your excavations there. Extract as much as you can within the hour, and deliver it to me."
Solyn then took Volendrung and Spellbreaker from the other ash spawn. "Take half of the converted miners, and have them assist in the Cathedral," he ordered it. "You will take the rest to reactivate the workshops inside the Animunculory. Direct every automaton inside the citadel to the Reliquary and stand by. Be thorough, but do not delay."
The ash spawn were slow to salute, but salute they did, and they soon departed from the Reliquary, leaving Solyn to make his way down to whatever laid below this lowest level of Rkund. The Chimer was fascinated indeed by this development—none of the plans within the city had mentioned a mechanism quite like this. Had they been lost to time, reduced to dust? Or had the dwarves foolishly believed they could circumvent the designs of his father?
He entered the spiraling staircase, and immediately he felt a searing wind on his face, a result of pressure from the heat of whatever was down here. Now that it had an outlet after being sealed away all this time, that hot air was now forcing its way through the staircase. The torches lining the stairs were blown out by the blast of heated air, and so Solyn was forced to conjure a mage-light to float in front of his face, illuminating the path ahead as he continued his descent.
The golden elf sensed that it did not matter, however; after a minute or so of walking, he could see a light at the tunnel—orange and burning. The heat was unbearable, and only the sheer power of curiosity allowed Solyn to power on through.
When he saw what awaited him at the bottom of the staircase, he was glad he did. As he took in the sight of what lay in front of him, he realized that he had been wrong this whole time. This staircase, and what it led to, had never been a creation of the dwarves. Once again, Solyn had underestimated the creativity and ingenuity of Dagoth Ur.
Unable to form words at the surprise before his golden eyes, the Chimer's shock gave way to joy, and soon, Dagoth Solyn was laughing. Not the cackle of a mortal drunk with power, but something with more good cheer to it, as if he'd just been told a long-winded joke with a punch line that paid for itself and more. Or perhaps more accurately, he'd had a friendly card game—if one with rather high stakes—against one of his brethren; whether he'd won or lost that game, it didn't matter anymore.
Because Dagoth Ur had just assured his son from the grave that four thousand years of exile were about to pay off.
Thank you, Father …
Winterhold
All was quiet in the Arcaneum. Even Urag was surprisingly silent, only pausing to sniff every now and again as he sat there at his desk, doing absolutely nothing but staring off into blank space.
Vinye wished desperately he would say something—that anyone would say something to break this uncomfortable silence. It had been a whole day since she, Cosette, and Malys had seen Grimnir in his room upstairs, and since then, none of the three had mustered up the will to even speak, so numb were they from the shock of recent events.
For that, at least, Vinye could not blame anyone. Thirty-one people had died in this attack, she'd been told. That included the guards, two instructors—one of whom was the Master Wizard of the College—and four students who'd been a little slow in getting to safety from the first wave. This was a crushing blow in itself, but everyone now knew that their own Arch-Mage—the Dragonborn, of all people—was out of commission for Divines only knew how long. There would be funeral proceedings, of course—but until Grimnir had recovered, they would have to wait.
Malys was hardly even paying attention to the dog-eared book in her lap. The vampire turned the worn pages listlessly, her yellow eyes seeing without really seeing anything. Cosette, like Urag, wasn't doing anything at all—simply staring at the bookshelves in front of her as though she was expecting them to burst into flame.
"I can't believe the Dragonborn's our Arch-Mage," Cosette said finally. Her eyes flickered briefly to Vinye. "Did you know this whole time?"
The elf nodded. "Since that dragon attack," she replied. "I didn't have time to get inside to safety—but I remember seeing him fight that dragon, plain as day." She still remembered hearing the sound of Grimnir snapping its neck.
If Cosette had a reply to that, she did not voice it. The Breton chewed her tongue for a few seconds longer, then returned to staring at the walls.
Silence reigned for some of the longest minutes Vinye had ever experienced—until finally, Cosette tore her eyes away with a groan. "We can't just sit here!" she burst out. "We've got to do something about this!"
Malys did not look up from her book. "What can we do?" she retorted bitterly. "Solyn's trail has gone completely cold. We have no idea where he is! We don't even know what he's after! And even if we do find out, what are we going to do about it?! The Dragonborn is the only hope we have at taking him on—and he swatted us away like flies!"
"It's not hard to guess where he's gone," said Vinye quietly, hollowly. "He already has all three Tools. Most likely he went back to Rkund—those carvings on the stone tables, remember? Solyn needs them for something—maybe the Tools, they're … keys, to open some other door? I don't know." She huffed.
