I
Ravam Verethi couldn't see a thing.
The damned fog had only gotten worse as the morning progressed, he thought—it should have cleared up hours ago! The heavy mist had swallowed up Guthrum within minutes of his disembarking the Sea Squall, and the Dunmer wondered if it was even possible to see the water around him with how much thicker it was getting.
The n'wah's going to be sailing blind on his way back, he thought, if he doesn't come back soon. The shoals to the north of the bay that Dawnstar encircled were dangerous for any ship that made port here, big or small. The occasional stray iceberg was just another hazard to be worried about—but this damned fog was the most sinister force a sailor could ask for, because it would mean running the risk of running aground, on either shoals or ice.
Neither was particularly appealing to Ravam, who was beginning to pity Guthrum for his lot in life today—but not as much as he pitied his own self. He was freezing, sodden with sea spray, and miserable. Most of it was on the part of Captain Wayfinder, who'd pulled rank not ten minutes after Guthrum had cast off, leaving Ravam the sole sailor on board to take the lookout post.
He groaned. What point is there of standing watch, he wondered irritably, when there's nothing out there to watch out for?
Then, suddenly, he spotted something within the clouds—a small, grayish-brown dot in the water, fast approaching the bay. A few seconds later, Ravam realized that dot was Guthrum and his rowboat, but he immediately noticed two things strange about the sight. Firstly, the old Nord was paddling much faster than Ravam would have believed his ancient body was capable of doing.
Secondly, and more importantly at present, there wasn't a single fish to be seen in the boat.
Ravam groaned again. Captain's not going to like this, he thought, making his way astern, where Wayfinder was seated on a barrel studying his charts. The Dunmer didn't know if Wayfinder would like this at all, of course, but Ravam was the more experienced sailor of the two—and right now, Ravam was furious at his shipmate.
"Guthrum's on his way back, Captain," he said sotto voce to Wayfinder, whose rusty hair was all Ravam could see behind the unfolded map.
"I don't like your tone of voice, Ravam," Captain Leif Wayfinder grunted back at him. "And I'm guessing that means I'm not going to like what Guthrum brought back, am I right?"
Ravam laughed in a hollow, bleak sort of way. "I'm guessing so," he replied.
Wayfinder heaved himself upward with a groan, sliding his charts under the plate of cold, sodden flatbread that constituted his breakfast. "Wonderful. Can I trust you to hold me back if I try to kill him?"
The Dunmer laughed bitterly again. "Depending on what he has to say," he said under his breath, mumbling a quick prayer to the Reclamations under his breath, "I might kill him first."
Guthrum, meanwhile, hadn't felt his arms begin to ache until he turned back to see that he was well within sight of the Sea Squall, and it was only then that he stopped his frantic rowing.
It had not been an easy journey back. Twice he'd almost run aground in the shoals, every now and again stealing glances at the old temple where he'd first seen the specter of the White Widow. And every time he paddled his oars, he could feel his empty nets brushing at his legs, taunting him every other moment that they hadn't been filled with a single catch.
He could only imagine how Ravam and the Captain would take this unfortunate news. No fish meant no provisions, no provisions meant no casting off, and that meant being stuck here for far longer than any of them wanted to be.
But as far as Guthrum was concerned, that didn't matter to him anymore. He had to warn the Captain—no, all of Dawnstar. Something about the sight he had seen in the northern seas was chilling him to the bone, and it wasn't just the cold and the rime.
The White Widow had appeared to him, far off upon the temple. This Guthrum would dare not dispute—he knew what he saw, and he saw what he knew. He had heard her song—beautiful, lilting, and ghostly—and this alone was enough to convince him that the experience had not been concocted by his imagination.
As for the ship he had seen … Guthrum was a sailor, and being a sailor often meant ascribing to some of the stranger lores and superstitions that traveled the northern coasts of Skyrim, along with its many merchant ships. Plenty of shipwrecks littered those coasts … and sailors were far too often quick to ascribe the blame to a cause more supernatural than mere bad weather.
The legend of the White Widow had never stayed the same—Guthrum's tale to Ravam this morning had only been its latest, most recent iteration. Other, more outlandish claims had dominated the history of this myth; over the course of time, the specter had been anything from a wispmother, a rare but deadly spirit, to the ghost of a vengeful Falmer, one of the ice-elves of the elder days. All they had in common was an apparent power to command the seas to their will, and using that power to wipe out anyone who had the misfortune to look this spirit in the eye.
Guthrum was beginning to wonder if he'd seen that power on display now. His bad luck at finding even a single fish was easy enough to explain—they'd sensed the spirit just like he had, heard his song through the water, and fled. Out of fear or self-preservation, Guthrum could not tell, and neither did he want to know—he wasn't a fish, after all, and he wasn't about to ask the court wizard of Dawnstar to solve that particular conundrum, either.
Besides, Guthrum was certain that the song he had been hearing wasn't truly meant to scare anything away—but to call something else toward it instead. That ship, for the brief moment his eyes had seen it, looked as though it had been through the Deadlands, the Quagmire, and several realms of Oblivion that Guthrum dared not imagine. The timber of the hull looked weatherworn; the sails patched, frayed, and punctured—completely at odds with how any seaworthy ship ought to look!
And then it had hit him that the White Widow's song might have been something more than a song … a message, sent across the wind and waves for anyone to hear its mysterious words … and that ship had responded.
Guthrum was distracted from his thoughts when he finally saw the Sea Squall come up alongside, out of the corner of his eye. He quickly shipped oars, and grasped out blindly at one of the shields that lined the port side of the vessel so as to steady himself.
His hand never got that far. Before Guthrum knew it, a hand had clamped down upon his wrist, and hauled him bodily off the boat and onto the ship, depositing him unceremoniously onto the deck of the ship. He swore at the top of his voice as a sharp pain flared up in his back, and looked up—
—only to sink back into the deck at the murderous expression of Captain Wayfinder.
"Two hours you were out there," the young captain snarled at him. "Two hours, you were supposed to be catching fish for the hold! And what do I find in your nets? Nothing! Not even seaweed!"
