V

The commotion outside had brought Jarl Skald out of his chair.

One moment, things had been relatively silent, save for the occasional Shout rending through the air; he'd taken the time to appreciate the moments of calm in between, lounging on his throne as he usually did. Whether it would be his last one for a long while, or the first of many to come, Skald did not deign to ponder; worrying about the future would turn him grayer than he already was.

The next moment, a scream had cut his peaceful moment in two. It was that Breton—the mage the Dragonborn had brought with him—and then, without warning, they'd both tumbled through the door of the White Hall. Owing to the masks on their faces, Skald could not see them—but they certainly sounded scared out of their wits.

As he stood up in surprise, he noticed something odd: the Breton was practically dragging the Dragonborn behind her; Grimnir looked frozen with shock. Again, Skald could not see his face, but he'd seen the way his feet dragged on plenty of soldiers before—men and women too surprised or stunned to function.

To see that look on the Dragonborn … "What the devil just happened out there?" Skald demanded of Grimnir's companion—Colette, was her name? he wondered idly. "Did you take out that ship?"

Colette shook her head: no. Skald felt his jaw go slack. "How?!" he could only say in a stunned whisper, the softest he'd heard his voice in years. "I heard enough Shouting to tear my whole damned keep apart—even that dragon you flew in on, of all things! How could anything survive all that—let alone a single ship?!"

It took some time before Colette was ready to speak. When she did, she sounded very unsure of herself—as though even she didn't believe the words coming out of her own mouth.

"The Crimson Ship has been … protected," she said. "There's a layer of alteration magic infused within the entire vessel. It's like nothing I've ever seen before—the closest I could place it would be the 'flesh spells' that we mages often use in place of armor. But this doesn't simply block attacks—it just lets them pass through the ship without it suffering any damage."

"The Dragonborn can do the same thing with his Voice," Skald pointed out. This was true—he had indeed seen Grimnir turn ghostly and transparent, like an echo or a ghost, so as to prevent any harm coming to him.

"That only works for himself, though," said Colette. "This magic was used on an entire ship. If any Voice can do that, I've yet to see anyone do it—and if the Greybeards can't, then I don't think the Arch-Mage can, either."

"What are we to do against it, then?" Madena asked, emerging from a door and arriving alongside Skald.

"Physical attacks are out of the question," Colette answered her. "It's very likely that a magickal assault will be useless as well. That damned ship shrugged off the Voice of a red dragon—the most powerful type of dragon save for Alduin himself—like it was nothing."

"And the Flu that's infected the majority of the city will keep anyone from boarding it," murmured Madena. The face of the court mage had deflated like dough as the truth of the matter sank in.

"So you're saying this entire venture was a waste of my time?" Skald wanted to know. He could feel his choleric mood from before slipping back into him. "Trust a mage of Winterhold to fix this, I think not!"

Colette held up her hands defensively. "Not entirely, Jarl Skald," she said; whether it was the mask or not, her voice sounded oddly strained at the moment, as though she was gritting through her teeth. "Grimnir and I did make a discovery while we were out there—although I don't think you're going to like it."

Skald spared a glance at Grimnir, who'd slumped into a nearby chair while they'd been talking. He was taking very deep breaths in and out; the Jarl could only assume he was trying to get his wits together so as not to appear weak in the face of his lord. Perhaps the Dragonborn was right to keep calm, he decided—to let cooler heads prevail.

To Colette, therefore, he merely grunted; it was a sign for her to continue. "That spell on the Crimson Ship was no enchantment—it didn't trigger on its own," the Breton said. "It spread out from someplace inside it, and enveloped the vessel from there. I imagine," she added in the direction of Madena, who'd let out a small gasp, "that you understand what this means."

Madena indeed did. "Someone's on that ship," she said, in a fearful whisper. "Someone cast that spell! But who could have that much power, to enchant an entire ship with a magic that can withstand a dragon?!"

"It gets worse," Colette said. "I believe that someone is also responsible for spreading the Knahaten Flu throughout Dawnstar—and that whoever this someone is did it deliberately."

There was a prolonged silence. The White Hall was completely quiet, save for Grimnir's continued wheezing. Even the winds that lashed the keep on a frequent basis seemed to have died down.

Then, Skald did something no one had been expecting—and snickered. Not for long, of course—it didn't suit a Jarl, even if he was an old codger—but it was enough to let Colette know exactly what he thought of her 'belief'.

"Let me get this straight," he said," fighting the urge to smirk. "You're telling me that a disease which has decimated my city guard … and forced my people to hide like cowards … is all because of a single person's evil deeds? Do you have any idea how preposterous that sounds?!"

If Colette was at all scandalized by Skald's reaction, she didn't show it. "How do you know it is?" she said evenly. "Do you know the history of the Knahaten Flu?"

"Does it matter?" Skald huffed. "Skeevers spread Ataxia. Wolves spread Rockjoint. People catch diseases because they've handle things they either shouldn't or couldn't."

"Like other diseases, for instance?" Even through the mask, there was no mistaking the derision in Colette's voice.

"Precisely!" Skald cried out. "Whether they mean to or not, a person can spread a disease—but with something like this Knahaten Flu, they'd die trying before they succeeded! It's too deadly—and no one's that stupid or that crazy."

