A/N: Goneld's "less than human" statement is a reflection of his prejudices, not necessarily the view of the author (or the lore).

Chapter 17

"Worthless fools!"

The Kynmarcher of the Citadel of Crushing Burdens paced the platform of his sigil chamber, swearing at the red floor beneath his boots. His kynreeves stood around him, allowing plenty of space and staying out of his way. He was less likely to slay them at random than some other Citadel lords might have been, but that didn't mean it had never happened.

The one whom he thought of as the least useless shook her head. She brushed a speck of rock dust from her black robe. "I did suggest that it would have been better to go yourself." She had to raise her voice slightly to be heard over the hum of the sigil stone. The glowing orb hovered over the platform a few yards from them, showering yellow sparks around it.

"Be silent, krynvelhat bitch," said the Kynmarcher. "Lest I rip out your guts and strangle you with them."

"Yes, Milord," said the kynreeve smugly. He knew she believed he would not do any such thing. She'd gone well out of her way to prove herself both a useful subordinate and unambitious enough not to pose a threat to his rule, which was to say she would inform on her fellow kynreeves in a heartbeat if there was any breath of conspiracy. This meant the other kynreeves hated her passionately, but most of them were also bright enough to let her do the talking. Her name was Ghatha.

"And you, Zalacath," said the Kynmarcher, waving at another one. "Go set a watch for when Belteshazzar and that useless kynval reincarnate. Then kill them again. Twice."

"Yes, Milord," said the kynreeve, and turned with alacrity to descend the membranous ramp down to the next level.

"There may yet be a way to recover the Sleeper," said Ghatha.

"Is that so?" said the Kynmarcher. He stopped pacing and turned to glare at her. "For your sake, it had better be more effective than your last idea. Now I have two citadels to police and not enough kynvals with which to do it, at least until some of the maggots from Natural Disaster reincarnate and make up their minds to change clans."

"Not soon enough," said Ghatha. "My Lord knows that the Bent Axe clan is watching us, and has been for some time. If we appear weakened they will no doubt find it possible to convince the Bleeding Eyes to join them."

"Of course I know it," snarled the Kynmarcher. "And how do you intend to recover a Sleeper who has gone to Nirn, foolish kynreeve? You cannot open a gate to go after her. Not after the Great Closing."

"No, Lord," said Ghatha. "But I can reach into the Void to summon. Every magus in your service can do so."

"The Sleeper is not in the Void," said the Kynmarcher.

"But she is," said Ghatha. She looked at him sideways from a crimson eye. "No Sleeper ever fully leaves it. It is the source of much of their power, and all of their weakness."

"And how do you know this?" demanded the Lord of Crushing Burdens.

"I have pursued my own researches," said Ghatha. "And my Lord will recall that we tortured to death one or two of the mages from Natural Disaster upon their reincarnation."

"Ah, yes. The early returners." The Kynmarcher showed his teeth, ever so briefly. "But you had better be right this time, kynreeve. Or you will be viewing the Voidstreams from a much more intimate vantage. Is that clear?"

---

They had made camp for the night in the shade of some tall pine trees, and Goneld was finishing a late supper of charred giant rat, when the Sleeper made a choked sound. Menien tossed the remains of his drumstick into the fire and wiped his fingers on his fur greaves. He'd made a sort of pallet of collected boughs for Merodach to put her on, and then had to explain why that was a good idea up here – apparently there weren't ground-dwelling insects in Oblivion.

Sodrinye made the noise again, but more quietly. Goneld eyed her warily, trying to decide whether to call the big Dremora. This dilemma resolved itself quickly as the Sleeper flopped one arm around, found leverage against the ground, and pushed herself into a sitting position. It took him a moment to realize she was breathing hard. For one thing, her robe was loose, and for another, "breathing hard" for the Sleeper was very close to "breathing normally" for any other Dremora.

"Nightmare?" said Goneld.

For a moment he thought she hadn't heard him. Then she turned her head slowly, fixing him with a half-blind stare across the low fire. "No," she said. Her dual voice had a peculiar echo, for just a second, and then the impression of suppressed panic died away. She went on in her usual thin monotone. "I have spoken with Drurinye."

"How?" said Goneld.

Sodrinye leaned back on her elbows. "She is a Sleeper," she said, as if that were any explanation.

"Can you reach the ones in Oblivion, too?" said Goneld.

"Not easily," said Sodrinye. "The place we would meet is large, and they are nearer to the other side of it than to this one. And I would not wish to do so. Most are in the position I was in when Ebel-Merodach found me, or worse. They are owned. To find them is to be found by those who own them."

"It's not as if they can easily come after you here," said Goneld. "Is it?" He heard Ebel-Merodach's heavy footstep approaching from his right, and turned to see the caitiff step into the small clearing where they had set up camp. They were a full hundred yards off the road, the fire sheltered by the boles of tall trees.

"Not easily," said Ebel-Merodach. "That does not mean it cannot be done. A Sleeper is a prize to be grasped at for one in the position of a Kynmarcher."

"So I gathered," said Goneld.

"Have you seen anything, loathsome one?" Merodach demanded of Sodrinye. He came forward to squat next to the fire.