Guthrum, stunned by the tirade from Wayfinder, saw Ravam Verethi behind him—but there was no mercy to be found in the Dunmer's eyes. He was clearly just as angry as their captain.
"You had better give me a good explanation why your nets are as empty as they were when I sent you out to fill them up," Wayfinder said. "And you had better impress me, Guthrum."
The old sailor gulped. What was there to say? "I-I tried, sir," he wheezed out, doing his best to ignore the stinging sensations that still plagued his back. The salty air did nothing to dull the pain. "I must have c-cast my nets for a whole mile around—b-but I didn't get a single one! Not even a bite!"
"Impossible." Wayfinder's face was stony. "This should be perfect fishing weather."
"T-that's what I thought, too, C-captain," stammered Guthrum as he slowly tried to regain command of his voice. "I thought the fog would bring them all out—but nothing! I t-told Ravam I didn't want to go out there—t-told him it'd be a waste of t-time—"
The captain whirled on Ravam, who snorted. "Guthrum said something about the White Widow conjuring all this fog," he said with a dirty glare at the Nord. "I figured he was just speaking more tall tales you Nords like to talk about—no offense," he added hastily at Wayfinder's expression. "I told him he was talking bilge."
Wayfinder's frown deepened, creasing his brow even further. "What's this about a White Widow?"
"I heard her sing!" Guthrum shouted out, before Ravam could get a word in edgewise, and jeopardize his position further still. "I saw her, plain as day, on the top of Nightcaller Temple! White dress fluttering in the winds, voice singing to the seas—it's an omen, Captain! She's bewitched the fish—she's calling the ship with her song!"
"Guthrum, man, listen to sense!" Wayfinder bellowed. "There is nothing at Nightcaller Temple. The place is bewitched. I don't care what that priest of Mara said—no one in their right mind would ever go to that ruin!"
But Guthrum wasn't listening. "I saw her!" he repeated, now mere inches from his captain's face, blowing spittle into Wayfinder's rusty hair. "My eyes are sharper than any sailor on the northern coast, Captain. I swear on the Nine that what I'm saying is true!"
"What ship is this, anyhow? More to the point, why would any ship make port here?" Ravam wanted to know, still very skeptical of Guthrum's account. "The lighthouses either side of this town would've let it know this bay was full. Dawnstar can't handle more than one merchant ship—and right now, we're aboard that one merchant ship!"
"He's right," said Wayfinder. "You're not impressing me with this story of yours so far, friend." He emphasized the last word in a tone that, at the moment, suggested anything but. "Besides, Ravam and I didn't hear a single bit of singing on deck. If this so-called 'White Widow' was at Nightcaller like you say, Ravam would have seen her, and I'd have heard her as well."
"What—?" But even before he whirled towards the summit of the temple, Guthrum already knew what he would find. The half-collapsed tower showed no speck of fluttering white gossamer. The old sailor did not even bother to angle his ears towards Nightcaller; he already knew that the song had vanished into the wind, along with its singer.
"We didn't see a thing," Ravam confirmed upon Guthrum's pleading look, "and we didn't hear a thing, either."
The dark elf sighed, shaking his head in pity as he turned to Wayfinder. "Captain, I'm thinking he's starting to get delirious. We've been stuck in this blasted puddle for too long, and I think it's starting to change Guthrum. He's been away from the sea too long—it's all he really seems to know. We'll send him out later today with more nets—maybe the fog just isn't making them bite right now. We'll see how well we fare with a clearer sky."
Wayfinder seemed to agree—but Guthrum was having none of it. "I told you," he growled at Ravam. "It's not the fog, it's that Daedra-forsaken ship!" He thumbed over his shoulder at the oppressive fog. "I'm going to keep on saying this until I—get back here!" he cried, for Wayfinder and Ravam had turned away from him with disgusted sighs, returning to their duties as if Guthrum did not exist.
"I'm trying to tell you we're all in danger here!" Guthrum barged in front of the Dunmer as he was about to climb up the Sea Squall's single mast and inspect its sail. "Damn it all—why won't you listen to me?!"
At that point, the frustration that had been building up inside Guthrum all morning finally boiled over. As Ravam moved to shove him aside and climb up the mast, the old Nord blocked Ravam's arm.
And punched him in the face.
The impact of flesh against flesh seemed to echo all throughout Dawnstar, dense fog be damned, and within seconds of his actions Guthrum had noticed that the ship had suddenly gone very quiet, and his hand was starting to ache. He saw Ravam writhing on the deck and cursing, a torrent of blood flowing from his shattered nose—
Guthrum stepped back instinctively as the thunderous face of Captain Wayfinder filled his vision completely. His stomach seemed to dissolve on the spot, and he felt nausea clench at his insides as he awaited Wayfinder's judgment.
"Guard!"
A nearby Stormcloak soldier, faceless under his helm, marched up the gangplank and across the deck to Wayfinder, who immediately pointed at the luckless Guthrum. "Lock this man up for assault and dereliction of duty. I'll come back for him on the morrow—if I'm feeling generous," Wayfinder added with a venomous glare at the old Nord.
Guthrum had no time to argue before a powerful hand seized him by the shoulder. "All right, sailor," rumbled the guard through his mask. "Just come with me, nice and easy."
But Guthrum wasn't going to resign himself to his fate just yet. "That ship is still out there!" he called back to Wayfinder as he helped Ravam to his feet. "My eyes haven't failed me yet—I know what I saw!
"It's coming for us!" he cried, as the inexorable force of the guard took a tighter hold on his shoulder, wrenching him forward and away from the Captain. "I'll stake it on the Eight if I have to—that ship is heading straight for Dawnstar!"
He tried to spin round for a final retort, but the guard had quickly tired of his shouting. Guthrum felt a dull blow to his stomach, and the old sailor immediately collapsed upon the guard's fist, bent double and coughing as the wind was driven completely out of him.
"That'll be enough of that," groused the soldier. "You have anything else to say?"
Guthrum was too busy coughing and wheezing to reply. It hurt to even breathe, and he felt his eyes begin to water as the pain throbbed through his body.