"That we know of," amended Colette. "Skald, I've read plenty of theories about the Knahaten Flu in my time. Some of them did manag to survive the Interregnum, finding their way into the archives of Mages' Guilds across Tamriel. According to them, there was one group that did not lose a single casualty to the Knahaten Flu."

Skald narrowed his eyes. "Who? How?"

"We don't know," the Breton shrugged. "The Argonians of Black Marsh were always immune to the Flu—and no one was keen to ask how at the time. Those were dark days for the preservation of knowledge; many accounts of those days—which could have helped us today—were either lost to the ages or passed down by word of mouth, where it could be tainted by exaggeration or outright fabrication."

She sighed. "Either way, because of the Argonians' natural immunity to the Knahaten Flu, many people began to believe they were responsible for turning it loose upon the world in the first place. This didn't sit well with the rest of Tamriel—in a way, the Knahaten Flu outbreak of the Second Era was responsible for starting the Alliance War."

Skald and Madena traded uneasy glances. "So that's what happened?" the Jarl asked angrily. "An Argonian decided to destroy Tamriel by ravaging it with disease a thousand years ago—and now another one of those damned lizards is trying to repeat history in my city?"

"We don't know," Colette said again. "There's too many questions, and not enough time to answer them. All that we can tell you is that this situation has become far more dangerous than we anticipated. We were prepared to deal with a plague and treat the residents of Dawnstar to the best of our abilities. We were not prepared for—"

But her words were cut off suddenly—and it was apparent to everyone inside what the source might be … or who.

For Grimnir Torn-Skull—whose heavy breathing, Colette realized too late, hadn't been to keep himself calm—had suddenly lurched out of his chair and onto the ground with an explosive coughing fit that made her ears rattle.

Before she'd even known she'd done it, she'd made for her Arch-Mage in the time it took to draw breath. "Grimnir!" she called out, trying to make herself heard over the constant hacking and wheezing. "Grimnir—!"

But the Arch-Mage was convulsing now; such was the strength of his rasping cough that he was bent double on the floor of the White Hall. He felt a sudden relaxing feeling sweeping over him with every hack he made, leeching all the strength and stamina from his body; it felt like he was being turned into a rag doll—

Then, as if the transformation had completed at that precise moment, Grimnir's whole body went slack from head to toe. With one final, booming cough, the Arch-Mage of Winterhold toppled onto the floor and did not move.

Colette did not waste any time. "Get him outside—now!" she screamed at no one in particular. Skald, pale and frail all of a sudden, was reduced to shouting for his servant Bulfrek to haul Grimnir out of the main hall. Bulfrek did so with much difficulty—the Arch-Mage, even for his age, was still powerfully built; Captain Jod, Skald's housecarl and one of the few city guards still alive in Dawnstar, eventually had to lend his assistance.

The Breton mage, meanwhile, stood rooted to the ground in the kind of cold shock that always precedes the worst news imaginable. She could not blame Skald in the slightest for how weak-willed he'd looked in that moment—the Jarl, she knew, had just come to the same conclusion as she had. Somehow, some way, a situation that neither of them thought could get any worse just did … and this time, she didn't have a clue as to how she'd be able to solve it.

But, even as she felt the last vestige of hope expire in her soul—even as she felt the rusted iron of Hevnoraak crushing down upon her face, as if mocking her for her helplessness—Colette Marence knew she had to try.


Cold.

It sliced into him, suffocated him—it always had, in those first days after that fateful battle. It always would, in the frozen north where he'd made his new home. It would never leave him—despite the fire that blazed deep within his soul, he knew the time was nearing when it would flicker and die.

Pain.

For the whole year since, the socket where his right eye had once been had never ceased to torment him. He could still feel the sparks and stabs of lightning digging into the scarred flesh, brought on by an attack from a foe he'd never seen coming. Even the enchanted mask of the dragon priest Morokei, which he wore near-constantly, did not completely nullify the discomfort of magickally-inflicted injuries, nor would—

Something was wrong. A curious sensation rushed across his face. He smelled salty air, felt it on his scarred face. He thought he might have heard a gasp, though it could just as easily have been the wind.

The sensation did not last very long—but something felt different about this familiar environment; though Grimnir could still feel the weight of a mask on his face, it felt different from before. The smell wasn't quite right, either; he'd worn each of his masks long enough to tell them apart with just about every sense at his disposal. The ebony face of Nahkriin was black, sooty, and warm to the touch—almost uncomfortably so, if he wasn't already someplace cold. Morokei's bluish moonstone was much lighter on his face, more soothing for his aches and scars; it didn't hurt that it smelled rather like J'zargo's Elsweyr fondue, if with much more Eidar cheese than any cook needed to use.

The mask he was feeling on his face right now was neither of these; it was cold, heavy, and smelled of blood—no, his mind corrected, not blood, but iron; which could only mean he was wearing Hevnoraak—

And then the memories of the past hour had poured in on him like a flood; he remembered arriving at Dawnstar, seeing the strange red ship anchored offshore. He remembered attacking it alongside Odahviing, and watching in wild-eyed consternation as the ship had stood firm against their voices—

Then, with a chill, he remembered the vision he'd seen bare feet away from him, just after the attack—the ghostly figure he'd seen, bare moments before Colette had pulled him inside—

Send them all

To Oblivion's flame

Grimnir felt his single eye snap open. He was lying flat on his back, in a snow drift outside the White Hall—he could tell because no other building in the town could cast such a large shadow, no matter the time of day. Light flurries were falling on his face; one or twice, a few individual snowflakes would slip through the mouth and eye holes of the mask he wore, stinging his scars, but giving them a blessed moment of relief just as quickly.