"No," said Sodrinye. "Nor will for a little while yet."

"How long?" said Goneld.

"I cannot tell," said Sodrinye.

"You are not much good to us without vision," said Ebel-Merodach. "Merely a very heavy weight."

"You are strong," Sodrinye said dryly. "And I cannot recover my power until I recover my strength. Bring me another life. A white soul, which cannot draw me after it." She lay back heavily and closed her eyes. Goneld and Ebel-Merodach looked at each other.

"I'm guessing she doesn't mean another rat," said Goneld. Ebel-Merodach shook his head.

"Too small," he said. "Were we in Dagon's plane I would look for an atronach or a daedroth."

"Hm," said Goneld. "Something more than animal, less than human?"

"Less than kyn, yes," said Merodach.

"All right," said Goneld. He nudged the fire with one foot. "Not many ogres in this part of the country. Tomorrow we'll start looking for a spriggan."

---

There had been a few new faces in the Chapel at Bruma recently. The deaths of several priests in the ruin of Anga, some of them from Bruma, had left vacancies in that sanctuary.

One of those newcomers had been Laure, of course.

One had been a pretty young Bosmeri, who had not lasted long on account of a lateral career change into the service of Dibella. (But that is a longer story which is told elsewhere.)

And one...

One was Marcus Barnabus. Marcus was a broad-shouldered young Imperial of graceful mien, with a quiet way to him and an entirely forgettable face. He was good with a blade. This was not unusual among the more dedicated servants of Arkay. He did, however, have unusually good hearing for his race – and a certain facility for quietly creeping up next to closed doors.

Marcus wasn't quite sure exactly who or what Brother Varen was, but the older priest had always seemed to have good intentions. So it disappointed and disturbed him when he heard Tychicus Varen speaking to the young Breton about invaders from Hell. It disturbed him even more that Varen did not apparently have any intention of informing anyone about this incursion of Oblivion, despite the fact that it threatened a breech in the precious barrier between planes.

He sent off his report as quickly as he could, but he was still a little behind them starting out that early morning. That was all right. He knew where they were going; Tychicus Varen had mentioned the ruin of Sercen. This was just as well, because Marcus did not care to follow them closely. Varen's unusual percipience was well known, and it had been his own stroke of luck that Tychicus appeared to have suffered some insult to his precognitive facility at the time Marcus had overheard them talking.

His orders caught up with him on the East side of the City some days later. Another hard young Imperial caught up with him as well. He brought along an older Argonian whom Marcus did not know.

"Wonderful," said the newcomer now. "Four of us against a demon army."

"Not an army," Marcus corrected mildly. "At least, Tychicus Varen doesn't think so."

"Either way," said the man, whose name was Lybiad. He looked very much like Marcus physically, which wasn't surprising – the Emperor's Blades, after all, had to be inconspicuous – but was inclined to be a little more talkative. "You ever fought Dremora, Marcus?"

"Yes," said Marcus. "At the big gate."

"Then you know they fight like madmen," said Lybiad, apparently unimpressed by this record. Marcus, gauging the parallel scars trailing down his neck toward his collar, suspected he had not come from the direction of the Imperial City merely by accident. He was probably there the day Akatosh came down. "And they're not easy to creep up on, not even in that armor they wear."

"I know," said Marcus. "We don't have to be close. Just close enough to see what's there and get out again."

"This one likes it not," said the Argonian, speaking for the first time. He paced just outside the light of their small fire, and Marcus glimpsed the shadow of his tail as it swung to and fro. "This thing you gave me – are you sure it belonged to this priest?"

"Very sure," said Marcus. "I cut it from his spare robe."

"It does not smell right," muttered the Argonian.

"If you can't follow it, speak up," said Lybiad. "No point in us walking all the way to Sercen if we're stopped dead right there."

"Follow it, yes," said the Argonian. "This one could scent out a shadow crossing a rock. But this one is not sure what you find at the end of the trail will be an Imperial priest."

"It doesn't matter," said Marcus. "We'll go and we'll look, and we'll report back. If there's a real threat, we'll have a squad down from the City in half a tick."

"You know that's not how it works," said Lybiad quietly. He and Marcus looked at each other.

"Yes," said Marcus. "I know." We're going to be far out of civilization. Not even a squad of Blades can get from the City to Sercen soon enough to do any good, if Varen's little group of demons is going to try and open a gate. We'll have to put an end to it ourselves, or die trying.

He listened to the Argonian make another lap around the fire. He had no doubts about his ability to use the crystal ball in his small knapsack. Divination was an uncertain skill, even for simple communication rather than precognition, but it was a very necessary one for a field agent. "I'd rather we didn't have to do anything final about the girl," Marcus said eventually.

"She's complicit," said Lybiad. "At the very least."

"She's not nineteen yet, and she's just doing what an elder priest tells her to do," said Marcus. "She probably thinks she's on some grand mission for Arkay." He shot Lybiad a wry glance. "Anyway, it's not our decision to make. Maybe all we will have to do is send off our signal and leave."

"Yeah," said Lybiad. "And maybe Tracks-Too-Well will sprout wings and fly away."

"This one wishes he could," said the Argonian.