"They were more than that," Malys told her. "Kagrenac created the Tools because he wanted to access the power of the Heart of Lorkhan as well, so that every single Dwemer could be like the gods. Keys to the key, if you want to put it that … way … "
The vampire suddenly paled, and stood up very suddenly, as if she'd just been told a close relative had passed away.
"That's what he's after." Malys' eyes were wide open in shock. "Solyn is trying to find the Heart of Lorkhan! So many people have used the Tools to draw its power into themselves, make themselves into gods—Kagrenac, Dagoth Ur, the Tribunal—!"
"What are you getting at?" Cosette interrupted. "I thought the Heart was lost when the Nerevarine destroyed it, right? Isn't that what happened?"
"When I stole Keening," answered Malys, "Grimnir told me the Heart of Lorkhan was only removed from the world—he never said it was destroyed. I don't think the heart of a god is something you can completely destroy—even a dead one." She leaned in close to Cosette and Vinye. "What if Solyn figured that out, too? If Kagrenac's Tools can draw power from the Heart … then maybe it could draw the whole thing back to our reality!"
It was Vinye's turn to blanch. "Malys, I don't think it stops there," she said, her voice shaky. "What did Dagoth Ur intend to do with the Heart of Lorkhan? He didn't just want to draw its power, right?"
Malys nodded numbly—yes, Vinye guessed, she did indeed know.
"Akulakhan," said the Dunmer. "The Second Numidium. But he couldn't possibly have what he needs to—where are you going?!"
For Vinye had already sprung from her chair, making for the stairs and her quarters in the Hall of Attainment. Her mind had already been made up, even as Malys had confirmed her worst fears.
"We have to stop Solyn," Vinye told them resolutely. "If he does manage to reconstitute the Heart of Lorkhan, he really will have everything he needs. He'll have the power of a god at his fingertips, a thousand-foot-tall animunculus at his beck and call, and who only knows what else."
"Just like Tiber Septim did," said Cosette in shock, as the gravity of the situation finally sunk in for her.
"Exactly," Vinye said. "Only this time, I don't think Solyn will settle for being Emperor of Tamriel. He wants more—but we're not going to let that happen."
"And how exactly are we going to go about that?" protested Cosette. "I might be hotheaded most of the time, but even I know when I'm in over my head. And right now, we are so far in over our heads that we might as well be in Peryite's Pits! And trust me, I know what it's like being in Peryite's Pits," she added.
"Cozy's right, Vinye." The Altmer knew Malys was trying to be reassuring, but right now, the vampire was just wasting time and breath. "There's no way we can do this alone—we have to have some kind of help for this!"
"We've gone it alone before," Vinye said flatly. "We've all been inside Dwarven ruins at least once—on our own—and we survived. Even the Dragonborn can't claim that," she said as an afterthought.
Cosette's mouth was half-open. "Is that what this is about?" she asked incredulously. "Just because he turned us all down—you want to send us to certain death just to spite him?"
Vinye said nothing. Truthfully, she wasn't sure how to answer that question. Her more vindictive side wanted to say that yes, that was the case—now was her chance to prove herself; all her failures at those institutions in Cyrodiil, whether or not they were caused by the intrigue and ineptitude of her colleagues there, had merely been practice for this one moment. She truly believed that she had the power and the knowledge to make this work.
But her mind still went back to the Dragonborn, lying above them in his bed, being attended to by the remaining senior wizards of the College, along with more arcane methods that none of the three mages could fully grasp.
She huffed again. For all the Altmer cared, the Dragonborn could stay there. If he wants the world to grow up, she thought bitterly, then he can watch from his bed.
"I don't know abut spiting him," she answered Cosette. "But it's high time I proved myself to him. Don't you all have something to prove yourselves?
"You've wanted to be strong, Cosette, for … whatever reason or another," she said to the Breton, before turning to Malys. "What about you? Don't you have any stake in this?"
The vampire sighed, and stretched her arms with a grunt. "That depends on your point of view," Malys remarked, cracking her neck despite repeated winces from Cosette. "I already think I'm pretty strong. I've learned about magic I never knew existed these last few weeks—never mind that that magic was apparently in me the whole time," she added under her breath, so Urag could not hear.
The Dunmer set her split jaw. "But I know more than any of you about what we're going up against. Solyn is what my people used to be, in the old days. That means he knows magic that nobody in the last three eras could even begin to master."