Colette Marence and Madena were standing over him. Odahviing was nowhere in sight; Grimnir assumed this was because he'd gotten bored after not being able to sink the Crimson Ship, and so had flown back to High Hrothgar. Neither mage showed their faces; Colette was wearing Morokei, while Madena's whole head had been swathed in strips of fresh linen. Grimnir didn't see anything out of the ordinary with that, either, except that maybe they were eyeing him with more concern than was usual. Madena in particular looked as though she was going to be ill; she had a hand clapped over her mouth, almost as though she'd seen—

Then it hit him.

Colette was wearing Morokei.

She was wearing his dragon priest's mask.

And she'd been wearing Hevnoraak ever since they'd left the College together.

An awful sensation gripped Grimnir's chest, colder than the chill that assaulted his body. With what felt like great difficulty, he turned his neck to look at Colette. "How long?"

"About half an hour," said the Breton. Grimnir noticed how hesitantly she was speaking. She'd produced a tankard filled with water, steaming slightly at the top. "I had to melt down some snow to make this—it was the best I could do on the spur of the moment."

Grimnir didn't care—he grabbed the tankard and drank greedily. The water was warmer than he would have liked, and he felt his eyes and lips burn as it slopped all over his mask, tricking down the holes in his mask. Only a little bit of water managed to travel down his gullet, but it still soothed the dryness in his throat, if only for a little while.

It did not, however, do anything to assuage the sinking feeling in the Arch-Mage's stomach. Even as his throat began to feel wet enough for him to speak more clearly, he could feel the warmth of the liquid evaporating in his belly.

He began to sit up—but was immediately rebuffed by Madena. "Don't move so suddenly, Arch-Mage," she said quietly—as though she were talking to someone on their deathbed. "We still don't know fully what happened to you. We need to be sure that you're stable."

"What do you mean?" Grimnir wanted to know. "What happened? The last thing I remember is coughing up a storm and collapsing."

No one spoke—but Colette and Madena traded glances. Even though their faces were concealed, Grimnir sensed the silent exchange that passed between them … and the truth he'd been dreading to hear sank into him like a rock.

"I'm … infected?"

Again, neither of the Bretons spoke. Finally, at a look from Madena, Colette broke the silence. "There's good news and bad news," she said softly. "And I'm sorry to say there's more bad news than good."

A sigh. "We don't know how—but yes … you do have the Knahaten Flu."

For once in his life, Grimnir was at a loss for words. Even though he knew it to be true, there was still the matter of … "How?" he could only say, feeling his voice crack.

"I just said we don't know!" Colette blurted out, before she could stop herself. "Nothing makes sense about this anymore. Every answer we've discovered seems to bring up two more questions. You should have been protected enough against it, the mask and gloves you were wearing should have been enough … "

But Grimnir wasn't listening. "Colette," he said as patiently as he could—which was to say, not in the slightest—"if you want to continue to live life knowing there's still a Dragonborn in Tamriel, you're going to skip the details and give me the bad news. How long do I have?"

Before a still-muttering Colette could reply, Madena stepped in. "That's … actually the good news," she said, still hesitating. The sections of cloth covering her eyes were glowing the unmistakable blue of a scrye. "Although I think 'good' is relative in this case, the disease appears to have … stabilized inside you."

Grimnir narrowed his single eye. "And what the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Remember how Hevnoraak's enchantments are able to provide immunity to both disease and poison to anyone who wears it?" Colette asked. Upon a nod from the Arch-Mage: "It looks as though that immunity goes further than just external threats—but internal as well. If someone's already dying from a disease, but then they slip on Hevnoraak's mask, the magic imbued within it can—as far as we can tell—send it into a kind of stasis."

"To put it simply," said Madena, "you're still infected—but as long as you're wearing Hevnoraak, you won't die from it, and you won't be able to infect anyone else with the Flu."

"And if I were to take it off?" ventured Grimnir.

The silence of the mages was all the answer he needed.

"All right," grunted the Arch-Mage. "So I've got to wear this damned hunk of iron for what may be the rest of my life. Is that what you're saying?"

He saw Madena's wrappings bulge slightly around her throat—as if she was swallowing. "Well … that's where the news goes back to bad," said the court mage. "We scanned you with almost every scrye we knew while you were out cold—and we now know why this Flu is killing more quickly than its predecessor did a thousand years ago."

Grimnir stayed where he was; inwardly, he was bracing himself for whatever he might hear next.

"The scryes revealed faint traces of foreign magicka within your body—most of it concentrated on your internal organs," said Colette. "It's some kind of restoration magic—but instead of healing the target, it's doing the complete opposite. It seems to be accelerating the symptoms of the Flu—and the more concentrated that magicka is, the faster the disease will progress. What once took a week to kill, can now happen in less than a day."

Grimnir's mouth felt drier than ever. "Then … "

"I'm afraid so," said Madena. "This is the last piece of proof we needed. Whether or not the Knahaten Flu was a natural phenomenon or not is no longer a relevant question. Without a doubt … this was intentional."