"That's what I thought," said the guard, frog-marching him toward the town barracks, where lay the town jail. It was rarely used except for the odd charge of drunken or disorderly conduct, and even then, most offenders didn't stay for much longer than a day.
But Guthrum was too preoccupied about this silver lining to care too much—he was still too busy coughing.
The scene did not go unnoticed by a few pairs of eyes in Dawnstar proper. One of those pairs belonged to Rustleif, looking rather less dingy than might be expected of the town blacksmith. But though his eyes never left the sight of the sailor being dragged away, he paid the altercation no further mind, as he had other matters to attend to.
After Captain Jod, Jarl Skald's housecarl, had showed up on his front door earlier this morning, telling him to expect his charge within the hour, Rustleif had immediately set about cleaning up his own person and as much of the forge he could spare with the remainder.
Skald, however, had laughed off the grimy appearance when he'd arrived. "I'd be more worried about how my sword was going if I didn't see you black with soot," the old codger had remarked with a gruff laugh. "The dirtier a blacksmith works, the harder he works, that's what I always say.
"Now," the Jarl said with a phlegmy cough as he turned his attention to the business at hand, "how're things coming along with the sword?"
Rustleif indicated the length of metal in his slack tub. "I'm still working on shaping the blade," he explained. "Would've been farther along, but I had to grab some coal from Iron-Breaker mine to feed the fires. I was on my last bag, and Seren isn't able to help out today, so progress is slightly behind where I was expecting to be."
Skald made a noncommittal "hmm." "Something the matter with the baby?" he asked.
The blacksmith shook his head, as he placed the nascent blade back in his forge. "No—some sort of cultural observation," Rustleif said as he began to work the bellows. "Today's the Day of Shame over in Hammerfell. You know how she is about celebrating Redguard tradition."
Another "hmm." "This is Skyrim," sniffed Skald. "People want to live here, they ought to pay more attention to our culture—show it a little more respect. The Empire didn't have a lot of respect for the Nine, and look where it got them! She wants to live her life like one of them Alik'r, she can go and join them," he huffed under his breath.
Rustleif had heard, and though he was used to his Jarl being a staunch supporter of the Stormcloaks, that didn't mean he never took umbrage with his more inflammatory statements in the past. "We do have a daughter, you know," he said dryly to the ruler of the Pale, striking the molten blade with his hammer upon the blackened anvil. "And while she's doing her best to raise Makela a much a Redguard as she is, I'm doing my best to raise her just as much a Nord as I am at the same time." He thumped a fist to his chest. "She'll be a damn fine warrior, old man," he added proudly.
Skald's eyes were still sharp enough to notice the glare with which Rustleif had fixed him. Fortunately, it seemed, he was also keen enough to know when to recognize defeat. "I've no doubt she will, friend," he said. "I just hope we'll be at peace by the time that happens. I don't like the times we have ahead of us."
Rustleif barely caught the last words, having placed the sizzling swordblade back in his slack tub to cool at that moment. "After everything that happened in Solitude last year … that necromancer attack … the Emperor dead … Ulfric dead … "
He blinked, and Rustleif was surprised to see a bit of wetness forming on the old codger's eyes. The two men were too far away for it to be a stray bit of sea spray, either. But Rustleif did not acknowledge the rare showing of sentiment from his lord any further, only nodding and saying, "Aye. Hell of a way to go, the way Ulfric did.
"At least he went down fighting," he added grimly. "A true son of Skyrim couldn't ask for more than that."
Skald said nothing, but merely nodded solemnly.
Rustleif, in an effort to break the sudden melancholy mood, got up at that point to feed more coals to his fire. On the return trip, he saw it. The clouds of oppressive fog to the north had opened up briefly, just for an instant, and the brief clarity allowed his roving eyes a split-second view of the shoals beyond the bay, and the icebergs beyond that.
Alongside a particularly large iceberg, far off in the distance, was a dark-red shape—not a big one; Rustleif could cover it by putting his thumb at arm's length from his face. But a quick scan of the horizon, before it was once again swallowed up by the heavy mist, told him that that burgundy shape was likely a ship—and a fair-size one, too. Nothing quite like the Katariah, of course—the Emperor's opulent vessel that still lay anchored in the delta of the River Karth, as dead as its crew and charge—but a fairly large ship regardless.
Skald had seen Rustleif scanning the horizon, and now had turned in the same direction—though he had turned too late: the apparition had vanished as quickly as it had come. "What is it?" the Jarl inquired sharply.
Rustleif frowned at the closing clouds of mist, but shook his head at length. "Nothing, milord," he shrugged, tossing his coal in the forge after a long while. "Saw something out to the north for a moment, but it's gone now—fog's covered it all up. Looked like some kind of ship. Dark red sails, too, unless my eyes were playing tricks on me."
Skald snorted; a loud, rude noise. "Don't know why any ship would want to make berth in this puddle of bilge," he grunted. "Only ship that ever seems to is old Wayfinder's, and seeing as he's sent his own crew to the jail just now, I don't think the Sea Squall's going to be hauling anchor any time soon."
Meaning the bay was full enough already, Rustleif thought—and that ship had looked a damn sight bigger than the Sea Squall. It'd be better off making port in Solitude or Windhelm.
"I should be getting back to the longhouse," Skald finally said, hauling his ancient frame to his feet with some difficulty. "Maybe I'll have Jod take a couple men up to the temple as lookouts, see what they can see through this damned fog. We'll see about that ship then. I'll come back later in the afternoon."
Rustleif nodded to show his comprehension as he busied himself with the hammer once again, applying somewhat more force than might be necessary in order to drive the split-second image of what he had just seen out of his head.
But even so, he could not stop himself from checking the coastline every few seconds, wondering if the sight he had seen was really an illusion after all.
Unbeknownst to either Skald or Rustleif, however, two more pairs of ears had overheard their conversation.
One of them was much too young to understand the ramifications of the muffled tones, but Seren had understood them well enough—and Rustleif's claim of seeing something in the Sea of Ghosts had set off icy shivers of fear down her spine.
