Something is growling in the darkness ahead. The voice is too deep for a rat, the footsteps too heavy for a goblin. And it reeks. Choking on the stench, I fumble around in the pouch for a strip of cloth large enough to tie over my mouth and nose. Thus insulated, I lift my sword and proceed slowly, putting on a much braver face than I felt.
Zombie!
Decaying flesh, festering wounds leaking some putrescent green fluid, unnatural vocalizations emanating from partially exposed vocal cords, all bound together and animated by the foulest of dark magic. What courage I had mustered evaporates instantly. I cry out and stumble back, sword lashing out blindly. The shambling monstrosity turns toward me and increases its pace as whatever passes for brains inside its barely-attached skull registers my presence.
Recovering my footing, I drop the torch and fumble my shield into position just in time to deflect a sideswipe that would have taken my head off. The blade of my sword makes contact, severing the zombie's outstretched hand. It barely notices. I leap back to avoid the spray of green fluid issuing from the wound; I don't know what it is, but I don't think it would be good for my complexion.
How do you kill something that's already dead? It has no blood to spill. Its internal organs are useless and irrelevant, if it has any at all. Normal flesh is not very flammable, and I have neither the time nor means to determine whether this would be any easier to burn. However, as my sword takes off another chunk of flesh, it occurs to me that even something as nightmarish as a zombie can't be much of a threat if it's in little tiny pieces.
My sword flies as if of its own accord, hacking and slashing at anything within reach. My teeth clench as metal grinds against bone; my stomach turns as the rancid green fluid fouls the air further. My skill with a blade, questionable even at its prime, has decayed along with the rest of me. However, this monster is slow and stupid. Whether through superior speed, panic-driven determination, or blind luck, it's not too long before I'm standing over a pile of foul-smelling, still-twitching mincemeat. I stare down numbly at the remains for a few moments, then turn to the wall and hastily pull off the makeshift mask as my stomach finally rebels and rids itself of my lunch.
What in the name of Molag Bal's bloody manhood is a zombie doing down here? What have I gotten myself into – and, more importantly, how can I get out of it? This had seemed so simple at first – oh look it's the emperor, oh look it's an escape route, oh look it's a Sithis-sucking abomination! Maybe I should turn back. Prison really isn't that bad, certainly preferable to being enslaved by a necromancer. Steady meals, protection from monsters, Dreth mocking every breath I take for the rest of my life…
Dreth.
I can't go back. I've already sworn on the skull of my unknown predecessor to bathe in that son-of-a-whore's blood, and I don't want to let What's-His-Name down, do I?
The adrenaline from the fight has faded, and I'm exhausted. I feel like I've been down here for ages, although realistically, it can't have been more than an hour. I press the skull's forehead against my own, take a deep breath, renew my oath, draw strength from my anger. Won't go back, can't stay here, nowhere to go but forward. As I wipe the vile fluid from my blade, it occurs to me that I might be able to avenge the poor n'wah I just butchered – whose bits and pieces were still twitching, I notice with a shudder – by finding and punishing to necromancer who cursed him. At least it's something to look forward to.
Another goblin. Alive this time. He's small, weak, and very drunk, merrily belting out some rowdy goblin shanty. I don't speak much goblin, but I can make out a few words – something about a young Khajiiti maiden, a powerful goblin chieftain, and a lot of flying fur, although I can't quite tell whether the chieftain is mounting her or eating her. Or both.
He's so drunk that I don't even need to be cautious as I come up behind him and cut his throat. There's nothing of value in the area – a skewered rat roasting over a fire, lots of ale, and some mushrooms I'm not brave enough to touch. The goblin seems to have been snacking on them, but they can eat just about anything (or rather, they will eat just about anything, whether they can or not), thus giving me exactly no confidence in my own ability to stomach them. However, the rat is seasoned and tender, far superior to my own desperate attempt, which has run out by now anyway. I refill both belly and pouch, down an ale, and grab two more for the road. I've never been much of a drinker – someone with as obvious a weakness as mine has to keep their wits about them, especially among the Dunmer – but I've found no water sources down here, and thirst kills far quicker than hunger.
I make my way through the caves, picking up speed as my confidence grows. I see no sign of further undead, only rats and goblins. Mowing my way through the vermin, it occurs to me that the goblins have not been here long; goblins expand their warrens as needed to accommodate their staggering birth rate, and these caves are too linear and empty to have been occupied for any real length of time.
Did I say empty? Not empty enough. I peer cautiously around a bend in the passageway into a massive cavern, bustling with a couple dozen goblins, clearly the bulk of the tribe. These are bigger and stronger than the ones I've killed already, but still smaller than those my village used to hunt for sport. Probably outcasts, too weak to be accepted into goblin society. Unfortunately, no matter how weak they are, they're far too numerous for me to handle. The matriarch in particular makes me nervous; she's on the far side of the cavern, directly between me and the only other exit, tending some kind of altar and carrying a totem staff – the mark of a spellcaster. Gods be damned, I can't handle a spellcaster! I'm still sore from that zombie, which, come to think of it, this shaman probably created.
My chest tightens at the thought of becoming that monster's successor. I douse my torch in the dirt, retreat into the darkness of the passageway, press my back against the wall, and let myself hyperventilate until the resulting dizziness calms me down.
My ears twitch at the sound of approaching footsteps. Still slightly dazed, I withdraw further and crouch behind a rock outcrop. Shortly, a couple of goblins stumble into view. They come far enough into the passageway to be out of sight of the main cavern, and begin fornicating noisily against the wall. Interesting – even a race as savage and bestial as goblins feel the need to remove themselves from public view before mounting each other. I wonder what that says about sexual taboos; perhaps there's a level of shame inherent in all intelligent races, no matter how low that intelligence may be. Perhaps a race cannot be considered properly intelligent until it develops that shame. Perhaps the goblins are merely trying to appear more intelligent than they are by mimicking their betters.
My sword slices through their absurdly thin throats, cleanly decapitating them both in one swing. The male's head rolls onto my boot; I give it a brutal kick. It hits the wall and breaks open with a satisfying squish. Two down, two dozen to go.