"Someone did this deliberately," Grimnir said dully. He could not find the will to express anything more; such was the numbness that had crept into his body. A cross between a magic spell and a disease … a weapon of mass murder … Weapons of this kind had never been seen in Tamriel in so long … His head was spinning … he needed to …

He felt a slim pair of hands on his shoulders. "Easy," Colette soothed him. "I know it's a lot to take in, but there is still hope for us. Like we said—as long as you're wearing Hevnoraak, you won't die."

"But I'm going to wish I could, aren't I?" Grimnir asked. "This enchantment on the mask … there's nothing about it that tells me it's a cure. It's just a stopgap—a way to postpone the inevitable."

He glared at Colette as sternly as his single eye would let him. "I'm not going to be ungrateful that you saved my life, Colette. But I'm not going to pretend that's what you did, either. All you did was stretch out my lifeline like a string of taffy. Eventually, something's going to give—the fingers pulling the treat apart … or the treat itself."

A sigh. "This is exactly why I gave you Hevnoraak to wear on the way over here, you know—not Morokei," he said bitterly. "I told you before that you're so much more important to these people than I am—you deserve to survive long enough to make sure all these people here survive, too."

"Grimnir, don't talk that way," said the restoration instructor—though she was sounding desperate. "You know full well I need you here, too. They need someone to give them hope."

"And how can I do that while I'm sick?" demanded the Arch-Mage. "How do you know that dragon part of me won't save me from this, huh? How do you know I'm not human enough to die to a plague after all?!"

Colette had taken several steps back. The Breton had been stunned into silence; it seemed she could think of nothing to say.

When Grimnir next spoke, his voice was raspier than ever. "Do you still think that I'm more important than you?" he said softly. He could almost see Colette's mouth working soundlessly under Morokei as she processed the question, even though the bluish moonstone visage blocked her face from view. She knew he had a point—she had no choice but to admit it.

And sure enough, Colette slumped where she stood a few long moments later—but just as quickly, stiffened back up. "You're no less important to me than anyone else who's dying from this Flu," she said resolutely. "Because one way or another, we will save them all."

Her voice became a growl, most unlike the restoration instructor. "And whoever is responsible for making these people suffer in the first place … they will regret the day they were ever born."

And for some reason, despite everything that had happened today, hearing that from Colette made Grimnir feel a little bit better already.


Later that day

Night had fallen over Dawnstar by the time the three mages had arrived at Madena's dwelling.

None of their delay was due to the worry of infection from the Flu—but rather the fear of being discovered. Grimnir had been dumped in an old horse-drawn cart, and the two sorcerers had carried him over to Madena's house from the White Hall. Of course, the shoreline that was the town's main street was deserted, but neither was taking any chances; the Arch-Mage had been covered with an old blanket that Madena promptly burned to ashes the second Colette had closed the back door, so as to prevent any chance of it harboring the loathsome disease.

Jarl Skald, when he'd learned of what had transpired with Grimnir, had immediately forbidden either Breton from repeating the events of what had happened outside his hall. The Knahaten Flu had wrought enough devastation on his city guard and the morale of his people, he'd said—but he would not allow it to destroy their reason to live. But that was precisely what would happen, he had said, if they were to learn what had happened to Grimnir Torn-Skull. For if even a god in human form could be laid low by this disease, then the people of Dawnstar, and Skyrim with them, would lose all hope—and their unknown assailant, still hidden on the Crimson Ship from the worst of the plague, would emerge victorious without having to lift a finger.

Therefore, Madena had suggested of taking Grimnir to her house under cover of darkness. From there, she would keep Grimnir away from any unwanted attention—the house had once been a museum devoted to the Mythic Dawn cult. The recent disappearance of its curator, Silus Vesuius, had been the talk of the town only briefly; he'd not been regarded well by the town on account of a fascination Madena herself had deemed dangerous and unnatural.

In spite of this—or more likely because of it—no one wanted to go near the house. Even Madena had refused to call the place livable until she'd thrown out everything Silus had ever owned and dumped it in the Sea of Ghosts. For most of Dawnstar, however, Silus' unexplained fate, and the subjects of his obsession, still cast a large enough pall over the place that Madena received very few visitors—even when such journeys were taken only as a last resort.

So it was with a fleeting apology that she welcomed Colette inside, after tucking Grimnir away on a spread-out pile of hay inside the cellar. "Sorry if the place looks a little bare," she said. "Skald said this house was cursed enough without me having to ply my craft here. I'm still his court wizard—but only at his court, so he said."

"It's more spacious than the living space I'm given at the College," admitted Colette. "I'm not complaining, mind you—I don't have many personal effects there anyway. Just about everything I need is close by most of the time."

"You're lucky," Madena muttered. "Dawnstar gets shafted on trade routes, with Solitude so close by. The one regular route we had vanished into the Sea of Ghosts after their crew came down with the Flu." She sat down in a nearby chair, and sighed in a way that felt like all the ramifications of the day were crashing around them, having been carried on a yoke no mortal shoulders ought to bear.

"How is he?" she asked.

"I've put a calming spell on Grimnir just to be safe," said Colette. "But I don't know how long it's going to hold. There's a battle being waged in his body right now—the Flu and its magic, against the Dragonborn and his magic. Right now, I'm not sure which side is going to win."

She groaned. "I feel like everything I know about magic is going out the proverbial window today."

"I don't blame you in the slightest for thinking that," Madena sighed. "Our situation isn't good."