—some kind of ship—dark red sails—
It can't be! she'd thought, heart racing as she pulled her ear away from the wall, Makela's dirty clothes cast aside to the floor. Makela herself was still nursing, her loud, noisy sucks filling the tiny bedroom. But both of these things had been driven from Seren's mind completely.
It's been almost a millennium since then—could it really have survived all this time at sea?
Rustleif had often said Seren had a good head on her shoulders. As worried as she was about raising their daughter according to the traditions of both husband and wife, she was also worried about the stability of their family. Neither deferred to the other more than was necessary, balancing out the housework whenever possible, and doing their own part to raise Makela well.
And right now, Seren was very much concerned for the family she and Rustleif had been working so hard to raise. For like every proud Redguard, she had a very good idea about what her husband had seen just now—what Skald had failed to see. Her only hope was that it was too far away to cause any harm to Dawnstar—or barring that, far enough away that there might yet be time to avert the worst of the suffering to come.
I have to be quick, she thought as she hurried out of the room as fast as she could while still nursing Makela. I've got to warn someone—anyone! But that simply invited the first question—who would come?
And the even tougher question—would they have what it took to save this town from possible danger?
Seren's first, obvious choice was the Last Dragonborn. The legendary hero of Skyrim, who had saved all of existence from the dragon Alduin three years ago, would surely know how to deal with such a threat—except for the fact that no one in Skyrim knew how to contact him. The new High King and the mages of Winterhold were his closest confidants, but even they were unable—or, she suspected, unwilling—to divulge his whereabouts.
According to hearsay around town, the Dragonborn had last been sighted boarding a ship in Windhelm about nine months ago. From there, no one could agree on where he was, and Seren had been forced to accept that the man could be anywhere in Tamriel right now—perhaps even beyond, on a whole other continent of Nirn!
Trying to contact him would be folly, she reluctantly decided—which meant that her other options had to be much closer to hand. That left only one realistic choice … but again, Seren was not willing to make that journey. It would take too much time to get there, she knew—by the time she came back with help, there might not be a Dawnstar left to save!
And then there was her family. For only a moment, Seren had pondered the thought of breaking tradition and leaving her house today, if only to deliver her message personally. But she would not abandon her family. Even if she took Makela with her, that still left Rustleif to mind the home and hearth. Taking him with her—while it would ensure the safety of her family—would also mean Dawnstar would be minus one of their most important citizens.
She had made her decision then: she would stay, and do everything she could to protect her loving husband and precious daughter. But matter how she looked at it, the truth was clear to her: This town is on its own.
No one is going to help us—unless.
She found a quill and parchment, and quickly scrawled out a brief message—six words, nothing more. Short and to the point—enough to surely provide some measure of help, and hopefully enough of it to survive.
She was fortunate to finish at that point, because Rustleif tromped in just as she'd finished sealing the message into a tight scroll. "Oh, thank Tava," she sighed out in relief when she saw him. "Rustleif, I need you to take this to Frorkmar at the White Hall. Tell him he's to deliver it to High King Varulf right now."
Frorkmar Banner-Torn was in charge of the Stormcloak forces in the Pale. With the Civil War now ended, his military role had been largely diminished, but he was still close enough to the High King that he was the best person in the city to deliver Seren's message.
Rustleif, meanwhile, looked bewildered, and Seren couldn't blame him. Here she was, standing in her nightclothes with a baby still hanging from her breast, looking frightened out of her wits for no apparent reason.
But there was no time to explain reason—time was something Dawnstar did not have to spare. "Just do it!" she nearly shouted at him, thrusting the scroll into his dingy hands. "Please! This needs to reach the High King now!"
Rustleif took a step backward at this abnormal behavior, and quickly held up his hands in placation. "All right, all right!" he said, alarmed, and ducked out of the house as quickly as he'd come in.
Seren suddenly felt overwhelmed by the outburst, and slumped into a chair while Makela continued to happily guzzle. The Redguard felt exhausted—but not exhausted enough to drive all else from her mind. She had played her part—but she sensed somehow that the troubles were just beginning.
She glanced down at Makela, and smiled down at her. "It's okay, little warrior," she whispered at her daughter. "I'll take care of you."
I'll take care of all of us, she thought, as bravely as she could muster, of this entire town if I have to.
I have to.
Rustleif made for the Jarl's longhouse at a steady clip, still flustered about how his wife had just acted. Seren was scared of something, that much was clear to him—but about what?
His mind wandered to the ship he'd seen in the sea, and he pondered if perhaps that had been what spooked her so. She had mentioned something about a ship in that story she'd told him this morning, about the Day of Shame. But just as quickly, the more sensible part of his mind had squashed that train of thought under its heel. Ships couldn't last a thousand years at sea, to say nothing of actually sailing on them! The seawater and wind would rot the timber, and erode the rest. Nothing would be left behind after a thousand years on the open ocean.
That's all it was, he decided—mind was playing tricks on me.
But even so, Rustleif had been married to Seren long enough that she wouldn't simply let this go. Besides, the longhouse was only a few paces away; turning back now would be a waste of time—time that he needed to use to get back to forging Skald's longsword. He might as well see her request through—if only just to humor her at the end of the day.
He strode into the Great Hall, ignoring the grumblings from Skald's servant Bulfrek, no doubt having to do with him tromping snow on his freshly washed floor again. Rustleif darted down a door on the left, which he recalled from memory to have served as Dawnstar's "war room" for the better part of the last three years.
The man beneath the armored bear pelt was its only other occupant, and he looked rather put out. Not having another war to fight at present had obviously bored Frorkmar Banner-Torn; the Stormcloak commander nearly leapt out of his seat when he saw Rustleif, the mere town blacksmith, come into his haunt with what he obviously perceived as a Stormcloak courier's sense of urgency.
"Rustleif! What can I do for you, friend?" Having forged most of the swords that the Stormcloaks had supplied to their fighters in the pale, Rustleif's name was a familiar one to them—even if the blacksmith had never taken any particular side in the civil war.
He thrust Seren's scroll in Frorkmar's direction. "My wife wants this delivered to the High King immediately."