"Are you trying to dissuade me again, Malys?" Vinye asked. "I'm already going."
"And he and I have a score to settle—don't forget that," added Cosette, as she toyed with one of her Forsworn swords.
Malys rolled her glowing eyes. "I wasn't going to," she shrugged, cracking her knuckles—again Cosette winced with each successive pop. "I just want to make sure you two don't rush in when we see that bastard again."
Cosette made what Vinye assumed was her idea of a winning smile. It was not a pretty sight. "Me? Never," she said, baring her teeth. "I want him to see me first."
"Then let's get going," said Vinye, standing up from her chair. "We'll pack everything our bags can fit. Clear out the student stocks if you have to—I have a feeling we're going to need every last potion we can spare. But don't take too long—the more time we take getting to Rkund, the more chance we'll be handing Solyn the world on a silver platter."
There was silent agreement from both Malys and Cosette. All three mages wasted no time in hurrying for the Hall of Attainment as if the local wolves were snapping at their heels.
None of them heard Urag chuckle to himself as they departed the Arcaneum.
"Didn't even have to say a word this time, Arch-Mage," the Orc said half to himself, before picking up one of the many ancient tomes lining his desk and opening it without another word.
Grimnir Torn-Skull continued to lay in his bed, only half-aware of the world around him. Dark, formless shapes moved through what little of his vision he retained. Slowly but surely, the slurry of potion trickling down his throat was beginning to take effect.
Within his dreams, he saw shadow and blood. The seas were no longer of water, but of flames that rose ever higher, roaring with the voice of gods and chasing him through the valleys of Skyrim as if they had a mind of their own. As Grimnir ran through the dream world, he saw many things, and many places and people as well.
He saw Riverwood and Whiterun consumed in hellfire in the time it took to blink. Sky Haven Temple, the mountain fortress of the Blades, crumbled like a child's sand castle. Even Winterhold, College and all, did not escape this apocalypse; the magic encircling the cliffsides failed, and the entire town was swallowed up in fire and death.
And finally, as he ran to the highest ground of all—the Throat of the World—in an attempt to escape the flames, High Hrothgar, the monastery of the Greybeards, exploded with the force of a bomb before it, too, was consumed.
All the while, Grimnir heard the same word, over and over in his mind like a battle chant, shaking the earth with every ragged breath he heaved, and every step that fell on the snow:
"Tahrovin! Tahrovin! Tahrovin! Tahrovin!"
He saw the gravestone where Paarthurnax made his roost, worn smooth by the wind and snow, and the passage of uncountable years. But there was no one else here today—no other men, no other dragons—and in this dream of his, Grimnir knew why.
"Tahrovin! Tahrovin! Tahrovin! Tahrovin!"
The single word grew louder, until Grimnir's ears threatened to bleed from the din. The flames were now higher than ever. They had cornered him, here—he was right where they wanted him to be.
"Tahrovin! Tahrovin! TAHROVIN! TAHROVIN!"
As the chanting reached a crescendo, the earth suddenly gave a mighty heave, and Grimnir was sent sprawling into the melting snow. With great effort, he saw the sky with his single eye—brown and thick, almost like rocks instead of clouds. The Arch-Mage chanced a look behind him, and saw that the mountaintop had been displaced, blasted into dust by sheer force of will.
In its place, he beheld a shimmering dragon, larger by far than any he had ever seen in his life. Its eyes burned ice blue, and its golden scales roared with the same fire that now encircled Grimnir. The air around it was like a great Dwarven furnace.
"Meyz nu Tahrovin,"rumbled the dragon. "Dahmaan daar rok!"
Flaming wings the size of High Hrothgar unfurled, sending fiery gusts in all directions, and knocking Grimnir to his feet once again. He screamed in pain as his back hit the earth—but he did not hit the snow this time; he did not even his the rough rock below it.
No, the rock beneath his back was smooth, shaped not by time and nature, but by men and their tools. Slowly, the Arch-Mage clambered to his feet, and saw that the scene of his surroundings had changed.
The golden dragon had disappeared from Grimnir's sight, replaced by yet more of the flat surface. Around him, the fire that had once circled the Throat of the World was still there, but now it was mixed with jagged rocks, and bubbled and hissed like a foul brew. Above him, the sky was no longer a sky, but a solid mass of brown rock dotted with stalactites that could either pierce even a man like him. And the smooth rock at his feet … Grimnir knew what he would find even before he saw the remainder of the platform, and the hundred-foot-wide circle of golden filigree that lined it—for only the Dwemer were such masters of craftsmanship, especially in the deep places of the world.