She began to tick off her fingers one by one. "The Crimson Ship withstood the Arch-Mages's assault, the Arch-Mage himself is now ill with the very disease he was hoping to help us eradicate, and meanwhile, the disease in question actually isn't a disease, but is actually a hybrid between a magic spell and a biological weapon."

Madena made a long, drawn-out groan of her own. "I'd say we've ended up right back where we started, but that would imply we've actually made some kind of real progress in this mess."

The court mage leaned back in her chair, heaving another sigh. "What in Julianos' name do we do now?"

Colette had to admit the situation was grim. "If it were an outbreak of Ataxia or Rockjoint, it'd be a simple matter of concocting a curative—charred hide of skeever and chitin of mudcrab is easy to come by here. But with this … I don't think there's much we can do except keep on doing what we have been. Has it just been you who's been taking care of the townsfolk?"

Madena shook her head. "Seren's been a big help," she replied. "She's the only Redguard who lives in the town—if she didn't know about the legend that came with this Crimson Ship, and the disease it carried, I think you and Grimnir would have arrived at a ghost town by now. From what I was able to gather, she persuaded the Stormcloak attaché to take her warning to the High King himself—that was how Grimnir got the news in the first place.

"Since then, Seren's been mixing up pot after pot of chicken broth to give to the townspeople," Madena went on. "Not an easy thing to do when you've got a youngling to look after. Her husband, Rustleif—he's the blacksmith of the town—has been assisting her." Her face fell. "But I heard Seren and the baby both came down with the Flu since last I saw them. I've not seen any of the family since—if they're smart, they'll stay in the house."

"That may not be enough," said Colette. She chewed her tongue. "I think we need to consider the possibility that Dawnstar should be evacuated."

There was a brief pause; the only sound filling the house was the crackling fire behind the two mages.

"Do you even know what you're asking?" Madena said incredulously. "You're saying that everyone in this town—miners, sailors, shopkeepers and soldiers … what little left of them we have, even … is to drop everything they're doing and leave a town which some of our townsfolk have lived in their whole lives?"

Colette held up her hands in placation. "Not permanently—just long enough until we can find a more long-lasting solution to combating the Flu than chicken broth. Traditional curative potions and enchantments might help to slow the effects even further, but it won't be enough." She looked the court mage dead in the eye. "We need something better—for Dawnstar, and for Skyrim."

Madena cast a look towards the trap door leading to her cellar, where they'd put Grimnir for the time being. "Even if we were somehow able to persuade the Jarl to do what you're asking—and may I remind you of all the rumors of the Dark Brotherhood living on our doorstep—how can he be assured that his town won't become a lawless zone? Not everyone in Skyrim is going to take the quarantine around the Pale seriously—and not every bandit has enough smarts in his skull to think 'Hmm—all this money and plunder, but no one here to watch over it? I wonder why?'"

"That's the hard part," said Colette. "This is where your Jarl needs to do the smart thing—for once in his life—and realize that we're throwing him and his town the strongest rope we have."

She stared at Madena, and there followed a moment of understanding between them. That the court mage had nothing to say in rebuttal was proof that no other alternative could be reached with what they knew now.

And so, Madena relented. "Are you familiar … with an alchemist by the name of Curalmil?"

Colette arched her eyebrows. "Curalmil?" she repeated. "He was one of the first great alchemists of Skyrim. I'd heard rumors that he was entombed in a barrow near Windhelm, but no one's ever found it. At least," she added, "no one alive, anyway."

Madena leaned in close. "From what I'm given to understand, those rumors are right," she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "Curalmil created an artifact called the White Phial—a bottle that can not only replenish any fluid poured inside it, but also enhance its potency beyond any potion today's alchemists could even dream of reaching."

The restoration master felt her mouth go slack. "If we could imbue it with a curative," she said thoughtfully, "then we could administer it to everyone in the town without having to worry about restocking for more supplies! And the properties of the Phial might just be enough to where a simple cure-disease potion could get rid of this Flu!"

"It's a big 'might', though," admitted Madena. "We don't even know where that Phial is—if Curalmil buried it with him, or if it found its way into someone else's hands right now." She paused. "About a week before the Knahaten Flu hit, a carriage came in from Windhelm. One of the travellers aboard spent the night here, and he claimed that the alchemist of Windhelm—a high elf by the name of Nurelion—was dying from a rare disease. Obviously not this Flu, but that's beside the point. Nurelion apparently had an obsession with the Phial, to the point where he named his shop after the thing."

Colette considered this. "You think he's still alive?"

"Frida would know—she runs the Mortar and Pestle here," replied Madena. "She'd know if Nurelion had passed on or not. But seeing as she hasn't said anything on the matter—and I don't fancy risking a walk to her shop to find out—it has to be assumed Nurelion's still running the place, if only from his bed."

Another pause from Colette. "I don't know if I fancy taking that much time just to pursue an apothecary's legend," said the Breton. "By the time we find this Phial—assuming it even exists anymore—Dawnstar might be done for."

"There is another alternative," Madena told her. "Thousands of years ago, the Akaviri fashioned an artifact called the Draconian Madstone. It functioned much like that iron mask Grimnir's wearing right now—in fact, I think the Madstone is old enough that it might even predate it. That's right," she said, seeing the dawning look on Colette's face. "The Madstone may have more resistance to diseases and poisons than even an artifact of the dragon priests."