Frorkmar frowned. "Your wife? What does she want to say to the Harbinger? Surely she could come to Windhelm and speak to him personally. He's taken to holding court there since that Brunwulf fellow took over from Ulfric."
Rustleif shrugged. "I wasn't in any position to ask," he replied. "Seren was very insistent this letter found its way into Varulf's hands, and who am I to argue with my own wife?"
Frorkmar, to Rustleif's knowledge, was not a married man—but the Stormcloak's nod of understanding eventually answered that question for him. "I'll make sure Captain Jod sends out a courier immediately," he said.
Rustleif thanked him, shook his hand, and left the White Hall as soon as he had come.
As Rustleif crossed the edge of the bay back to his house, though, a sudden noise made him pause in his step. It had only been for a moment, and as quickly as it had registered, the blacksmith could only hear the whisper of the wind once again, slicing over the water's surface like millions of invisible blades.
Perhaps his ears were beginning to play tricks on him too, Rustleif decided as he resumed his course for the forge, and the formless sliver of steel that would soon be Skald's sword.
But for just that one single moment—he had sworn that he'd heard someone singing.
Meanwhile, Guthrum's situation had yet to improve. His time inside the damp, salty-smelling cells under the Dawnstar barracks had not helped to cure his inexplicable cough.
At first, he wondered if that punch he'd suffered at the hands of his guard had had anything to do with this cough. The sizable bruise on his torso did not hurt his breathing so much, but he was still coughing—and worse still, what had started off as a simple, wheezing cough had now turned into a cacophonous hacking noise that echoed off the mossy stone walls of the jail—and irked the guards to no end.
"Shut up in there!" yelled the Stormcloak opposite his cell for the third time—or had it been the fourth time? Guthrum had lost track of time completely; he had no idea how long he had been suffering in here. To him, this day was no longer being measured in hours, minutes, or seconds—but in breathes, hacks, and coughs.
And Guthrum had tried everything to stop it—but every attempt he'd made only seemed to make his situation worse. He'd tried taking a nap, hoping some rest would help with his ailment. Not only had the cough remained, but Guthrum could hardly move his body upon waking up. Even getting out of his bedroll took every last bit of energy he had—it felt as if he'd been sucked dry by a vampire. On top of that, he'd been starting to shiver, even though the guards repeatedly told him to room was as protected from the outside air of Dawnstar as it had always been. But Guthrum did not believe them, and so retreated further into his bedroll. All he wanted to do was just lay there.
All he wanted to think about was just laying there.
But as time went on, Guthrum still continued to worsen. The guards kept their distance, in spite of his moans and cries for help; perhaps they feared catching whatever he already had. Guthrum couldn't blame them—though he was grateful for the water they carefully provided him. It was brackish, and tasted like it had been pulled right from the shoreline, but it did its part to soften the searing dryness the cough had left in his mouth.
As the guards continued to rotate their posts, Guthrum could still hear snippets of conversation among the shoulders to infer what time it might be. He surmised it was getting close to sunset, now; he'd been hearing talk of dinner from the newest man on shift. This soldier had brought an extra plate of food along with Guthrum's water not long ago; it was little more than hardtack and some overripe fruit, but Guthrum would eat anything at this point if it gave him the energy to even stand up on his own power. His muscles were beginning to ache, now, and putting any weight on his body felt excruciatingly difficult. Every inch of the sailor felt like it was throbbing with pain, and it was so intense that Guthrum's eyes soon began to water, and had not stopped since.
They'd given him a bucket to relieve himself, but he could no longer do this without assistance from one of the guards, so weak was his body. He'd lost most of his control over bodily function by now; his clothes and bedroll were stained, reeking of his own sweat and waste. Sometimes Guthrum wouldn't even bother calling out to the guards to help him relieve himself; he'd just go where he was laying, too sick to care about being ashamed. His cries were feeble enough that none of them would probably hear, anyway.
As this next guard turned to make way for his replacement, Guthrum's hand slowly moved to scratch one of the wooden beams that supported his door with a shaving off the stone wall, barely larger than his own fingernail, that lined one side of his cell. One scratch, for each time the guard changed places—one scratch for every hour.
There were ten scratches on that wooden beam.
Guthrum did his best to leave his mark tonight, but the shaving was beginning to slip. This was nothing new; somewhere around the sixth or seventh scratch, his fingers had started to drop the sliver of stone on a regular basis. The sickly sailor had practically shredded the fingers on his hand through repeated attempts to pick it up, and his palms were caked with his own clotted blood.
He was halfway through etching mark number eleven when something on the back of his hand caught his eye. It was small, and a passerby might not have thought twice about it. A patch of ruddy red had appeared on the skin, grainy and densely clustered, almost like freckles. But Guthrum had never borne any freckles on his skin, not even in his childhood. This looked more like some kind of rash, though it didn't itch him one bit, which was a relief.
And yet …
Guthrum's fumbling fingers carefully rolled up his sleeve, and he felt his heart quicken as he beheld more of the grainy rash, spreading up his arm and past his elbow. This was deeply vexing, and Guthrum made for his cell door as quickly as his body would allow, intending to get the guard's attention so as to get his opinion.
He didn't get that far.
At around the third step towards the door, he felt a prickling sensation somewhere in his spine, and all at once every bit of strength that Guthrum had left to his name abandoned him. Like ripples in a still lake, the sensation radiated outward from his body, causing him to convulse. His stomach shifted violently, and the aging Nord expelled the remnants of his dinner all over the floor, startling the jailer. But that wasn't all that came with it. Rivulets of crimson liquid mixed in with the steaming, half-digested stew, and it was a long time before the frail sailor realized it was his own blood.
He'd vomited his own blood.
Even as he stared in horror at the rapidly reddening mess, he felt his eyes begin to turn red. Guthrum did not know it, but the force with which he'd thrown up had burst the blood vessels in his face. His eyes and nose were leaking blood like sieves, and the lips of his mouth were dark crimson.
To the jailer, he must have looked as though he'd stuck his face in a fresh kill.