Grimnir had no memory of this place—he had never visited a place so deep beneath the surface in his life. So what was he doing here? He wondered, for only a moment, if he had been abducted—but the thought was impossible! He would have known if an intruder was in Winterhold, never mind his private chambers, even if—
Don't get up, Dragonborn, a familiar voice suddenly whispered in his mind. You've been through a lot—make yourself comfortable.
Grimnir growled under his breath. Now it all made sense: it was an illusion, no more real than his dream from before. He had been caught in this elaborate trap in his sleep, when he was at his weakest.
But while this answered one question, it had raised so many others—and Grimnir doubted that the person who had called him here would be willing to answer any of them.
You've got a lot of nerve to say that, Solyn, the Arch-Mage shot back, seeing as you were the cause behind all this death and destruction. He aimed his retort at nowhere in particular; the elf was nowhere to be seen.
I wonder about that, the elf laughed. I've already seen what can happen when a dragon breaks its leash. You've been lucky thus far, I'll admit … though I wonder how much longer it will be before your power comes at the cost of innocent blood, hmm?
Grimnir did not like that tone of voice. Why am I here, Solyn? Changing the train of thought was all he could do to avoid losing his temper at this elf.
I wanted to show you something, Solyn replied, a gift from my father—his last and greatest gift to the last of House Dagoth. Do you see it yet?
Grimnir scanned the area around him in a long, wide circle, but could find nothing but giant pillars of rock, rising and sinking into the endless lake of magma. Several of the stalactites above him shifted in their position, crumbling into the molten mass, and Grimnir could barely make out the rounded edges of pipes high above him. He willed his single eye to look directly above him, and he saw a smooth expanse of rock and golden metal. This platform he'd been transported to must have come from there, he noted, as he saw a perfectly circular hole in the exact center of this ceiling.
What am I looking at?
Nothing, came the reply. You are looking at nothing at all. But if you had my vision, Dragonborn, you would be looking at everything you could ever ask for. That is the gift my father has given to me.
What? Grimnir was confused, and his patience was wearing thin. Why do you continue to talk in riddles, Solyn?
He felt a brief sensation of annoyance from the unseen elf. Because you lack vision, Dragonborn, he replied. You are an instrument of ruin and death. That is all you have ever known in your brief life as a living legend. Is that how you want to be remembered, Dragonborn—as a destroyer? Or would you become something more, as I have—a creator … a god?
Countless eternities bloomed and faded in Grimnir's mind before he realized he could not think of any real answer. It was in a dragon's nature to rule, to have dominion—what form that dragon took, whether skin and bone or scale and bone, did not change this simple fact.
What, indeed, had he created as Dragonborn? He had saved the world, yes—but he had destroyed Alduin to do so. And he had saved the world again, several times over—but there, too, he had destroyed. He had killed men, elves, dragons, and even another of his own kind to become the living legend he was now. Even his mastery of the Thu'um—though he could apply it in ways that no one, Tongue or dragon, had ever dreamed of before—was not his own design. He had merely learned the Rotmulaag, the Words of Power that made up the Thu'um, and had been taught to Shout by the Greybeards.
But none of this had ever been Grimnir's doing. He had never truly created …
"Dov wahlaan fah rel," Paarthurnax had told him once. "We were made to dominate—and for no other purpose. The will to seek power is in our blood. I have overcome my nature only through meditation and long study of the Way of the Voice. But no day goes by where I am not tempted to return to my inborn nature."
Grimnir had remembered asking, "If you did, would you consider yourself evil? Would you consider all the Jarls and High Kings of Skyrim evil, along with the Emperors of Tamriel? What of the other rulers—the Manes of Elsweyr, the Councilors of Morrowind, anyone who has ever desired power—should they be evil, too?"
"Suleyk fen du unslaad," the ancient dragon had replied. "Power corrupts. Jul and dov alike will always desire more of it. I do not wish to. Zu'u ni ov."
And then Grimnir had asked, "What if I was one of them?"
Without waiting for a reply, he had shown Paarthurnax the new Shout he had learned—the same Shout he would later show to Faralda on that fateful night in the Sea of Ghosts—and through the golden light and swirling haze of magic, through that black mist of unquenchable hunger, he had seen Paarthurnax' eyes for only a moment.