Colette let loose an incredulous sigh, slumping back in her chair. "What does it look like—this Madstone?"

"No one knew until very recently," said Madena. "It's very small—small enough that it could be worn on a chain, like a pendant or some other necklace. Beyond that, I could hardly say. The Madstone was lost within the Pale Pass for thousands of years, until the Oblivion Crisis hit Tamriel. Around that time, there were reports that a wealthy countess in Bruma—a known collector of Akaviri relics—organized an expedition to retrieve the Madstone. They succeeded, and so far as anyone knows, it's still in her private collection."

This revelation earned yet another sigh from Colette—only this one was more defeated than its predecessor. "Well, if that's the case, it'd be easier to get the Phial," she grumbled. "Trust the nobility of Cyrodiil to cough up a bit of jewelry that does more than gather dust on a shelf, with which to save all of Tamriel!" She snorted. "I think not."

"And it's not as though we can tell them the Dragonborn's caught the disease," Madena agreed. "Even the most secret of messages might risk inciting a panic if we're not careful. We have to keep this as quiet as possible."

"But can we?" Colette sounded desperate. "People are dying, this town is dying! Even the Arch-Mage of Winterhold—the Dragonborn—is dying! At what point does trying to prevent mass panic about a disease become more important than dealing with that disease itself?"

It seemed as though Madena could think of no answer to this. The court mage was chewing her tongue, trying to prolong the moment—to say anything that could make for a proper reply.

Nothing came to mind.

And so, she let loose a defeated sigh of her own. "All right," she said softly. "We'll need to talk to Skald about this, but I think we can impress upon him that we can keep this quiet—and still keep on track for finding a way to deal with this gods-damned Flu. After we do that, we can get to work.

"I'm proposing we combine our resources," said Madena. "Frida's got plenty of ingredients in her cellar that we can use to make more curatives, and she can work with Rustleif on making more of that chicken broth he's been passing out. With some luck, she might be able to put some more of her alchemy into the broth, too—which would be a lot of help for anyone infected with the Flu."

"In the meantime," Colette said, catching on, "I can give you the soul gems I brought with me from the College; I'm assuming you've got a fair stock of your own." Upon a nod from Madena: "We'll use any jewelry we've got close to hand, and enchant them with the gems so they can resist both this disease, and magic in general. I doubt it'll stop it outright, but in tandem with Rustleif's broth, the magic imbued within the trinkets may help to slow down the disease even more."

Madena nodded. "I'll spread word around the town to pool any loose rings and amulets they have in their households. We may not have much of it here, but every little bit helps."

"We can't make any more of it for ourselves?" Colette asked.

"Rustleif's our only blacksmith," replied Madena. "And he's going to be busy enough as is. Unless they teach you how to work a forge up in Winterhold?"

Colette sniffed. "Point taken." She leaned back in her chair. "This is going to be a lot of work—a whole lot of people going from one house to the next, risking contamination just by going out their door. I hate to say it, Madena, but I worry someone's going to be careless and just forget to do one little thing. For want of a nail … "

" … the town is lost," Madena sighed, nodding in grudging understanding. "One little step means the difference between a dream come true and our worst nightmare.

Then, quite suddenly, she sat forward

Colette leaned forward, too. "I know that look," she remarked, intrigued. "You've got a plan, don't you?"

"I do," sighed Madena again, "but Skald's not going to like it … "


One floor below them, however, someone was listening to them talking.

Grimnir hadn't been able to sleep since Madena and Colette had left him on the stone floor of the cellar, swathed in so many blankets and rags that he wasn't sure if his current shortness of breath was due to the illness spreading through his body, or from being suffocated by the sheer weight of cloth pressing upon him in every direction.

The bravado he'd felt when Colette had made her statement to make whoever had loosed this so-called disease on Dawnstar—on him—had all but vanished. Here, Grimnir felt like an overgrown baby, wrapped so tightly he could barely breathe, let alone move, lest he draw attention to himself and have Madena and Colette set upon him as though he was about to expire then and there.

He had never felt so helpless in his life. At least when his life had been in mortal peril those other times—Alduin, the Black Worm, Miraak and all the other dragon priests he'd fought over the past few years, to name but a few—he'd been able to defend himself with his magic. And if that wasn't enough, he was still enough of a Nord to know his way around a sword. But here … here, there was nothing he could do. It felt so ignominious, that a man who had survived so many battles, and wore so many scars as proof, should be done in by a mere disease, of all things, and have nothing to do but let the battle between magic and biology play out, with his own body as the battlefield!

No, Grimnir thought resolutely, listening to the two Bretons continue to flesh out their plan—and slowly but surely, devising a plan of his own.

He would have a say in this battle yet—and neither magic nor malady would stop him from seeing it through.


The White Hall

One hour later

"I'm sorry," Jarl Skald the Elder said, a mixture of scorn and disbelief in his raspy voice, "you want me to what?!"

"Evacuate Dawnstar, my lord," replied Madena, her own voice muffled beneath fresh layers of cloth swaddled over her body. This only made Skald all the more uneasy—the Breton had never once referred to him as her lord in all the time she'd served as his court mage. For her to start using this formality now, of all times … She was serious, Skald realized, and despite whatever thoughts he might have about Madena, she was still a part of his counsel.