Guthrum barely heard the guard roaring for a medic to get down here on the double—his eyes felt like they were about to burst from their sockets. The redness was beginning to turn to black, and he could no longer stand up. He pitched onto his side, feeling the continued convulsions ravage his body like a dirty sponge being wrung out. Blood continued to pool around his shivering body as his vision began to go.
And through it all, Guthrum—even as his body began to thrash about, scattering and smearing blood, digested food, and human waste everywhere, no longer able to fight back against the inevitable—was still coughing.
Next door at the Windpeak Inn, Captain Wayfinder and Ravam were halfway through their latest round of mead. Ravam, though he insisted on not keeping score, had imbibed a considerably less amount that what his captain had; the Dunmer preferred the sujamma of his homeland to a pint of the unofficial brew of Skyrim.
"What do you reckon, Captain?" he asked Wayfinder. Despite the flushed look on his face, Wayfinder had been through enough drinking contests in his younger years that he could still hear what his shipmate was saying—even with the indistinct chatter and music that filled the tavern. But that didn't mean he completely understood Ravam.
"What do you reckon?" Ravam said again, a little more clearly. "Bit of shore leave in Solstheim after this delivery? I've heard word from some of my friends in Windhelm that Raven Rock's opened up its doors again. The mines were opened back up, and the port's beginning to boom again."
Wayfinder listened with a vacant look on his face that Ravam suspected had little to do with alcohol, even before he turned around to see who or what he was looking at. Sure enough, Karita the bard was strumming at a lyre barely ten paces from their table near the doorway. Several other men were eyeing her rather more than ought to be considered proper; Ravam did not need to be near them to know they were either more drunk than Wayfinder, less adept at holding their liquor—or, more than likely, both.
The dark elf scoffed as he turned back to his distracted captain; the Dunmer had seen less clothes on more attractive women, but Morrowind was a long way away—and a long way gone from what it once was. And even he had to admit that Karita's clothing hugged her skin enough to leave very little to the imagination.
"You all right?" he asked the captain, desperate for any line of conversation.
Wayfinder, thankfully, wasn't absorbed enough in the sights or sounds of Karita that he was completely deaf to Ravam. "Oh—yeah," he grunted, before he apparently realized who he was talking to. "What's it to you?" he added, his tone more brusque than before.
"You've been quiet all day," Ravam noted—and it wasn't just because of the mead or the musician behind them, he knew. Ravam had been tactful enough not to say anything, but after watching Guthrum get hauled off to the barracks for the day, Wayfinder had barely said a single word. He'd gone back to his barrel, where his charts still rested, buried his face inside them, and had hardly moved since. Only when the Dunmer had offered to pick up his tab at the Windpeak Inn tonight had Wayfinder been motivated to leave his ship.
A woman inside the tavern began singing a song—a very beautiful one, Ravam might have thought, if he was paying any more attention to care. "Is it about Guthrum?" he asked.
Some of the ruddiness drained from Wayfinder's face at the mention of the name. "Aye," he eventually said. "Though I'm not surprised you aren't drinking to forget about it, either. He punched you, after all."
Ravam snorted. "I don't mind that," he said. "I've had me fair share of scuffles before I came aboard the Sea Squall. And I've heard tell some people in Windhelm get married after beating each other to a pulp in the tavern.
"No," he said, crossing his arms. "I'm not worried Guthrum punched me. I'm more worried about why he punched me." Upon Wayfinder's frown, he added, "These tall tales of his aren't good for morale, Captain. We're already nearing rock bottom as it is, being stuck here in Dawnstar doing this one measly route to Winterhold."
"I'm still the Captain of the ship," Wayfinder said, speaking as authoritatively as the mead would allow—which was to say, rather less than he would have liked. "I hate that I had to do it, but I needed to make an example of him."
"And I'd say he's learned his lesson by now," Ravam said. "We'll pick him up from the cells before we turn in for the night, eh? It's not like we've had to do this with him before." That was true; Guthrum, while his superstitions tended to grate at the last of the crew's nerves, had never come to blows about his beliefs with anyone before today.
Wayfinder considered this for a very long while as the unknown voice continued to sing—long enough that Ravam thought he might be busy ogling Karita again. He wondered if the shapely bard was the one behind the rather lovely song—Azura only knew Karita was probably the only one in this entire town who could carry a tune in a bucket.
Finally, Wayfinder gave a hesitant nod. "Aye," he grunted. "One last round, and we'll pay him a visit." He stood up to signal the bartender for more mead. At the same time, he raised his tankard to his lips, draining the last of his drink.
What happened next, Ravam Verethi could never have seen coming.
Wayfinder suddenly pitched forward with a gurgling moan. The tankard fell from his fingers and clattered onto the stone floor as the captain of the Sea Squall clutched his stomach, apparently in awful discomfort. Exactly what was discomforting him so became apparent almost immediately.
Ravam had no time to react. As the Dunmer moved to aid his shipmate, Wayfinder's body shuddered violently—and threw up just as abruptly, emptying his stomach of every drop of mead and bit of food he'd had over the past hour here. Half of the brownish-yellow mess ended up on a thoroughly unprepared Ravam, while the rest pooled at the captain's feet in semi-solid chunks as he let loose with a lengthy series of hacking coughs.
There was total silence at the inn. The nauseating spectacle had held everyone's attention—even the song that Ravam had been hearing had stopped. "Is he okay?" someone asked.
Fortunately, Ravam was saved from having to find out when he saw Wayfinder gingerly get to his feet. "Aye, I'm fine, I'm fine," he mumbled. "Must've been some bad meat, was all. Bad mead. Don't know."
He had to haul himself up with one hand on the edge of the table to stand up properly—and that concerned Ravam. Leif Wayfinder wasn't a strong lad, but he was a young lad, and therefore still more fit than most merchant captains had a right to be. Something was clearly bothering him, that much was clear—and it wasn't something he'd eaten.
He offered an arm to Wayfinder. The captain accepted, and Ravam bore him away rather awkwardly across the Windpeak Inn. Business was slowly starting to resume, and the patrons gradually resumed their conversation.
Karita, however, remained distinctly uneasy as she watched the two sailors take their leave. "Don't … worry," Wayfinder reassured them, although halfheartedly. "I'm not drunk, and I'm not ill. Just had some bad food."