The sadness in those rheumy eyes, nearly blind from cataracts and age, was enough to break the Dragonborn's hold. Grimnir had left the Monahven, then, without speaking another word to Paarthurnax.
They had not spoken since …
… I am as my father made me, Grimnir eventually responded, remembering the first words that the grandmaster of the Greybeards had spoken to him all those years ago. That is enough.
Solyn did not seem fazed, for good or ill, by the lack of an answer. It matters not, he said dismissively. What you see before you is the space to make my imagination—my father's imagination—become reality. Watch now, Grimnir Torn-Skull. From this lowest fire of Nirn, I will do what none of the Dragonborn ever could—not even you.
The earth rumbled, and several of the smaller stalactites were dislodged into the magma. An unquantifiable mass of golden metal surged from the ceiling of the cave, and Grimnir saw numerous pipes, boilers, pistons and vents of every shape and size imaginable floating through the air and towards the platform on which he stood. The clamor of stone on metal and metal against metal was deafening.
And yet, Solyn's voice still somehow managed to drown out the din.
I will sweep away the last remnants of the old Empire, and the fledgling Stormcloaks with them. I will unite my shattered children, the dark elves, in their rightful place in Morrowind once again, and drive their oppressors back to the Marsh from whence they came. The peoples and nations of Nirn—the Four Tribes of Akavir, and even the kingdoms of Thras and the Maormer—will look to my father's standard once more.
The thousands of components swirled around the dais, but even as Grimnir watched, the entire mass of metal began to coagulate into more complex mechanisms, whose purpose he could not discern. Knowing what he knew, though, Grimnir guessed it wasn't anything good—and Solyn's next declaration confirmed it.
I will create a new world.
The pits of rock and lava shrank away from his vision, and Grimnir felt his mind rushing back into its mortal shell, still supine under the covers, crammed with glassware and being force-fed yet more of that foul-tasting potion.
The Nord's mind was racing after seeing a wider scope of Solyn's power and potential. There was no doubt in his mind that he was fully capable of accomplishing quite a bit on that particular list. Not having traveled to Thras or Akavir, he could not be certain of this, but thus far, everything seemed to be possible as far as Solyn was concerned.
But that did not matter to Grimnir now. Right now, nothing mattered to him at all—except for one thing.
In spite of his recurring nightmare—in spite of Solyn's condescension and goading—the Arch-Mage knew that both he and this elf were in the wrong. There was one thing he had created; a force that he had been creating for years, ever since he had learned he was Dragonborn.
Grimnir had seen that force in action with the people he had encountered throughout the world in the short time since—with the city of Whiterun, where he had mounted a dragon for the first time in his life; with the Greybeards, who had recognized him as Dragonborn as they had the likes of Ysmir Wulfharth and Tiber Septim; and even with the Blades, who had seen in him a spark that had nearly been snuffed out by the endless, relentless gambits of the Thalmor.
It was this force that was guiding Grimnir's body upwards, out of his bed, sending glass bottles both full and empty of potion to the floor. He no longer needed them—he felt rejuvenated now, younger, and even stronger.
He yanked the sheet from his body, and his scarred face and single eye stared back at Faralda and Colette, who had leapt to their feet at his awakening. J'zargo and Phinis, too, were alert at this unexpected turn of events. But in them, he could see a sense of uncertainty. He wondered briefly if they doubted him—he had doubted his own self once, a long time ago.
But Faralda was speaking, and so the Arch-Mage put his thoughts to rest.
"W-what are you doing?" the Altmer stammered out. "You can't rush yourself, Grimnir—you need to take this slowly! Even you aren't invincible, and you're certainly not young, either!"
"I certainly feel like I am," said Grimnir coolly, sliding the rusted iron mask of the dragon priest Hevnoraak over his face. The enchantments on that artifact, which the former master of the tomb-city Valthume had used in his plot to become an all-powerful lich, instantly nullified the pain he felt from the injuries he had sustained—both in his fight with Solyn's ash spawn, and those he'd sustained over the course of his life. They could still heal, but they would not suffer any further damage as long as he was wearing this mask.
Now, Grimnir truly did feel like he was at the peak of his prime.
"Where are those three mages you sent for?" he asked. "I need to see them again, now!"
No one spoke for a long while. " … They're gone, Arch-Mage," Colette said nervously. "You've been out for two days. They left for Rkund at the first light of dawn—yesterday."