"Jarl Skald, the townsfolk can no longer rely on one another to outlast the Knahaten Flu," Colette spoke up from alongside Madena. "Our city guard has been practically decimated—our reserves at Fort Dunstad, along with the regular patrols throughout the Pale, are the only means of defense we have left to us. The morale of the remaining population is beginning to wane—people are worried about looters, bandits or worse—and there's reason to believe the Flu may infect our food stocks if no one's healthy enough to keep a watch on them to make sure they're secure."

"And you think evacuating the town and resettling elsewhere will change their morale for the better?" Skald asked incredulously. "Some of us would call that accepting defeat!"

"And some of us would call it a better option than waiting for a slow and painful death," retorted Madena coolly. "No Nord deserves this Flu, Skald. I know you well enough to know this isn't the way you want to go."

This had a visibly profound impact on the lord of Dawnstar. Skald's lips were pursed together, and his eyes, spotted with cataracts, were half closed in silent contemplation. Madena knew how stubborn Skald could be—as stubborn as a Nord. In order for him to see reason, she would have to appeal to that stubbornness … that ironclad refusal to give up the ghost and sit waiting for certain doom.

It felt like an entire era had passed before Skald gave a long, low grunt of acquiescence. "Ar, if only you could fight the Flu with good old Nord steel," he sighed, before turning round. "Jod! Bulfrek! Stir your stumps and stand to!"

Jod—now the last remaining officer of Dawnstar's meager guard, with Frorkmar still in Windhelm—had appeared in a matter of moments, still in his uniform—although Colette did note the faint traces of wrapped cloth under his armored helm. Bulfrek took a little longer to rouse himself; it took Skald another shout and a threat that Jod would physically kick him out of his bed before the servant was present and accounted for. He, too, had covered himself head to toe in discarded rags.

"Pack whatever you can carry," Skald told them, "and leave the rest behind. Then go out door to door and tell the rest of the town to do the same. Essentials only—no jewelry, no crockery, I don't care if it's a family heirloom or not. We're leaving the town."

Neither Jod's nor Bulfrek's faces were visible, but both men swayed where they stood when they heard the last four words. "My lord?" Jod asked, sounding very dry indeed.

"Did you not hear me the first time?!" Skald cried out, raising his voice. "We're evacuating!"

It took a long moment for Jod to compose himself. "Where are we going?" he eventually mustered the will to ask.

"We were just about to say," Madena said. Although she'd been ready for the question, she was inwardly cursing the guard captain for bringing the question up now. This was the moment she'd been fearing; while she was glad Skald wanted to take the initiative in protecting his town, he'd also taken it too early.

There was nothing she could do, though—so she sighed, exhaled … and said, "We're going to Nightcaller Temple."

Silence. Everyone but Colette had turned in her direction—having discussed the plan previously, this was the only solution they'd been able to come up with. Fort Dunstad was too far away to go on foot, as was Solitude—and even if Morthal was close enough to the town, the whole place was still undergoing repairs from the Black Worm's attack on the town last year. There was also a lighthouse on the northern coastline, where Madena had been given to understand that a family of Redguards had recently moved in—but it, too, was too far away to be a suitable place to house sick and dying townsfolk, to say nothing of the northern chill that constantly permeated that part of Skyrim.

Madena explained all this with a patient air to her voice—that Nightcaller Temple was the only logical choice left to them, but it was apparent her worst fear had been confirmed. Skald was the only person in the room who'd yet to cover his face, so his was the only one that showed it—but it was clear even from this that everyone here but for Colette believed she'd taken leave of her senses.

"You know what happened out there, right?" Jod asked angrily. "That tower is haunted from cellar to ceiling and everywhere in between. I don't give a damn what that priest of Mara said—I'm not setting foot in that place!"

"Not too long ago, Dawnstar was plagued with nightmares," explained Madena to Colette, who nodded in reply—she'd heard reports of what had happened, but nothing as to what was causing them or how the situation had been resolved without any explanation. "A dark elf who followed Mara had said it was a temple to the Daedric priest Vaermina, and I saw enough of the imagery to know that he was right.

Another understanding nod from Colette; she herself knew enough about the Daedric arts to know Vaermina's sphere of influence included dreams, and nightmares as well.

"How he resolved it, I don't know," Madena went on, "but he brought a volunteer with him—some Imperial woman who'd stopped in for the night; I didn't get her name. Both of them went into the temple—but only the priest came back out. He didn't say anything beyond that—didn't say what had happened to her, or where she'd gone—he just packed his bags and left the town without even stopping to rest. We never heard from him again."

This struck Colette as immensely suspicious for many reasons—but none of them were worth asking for elaboration under the circumstances, she decided. So she forced the questions into the back of her mind, and gestured for Madena to go on.

"We have no reason to think it's still haunted, Skald," said the court mage. "No one's had any unnatural nightmares ever since that priest left Dawnstar. That's not to say some people are scared to sleep at night"—with good reason, she thought, thinking of the Dark Brotherhood—"but it's nothing more harmful than that."

"Madena's told me that the floor plan of temple is extensive," Colette added. "There's enough rooms and hallways in there that it should be able to sustain all of the remaining townsfolk. We may even be able to establish some semblance of society down there, if what I suspect about the place is true. Gardens for both food and alchemy, fuel for the forges and fires—I really do think that Nightcaller Temple may have everything we'll need to make sure the town survives."