His eyes alighted on Karita. "You're … lovely singer," he mumbled, clearly out of it. "Next time … here, I'll … pay … any song you want. Every song. Beautiful voice. Voice of Mara herself."
Karita flushed pink, but still frowned. "I'm glad you think so," she said, "but I wasn't the one who was singing. In fact, I don't think anyone in the inn was singing in all the time you two were here."
If he hadn't been otherwise occupied, Ravam might have been more confused by this unexpected news. Nevertheless, the ungainly weight on his shoulder demanded more attention, and he only had time to spare a quick apology at the young maiden before escorting Wayfinder out of the inn.
The moment the door closed behind them, Wayfinder collapsed on the stairs, and wasted no time in heaving another volley of dark sludge from his mouth. It was too dark out to make out an exact color, even through the torchlight.
"Ugh," moaned Wayfinder as he stumbled to his feet. Luckily, it looked as though his second round of vomiting had brought him to most of his senses—Ravam was too bewildered at what he had just witnessed to wonder why this was—and he began speaking more coherently from here on out.
"I guess our visit with Guthrum will have to wait for a time," Wayfinder murmured as he stood back up on wobbly legs. "I'm not feeling so good. Get me back to the Sea Squall. I'll turn in early for the night."
He did look very ashen, even in the dim glow of the torchlight, and Ravam nodded his agreement. "I'll see if I can't rouse old Frida at the Mortar and Pestle," he suggested. "Maybe she's got a cure for whatever's ailing you."
"A-aye," coughed Wayfinder, and the two slowly made their way along the shoreline, still half swallowed up by fog.
They were just about to pass Quicksilver Mine when Ravam heard it: a soft, sweet noise that carried on the wind, and might not otherwise have been registered by their ears. To any other person, it might have instilled a sense of calm, of a blissful peace with the turbulent world around them.
But to Ravam and Wayfinder, that song had a completely different meaning—for they had heard it barely minutes ago, inside the Windpeak Inn. The Dunmer was confounded; he had heard Karita say only just now that the song had not been hers to sing, nor anyone else's in the tavern! That could only mean it had come from …
Ravam felt the presence before he saw it. Every last hair on his neck was standing on end, and chills raced down his spine with every passing second that the wordless song reached his ears. Slowly, he listened on the wind, using every bit of nautical know-how at his disposal to try and pinpoint the source of the song—
There—atop Irgnir's house. Ravam's ears weren't nearly that good to have located the source of the song—as it turned out, he didn't even need them. But none of this occurred to the Dunmer as his eyes took in the faint sliver of white perched atop the thatched roof.
It was fluttering in the wind—almost as though it was wearing a …
Ravam's mouth suddenly felt very dry. No … it can't be …
Suddenly, an urgent tugging on his shoulder from Wayfinder distracted him. The Captain's eyes were wide open, fixed to a point somewhere off to the northwest. Ravam turned to follow his eyes—and again, he felt no need. He could see what had so captivated Wayfinder's attention.
The torchlight from Fruki's house was just enough to illuminate a widening gap in the fog—at long last, it was receding, dispelled as if by some invisible hand of the gods had drawn back a curtain.
Behind that curtain was a massive dark ship, easily ten times larger than the Sea Squall—and less than a hundred fathoms away. There was no sign of torchlight, or light of any kind within the vessel, and no apparent sign of life. Even from this distance, Ravam felt a chill as he looked at the ship; its sails had been reefed to protect the mast from the strong winds that howled through the Sea of Ghosts, but even from here, he could not see any sign of damage from the freezing winds and water of the far north.
The more sensible half of the Dunmer immediately made another realization as the ship slowly drew closer: the ship was too large to enter the bay; the ship would have to make berth on the shoals that separated it from the ocean beyond. This, however, did not concern the rest of him, and it certainly did not concern Wayfinder. Both men were staring wild-eyed at the sight, their faces draining of all color as the truth of the sights they'd both seen slowly began to sink in.
They whirled around on each other at the same time, unable to speak more than a few words. "Guthrum—" Wayfinder could only bring himself to speak to Ravam.
"—he wasn't lying—" was all the Dunmer could say in reply. They stood there, gobsmacked, for several moments longer as they realized what was happening.
Then, as one, they bolted for the town barracks.
Ravam got there first, even while taking his time waiting for Wayfinder to catch up; the captain was running much more slowly than he ought to be, and he was coughing every few steps he took. Perhaps his episode in the tavern had been more debilitating than he'd let on, Ravam thought.
But Wayfinder caught up to him without any further trouble, and the two advanced towards the barracks as one—
—only to be rebuffed by the guard at the door. "What are you doing here?" barked the soldier, sword in hand, its polished blade glinting in the flickering light of the sconce nearby.
Wayfinder tried to answer as best he could between panting breaths. "We—wanted—to see—Guthrum—"
The guard relaxed, and sheathed his blade, but the steely tone in his voice did not disappear. "Guthrum's dead," he said shortly.
Ravam gawked in shock, feeling as if a dull blow had just been delivered to his stomach. "W-what?" he finally spluttered. "How? When?"
"It was barely an hour ago," said the guard. "Poor sod must have taken ill—he was coughing up a storm the whole time he was here. Kept on moaning and complaining, stunk to high heaven. We did what we could, but in the end it wasn't enough. You don't want to go in there," he added warningly, for Ravam and Wayfinder had tried to head inside. "Your sailor friend didn't go quietly. Blood everywhere. He was leaking the stuff from just about every hole in his body—eyes, nose, mouth, everywhere." He gave a rare shiver.
Ravam still could not think straight—so much had happened in so little time. Strange specters, a ship from out of nowhere, and now one of their own shipmates dead—of an illness he'd shown no sign of having before today?!
"You want to be more careful about the cargo you handle in the future," the guard warned them. "Never know what kind of nasty things might be lurking in there—things what make the Rattles look like a head cold.
"We've committed what's left of your shipmate to Arkay," he said to the two men, and Ravam felt a stab of dismay at the words what's left—wondering just what had happened to Guthrum to make him suffer this fate. "All we've left to do is cremate the remains. Don't want to leave anything to chance here."