Grimnir stayed absolutely still for five whole seconds while he processed this information. He bit his tongue, holding back his curses, before he finally spoke. "All right. This changes things. I need to get to them before they can get to Rkund." He was speaking to himself more than to everyone else. "It's mid-evening now … if they left this morning … that ought to put them somewhere in Eastmarch right now … possibly Kynesgrove … "
"I'll send for a courier," Phinis chimed in as the Arch-Mage continued to mutter to himself. "Maybe they can tell us how far along they are. With any luck, they could find our mages before you do."
"No, they won't." Grimnir was already donning his robe, and rummaging in the trunk at the foot of his bed for several more personal effects. "Couriers might cover a wider area, but they're still too slow. Speed is crucial here—if I don't have that, then there's nothing more I can do. There's only one way I can get to them quickly."
He emerged from the chest holding a long, elaborately carved staff that made Faralda's jaw drop. Grimnir could read the expression of disbelief all over her face. She knew he only used that staff in circumstances that even the Dragonborn considered dire. In his mind, this situation certainly fit all the qualifications.
"Faralda, you have the College until I return," Grimnir told the Altmer. He sighed. "It would seem the world hasn't seen enough of me yet."
He tipped an informal salute at everyone present, and then he made for the stairs that led to the top of the College—though not before hearing Faralda tell the others to put their fingers in their ears.
As he ascended to the top of the College, Grimnir recalled the words of an old Nordic song he'd started hearing a few years ago, shortly after the news had broken of his defeat of the dragon Mirmulnir. He hadn't much cared for it—Grimnir had never been particular to the sounds of music throughout his life, whether by the lute or the minstrel.
And yet, some part of him could not resist singing the words under his breath, as he stood in the chilly air of Winterhold:
"For the darkness has passed,
And the legend yet grows.
You'll know, you'll know the Dragonborn's come … "
An hour after discovering the vast lake of lava and turning it into the equivalent of his own personal sandbox, Dagoth Solyn was still smiling. The ash spawn he had tasked to excavate the materials he desired in the Cathedral had returned to him—and each of the full dozen or so carried a large chunk of it in their rocky hands.
It would do—for a start.
The other group of ash spawn had been doing their jobs quite admirably as well, he thought. He hadn't sent them out for half an hour before the first of the rumblings echoed through the citadel. Some of them had been lost under the ensuing debris, unfortunately, but that had been to be expected. It was best that that work was done with something more … expendable than a four-thousand-year-old elf.
The Chimer bade the ash spawn deposit it all inside his new contraption, and one by one, they fed it all to the machine. It would take time before the forge was hot enough to properly work it all. And Solyn knew from his conversation with Grimnir, on the other side of the province, that he was due to respond very soon—if he hadn't already.
Yet he could already see what he wanted to create next with his spoils. He had drawn plans, and made the adequate measurements. And Kagrenac's Tools still had one more part to play, he thought; even Volendrung and Spellbreaker would be useful as well. Solyn had been itching to delve into those particular pieces especially; he'd always wanted to see what made a Daedric artifact tick.
But there was still the issue of time.
Which was why Solyn decided it was time to try out this particular spell. It was not the most advanced of its kind, nor would it have the widest effect—on at least one occasion, the Dwemer had used it on an entire city, not merely a fortress such as this. But it would provide an effective stopgap, and certainly slow down anything that the College of Winterhold intended to throw back at him.
He raised his hands, and knelt on one knee within the center of the immensely complex rune he had spent the last thirty minutes inscribing. "I am that is, always was, and always will be," he chanted. Purplish-blue magicka spilled from his fingers, then his hands, until finally his whole arms were burning with it.
"I invoke in the name of my ancestors, and for revenge!" he shouted. "Let this invocation prove my dedication and my worth to the lost House of Dagoth!"
The wave of magicka that had been building up inside him finally exploded. As it radiated from his body, Solyn thought he saw the ash spawn move in blurs for a few moments before the spell washed over them, too.
It was not a perfect casting, not by any stretch of the imagination—much less Solyn's. But it would suffice; at the very least, it would provide him enough time to set his affairs in order before the Arch-Mage inevitably came to call.
For a moment, the Chimer almost regretted using the miners to make more of his ash spawn. Perhaps then he might have had someone to talk to while he worked—ash spawn could be dutiful enough, and certainly understood orders, but his constructs sadly lacked the social grace to make more proper conversation.
Then again, Solyn had spent more than three thousand years inside what was almost certainly the most secluded plane of reality in all of Aurbis. Any period of loneliness in Rkund would be a light nap compared to what he had endured in the Outer Realms.
And speaking of … Solyn suddenly found himself very tired. He'd been busy these past few weeks, he was aware—he'd expended a lot of energy and magicka in a short timespan, and even being thousands of years older than most of the population of Tamriel didn't mean that even his own body didn't answer its own mortal nature.
He knew he would have enough time … yes, his spell would make sure of that. And the ash spawn would continue to do his bidding; they were truly tireless, and had no need for sleep.
Therefore, Solyn spread out his hands, and bid some of his ash come forth. Brown clouds swirled around him—large enough to wrap around his frame, and dense enough to support it. The Chimer let himself fall back into their embrace, and let himself drift off to sleep with a satisfied smile.
He had all the time in the world now …
Kynesgrove
"I told you we should have stopped in Windhelm," Vinye grumbled as they left the Braidwood Inn. It was morning, and they'd been making good enough time to where the Altmer had called for a rest break here last night. "Trust an innkeeper to have enough potions to make an apothecary set for life, I think not!"
"It's not my fault they'd have me in irons just for looking at them the wrong way!" Cosette protested.
"And it's not my fault that they have no respect for my life choices," Malys chimed in, only for Cosette to scoff back at her.
"I'm pretty sure some of those choices were your fault, Malys," muttered the Breton. "It didn't sound like you chose to be a vampire."
"Not what I was talking about," said the Dunmer airily.
But Vinye would have none of it. "We'll have to head to Riften again," she said, raising her voice just slightly to where she could head off the banter between Malys and Cosette. "Maybe this guild war within the walls has toned down enough to where we can actually enter the city limits for a change. Barring that, maybe some of the shopkeepers are taking their business outside the city walls."
"And what about actually getting to Rkund?" Cosette asked her. "I'm not climbing any more mountains—and just because I'm undead doesn't mean I want to meet any necromancers, either. So Darklight Tower, or … whatever that place is called, is out of the question."
"We could find a mercenary," mused Malys. "Someone who knows the lay of the land well. Actually, I think Mzulft isn't too far away. Let's head inside there for a bit," she suggested, "see if there's anything more we can scrounge up and turn into septims?"
Vinye considered this, and felt it was as good an idea as any—a mercenary meant they might have some measure of help against Solyn—or at least, a marginally better chance of survival.
Unfortunately, the dark shape falling from the sky didn't seem to share her reservations.
She only became aware of it at the shadow spreading on the ground under their feet. Cosette and Malys saw this, too, and immediately they whirled towards the Velothi mountain range, where the sun would normally glint off the mountaintops like great, jagged blades in the midst of war.
Except right now, something black and formless was blocking the sun, and getting larger and larger with each passing second. Then, one shadow suddenly became three, one on each side of the original shadow. Vinye stood there in abject confusion, wondering what in the world could cause a shadow like that.
Then it hit her. Those weren't separate shadows at all; they all belonged to the same shape … a shape that a suddenly horrified Vinye now recognized as wings—giant, leathery wings.
Oh, no.
By the time she'd made the connection, the dragon had already flapped its wings once—causing a miniature microburst that sent the mages sprawling to the road. Then, it dived straight down—and landed mere feet away from them with the force of a hundred giants' footsteps.
Cosette and Malys scrabbled away from the great beast, and its attention was focused solely on Vinye now. The Altmer was well aware that her robes had been soiled from within now—this was the closest she'd ever come to facing a member of the nigh invincible species, and there was absolutely no way she would survive to see another one. Vinye curled up into a ball, not daring to open her eyes, not wanting to make her imminent death any more painful than it had to be—and why had it not killed her yet?!
Slowly, Vinye peeked out from one eye, and beheld the monster in much greater detail than she'd ever seen any other dragon up to this point—blood red with eyes the color of charcoal, a narrow snout wreathed in horns as long as her arm, and lined with spines taller than the mage sitting astride it—
Vinye blinked. Something was wrong with that picture.
She looked again.
The mage was still sitting on top of the dragon.
Something was still wrong with that picture.
But she did not care—she knew how that her eyes had not been seeing things, and suddenly she was almost beside herself in a special kind of laughter that drew a thin line between relief and insanity. Malys and Cosette, on the other hand, were beside themselves with anger at the scene before them, too distracted to notice Vinye's laughter.
For astride the spikiest dragon she had ever seen was Grimnir Torn-Skull—iron mask and all—holding onto the horns of the beast as if they were the reins of a horse. An ancient-looking staff was slung over his shoulder, and he stared down at the mages with what could have been any of a million different expressions.