He flipped a jaunty salute to the sailors as he headed inside, then pointed at Wayfinder. "And do something about that rash while you're on your way back to your ship," he suggested. "Like try not to scratch it so much."
"Rash?"
But Ravam's eyes had already drifted downward to his captain's hands, illuminated for a split second by the bright light inside the barracks. He saw the bare skin, and the tiny spots of scarlet that peppered it, and knew.
Azura, preserve us, he thought helplessly.
Slowly, as if time itself had wound down to a crawl, he turned to Wayfinder. It was almost impossible to speak due to the dryness of his throat, and his terror rose in his throat to choke him—or was that really his terror, he wondered, instead of—
"I know what killed Guthrum," he managed to say. His voice was flat, almost devoid of emotion. And judging from the horrified look on Wayfinder's face, he knew the same thing.
"What do we do?" Leif Wayfinder had never sounded more scared in all the time Ravam had sailed under him—sailed under him, and despised him for being handed the captaincy of an entire ship on a silver platter. But there was no point arguing about that anymore. There was no point arguing about anything anymore.
For Ravam was very aware that if Wayfinder had taken ill, then so had he; it was only a matter of time before the first of the symptoms showed up. They'd both been very close to Guthrum during their altercation this morning—very, very close. Worse still, out of all the guards that constantly patrolled the city, a large number of them ought to have passed through the barracks where they'd taken the old Nord—maybe even the jail where he was being kept.
And some of those guards had been examining his body at this very moment.
The Dunmer knew their options were limited. As far as they were concerned, Dawnstar was not one of them. They could no longer stay here. But there was no guarantee they would be welcome anywhere else in Skyrim—or if anywhere else in Skyrim, or even all of Tamriel, could be safe enough for them anymore.
Or safe enough from them.
There was only one decision left to make—and though the mere thought of it pained Ravam, he knew that anything else they did would mean a loss of life on an unthinkable scale. And so, with a resigned sigh, he made his decision.
"We cut and run, Captain," Ravam said. "Make our way north, away from Dawnstar. We get the hell out of this town … and we don't ever look back."
What little color remained in Wayfinder's face drained away for good as he realized what Ravam was suggesting. He said nothing, nor did he give any indication of agreement or disagreement. The only thing he did was turn on his heel, and go back the way he came—straight back to the Sea Squall.
Ravam followed behind him, taking a good long look at Dawnstar. He would never be seeing it again, not from so far up close. But he hoped that it would be the last thing he did see, before all was lost to his sight.
They walked up the gangplank, and while Ravam hurled off the length of wood, casting it to the shoreline, Wayfinder used his sword to sever the anchor that kept the Sea Squall within the bay. The timber of the boat shuddered as the heavy weight sank into the bay with hardly a splash.
There would be no need for sails for this voyage, both men knew, and so Ravam took up position at the tiller—a position, he noted sadly, had once been Guthrum's—expertly guiding their merchant ship through the bay, free of her anchor. Neither of them spared either Dawnstar or the approaching vessel a second glance until the Sea Squall had sailed free of the shoals a half-hour later, and skimmed into open ocean.
For the last time, the Sea Squall sailed away from Dawnstar, unnoticed and unmissed by anyone—least of all the dark ship that bore down upon the unsuspecting town.
Now free of the dangerous rocks, Ravam turned to Wayfinder. "Orders … Captain?" he reported with a wry smile and a brief salute, though a very halfhearted one.
The Dunmer was already beginning to feel the first of the symptoms; his body was weak and faint, and his skin perspired even in the freezing cold. Ravam knew that he wouldn't be fit to man the rudder for much longer. Still, for the first time in what felt like ages, he felt the word Captain flow off his tongue in a way that, finally, he was proud to have known the man alongside him, no matter how much they might have disagreed in the past.
Wayfinder, meanwhile, did not respond for a long time. Ravam would have given anything to know what was going through the young sailor's head—not that he would have had time to ruminate on it for very long.
Finally, Leif Wayfinder, Captain of the Sea Squall spoke. "Set course … due north," he said quietly. "Dead slow ahead."
Ravam nodded. "Dead slow ahead … sir," he responded, and positioned the tiller accordingly.
As he did so, he began to cough.
Meanwhile, Seren stood beside the front door of her house as if keeping vigil there, her heart still thudding in her breast. Rustleif and Makela were already in bed, and so had remained blissfully oblivious to what she'd been up to. But there would be no rest for Seren tonight—perhaps not for a very long time.
For the Redguard had chosen this moment to peek through the crack in the door, and she had clearly seen the outline of the ship that still sailed its way for this sleepy town, in the dying hours of the day. Seren had not screamed or fainted at the site—she was a Redguard, a wife, and a mother of a warrior child. She would not scream or lose her head because of this, no matter how pressing the temptation might be—she would not betray her fear to her husband or her daughter. But what fear it was, to have to saddle it alone, that her family need not bear it—and how pressing a temptation it was, to let that fear consume her as it had almost done earlier today!
Now, however, Seren knew there was no point in being fearful. She'd done all she could to help out for now. Her part had been played. Whether or not her worst fears would be unfounded remained to be seen. All that was left to do was pray to the gods—of both Skyrim and Hammerfell—and hope.
The Redguard clasped her hands, and bowed her head. "Tu'whacca, God of the Far Shores," she whispered—the first words of a traditional prayer she'd learned in her childhood. "I ask for your blessing and guidance … "
Next chapter: Unease reigns in Windhelm as the news from Dawnstar reaches their ears.
A/N: Ugh. This took entirely too long to get out for my liking. Sorry I haven't been as on point with updates as I've been elsewhere; I've been trying to curb my obsession with ARC-V enough to get my mind focused back on Elder Scrolls. I'm less than proud of the results you see here, but I consider it a start all the same.
As for more regular updates, the jury's still out. But I consider this a good first step in that direction, and I look forward to being able to write more often now that I'm settled into my new place.
Thanks for reading and understanding, and I hope you enjoy! - K