Vinye did not care about that.
The Dragonborn had come.
"W-what are you doing here?" She found it very difficult to form words.
Grimnir did not immediately respond. "Dragons like to hoard treasure," he said softly, almost inaudible over the breathing of the dragon beneath him. "They like to take, but very rarely do they like to give.
"I was too harsh with you, the last time we met," Grimnir went on. "I let the Dragonborn do the talking for me. But you can say what you want—for all my magic, I'm not here as the Dragonborn today. I'm here as Arch-Mage of Winterhold right now."
Cosette, for once, was totally silent. Malys was left to ask her own question. "Does that mean you're helping us after all?"
"I've only been able to create one thing in my life," Grimnir said in reply. "Everything else, I've only learned through destruction and ruin. But if I can be here, with you, I know I can create that one thing—and I think that could be the one thing that helps take Solyn down for good this time."
Cosette looked skeptical. "And what thing is that?" she asked.
Vinye thought it looked as though the iron mask was seeing right through the Breton. "I can create hope," said Grimnir. "Hope for you, hope for the College, for Skyrim … perhaps even hope for the world."
"Then let's do it," said Malys, "before this world gets ground under Solyn's boot." Cosette nodded—though past experience, along with the way she gripped her Forsworn blades, told Vinye that the Culler still had revenge for being robbed of Taron's execution on the brain.
But just as quickly as she nodded, the Breton suddenly looked mortified. "No. No, we can't be going that way."
Vinye was confused. What did Cosette mean by "that way"?
Then she noticed the way she was looking at the dragon—and realization hit the Altmer almost at the same time as her stomach hit the roof of her throat. There was no way Grimnir was thinking what she was thinking, was there?
… Was there?!
"Time is of the essence," Grimnir told them, shifting forward a little and showing more of the dragon's scaly neck. "If we want to find Solyn in time, then you're all going to have to climb on. Besides," he added—and Vinye was certain he was smiling under that mask—, "We should all experience at least one thrill of a lifetime in our lives, shouldn't we?"
Cosette looked as if she wanted to object. Malys looked a little apprehensive herself. But before Vinye and the others could say anything, Grimnir had clicked his fingers, and the three mages found themselves lifted bodily into the air by the Arch-Mage's magic. Vinye felt a brief period of weightlessness—as if she was suspended in a sphere of water, breathable like air, before feeling the rigidness of the dragon's spines pushing against her chest and back.
Looking forward and back, she saw Malys and Cosette wedged onto the great beast's back in a similar manner. The audacity of the situation was so great that for a moment, Vinye forgot where she actually was, and what she was doing.
She was actually about to ride a dragon.
Her worst fear was right under her lap … and she was using it as a glorified carriage service. It was almost enough to laugh out loud at how absurd this was.
It was more than enough, however, to make her dizzy—but before her vision could go spotty or gray, Grimnir had already remounted his dragon, and Vinye dragged herself back to reality just in time to hear what he was saying.
"All right, Odahviing," Grimnir said. The massive crimson dragon tensed beneath them, and somewhere within her fogged-up mind, Vinye guessed that "Odahviing" must be its name. "We make for the Jeralls, and the Dwarven ruins there. Amativ! Bo med venneserah!"
"Geh, thuri," Odahviing rumbled, in a voice so deep that Vinye's bones shook to the marrow. "Keizaal saraan! Huzrah, aarre—mu fen koraav Taazokaan med nunon dovahhe!"
"What?" Cosette and Malys traded looks of confusion. Vinye, however, was beginning to feel very apprehensive—and the laugh that Grimnir and Odahviing shared did not help matters in the slightest.
"He says to hold on tight." The Altmer swore that Grimnir was grinning like a lunatic under his mask.
That was the last cogent thought in Vinye's head before Odahviing released a bellowing roar that nearly destroyed her eardrums. Then, without any other preamble, the dragon's wings flapped once—and his spiked bulk was launched upwards into the sky as if by Auriel himself, hurtling due south for the ruins of Rkund.
Next chapter: Solyn has been busy—and even with Grimnir by their side, the mages will face their toughest trial yet just to get to the Chimer.
A/N: Bit of a breather chapter this time around, but we're on the home stretch now—just a few more chapters to go (knock on wood)!
Off to bed now—I feel like I need to sleep for a week after all this. Review and recommend if you so desire, and I hope you enjoy! - K