"But for how long, though?" Skald wanted to know. "Let's say that we do end up going to this place. Living in a fortress isn't the same as living in a town. Not all of us used to be soldiers, you know."

He cast a dark look at Madena, who remembered her days as a battlemage during the Great War all too well. "Frankly, I don't see why we can't just relocate everyone to the mineshafts in town," said the Jarl. "Hell, Iron-Breaker isn't used for much mining these days—everyone's gone over to work for Leigelf instead."

Leigelf owned the quicksilver mine just west of Dawnstar—at least, until the Knahaten Flu had forced him to shelve operations and retreat to his house. His ex-wife, Beitild, had run a competing iron mine inside city limits until last year, when she'd been found in her bed with a slit throat. Of course, there were rumors the Dark Brotherhood had been involved, and for a time, Leigelf had been suspected as the man behind it all; neither had parted amicably with the other, after all, and he himself had openly admitted he wasn't sad to see her go. But Leigelf denied any accusations of planning Beitild's death, and any rumors that continued to say so ultimately bore no fruit.

Meanwhile, quicksilver ore paid more septims by the piece, which had attracted every miner who'd worked under Beitild to the place; since then, as Madena explained, the Iron-Breaker mine had been largely abandoned, save for the odd tourist who already had a pickaxe to hand and nothing better to do with his time in town.

"And that's why we don't think the place is suitable," said the court mage. "No one really bothers to maintain the place—people just don't come here to mine the iron in those tunnels as often as they used to, and even when they do, they don't bother to say a word about what the state of the place looks like after they're done. So I'm ruling it out—I'm not putting the sick and dying in a death trap. Besides, even if it's structurally sound, it may still be too small to fit everyone in Dawnstar, anyway—both it and Leigelf's mine together, even, might be too small."

Skald considered this. It looked like a bitter pill to swallow for the old man. He turned his gaze to Jod. "Is there no other option?"

Jod thought. "Only that Dwarven ruin to the south—Mzinchaleft. And with respect, milord, I don't think I need to tell you why I think that's a bad idea."

Madena winced. That Jod would even think of bringing up a place like that was a sign of how desperate Skald was becoming. Yes, the Jarl wanted to make sure his people weathered the Knahaten Flu—but not at the expense of his moral fiber. Unfortunately for Skald, he'd now found himself trapped between two abandoned ruins—one infested with bandits, metal animunculi, and Divines only knew how many other horrors; the other, a haven for Daedric cultists who, however indirectly, had terrorized the nearby town for months, even years on end, without any remorse for their actions. The only difference was that the latter had been assuredly cleansed—for if the word of a priest of Mara was a lie, Madena knew, then there truly was no hope for this world anymore.

Which was why, as she stared at the contorting face of her Jarl, Madena knew that there was only one decision left for Skald to make. "If I might borrow an old Breton saying, my lord," she said, feeling a faint tone of finality in her words, "'Better the Daedra we know than the Dwemer we don't.'"

This earned a long sigh from Skald. He slumped back in his throne, lips pursed like twin prunes—and he finally nodded. "Jod, get the word out. Every able-bodied Nord's to pack up and leave their homes in one hour. They're to take essentials only—food and drink and clothes. Hopefully there's enough of them in this temple that we won't have to worry about starving or dying of thirst any time soon."

Jod saluted. "Yes, milord. I'll pull some guards from the perimeter around the town—have them bring some horse-drawn carts to carry the sick."

"Good man," Skald rasped. "Bulfrek, get to packing. It'll be the same for you, myself, and Jod—take nothing with you that we won't need. Not like you've got much else to your name, anyway," he huffed under his breath, waving the servant off. "And you"—he'd pointed a withered finger at Madena and Colette—"you'll be the first to leave."

"Why us?" Colette wanted to know.

"So you can make sure this temple we're going to is safe," Skald grunted. "I'm not having myself or my people set upon by more bad dreams the second we walk in that Nine-damned place."

Colette was about to protest, but Madena waved her off. "We'll get started on that right away, Skald," she said, catching the restoration instructor with a look. "By your leave?"

Skald gave a noncommittal grunt. That seemed to be enough for Madena, who ushered Colette out of the White Hall without looking back at Dawnstar's aging lord.

Only after she'd closed the door did she speak up. "Skald knows full well the place isn't haunted," said the court mage. "I was able to persuade him the first time I brought the subject up. What he really wants from us is to make sure he's out of sight and out of mind."

Colette thought about this—and arched her eyebrows when it hit her. So Skald wanted them to take Grimnir into the Temple first; that way, he'd have his choice of room, far away from any prying eyes to suggest he might be just as infected as everyone else. The Jarl was still hellbent on trying to keep his people from being overcome by panic.

"I'll head over to Frida's and ask her for any curative potions or ingredients she's got in her stock," said Madena. "Actually," she added, thinking further on it, "make that any restorative agent she has on hand. We can use every edge in this. Once I've done that, I'll clean out my stocks of soul gems—I'll limit it to greater and grand if there's enough of them to provide one enchanted amulet for everyone in town."

"Then I'll get the ingots and gemstones," Colette replied. "That blacksmith you mentioned—Rustleif—should have a generous enough stock of them. I'd rather no one have to melt down their life savings in septims just for an amulet that might not even … "

She sucked air through her teeth, leaving the rest of her sentence unfinished. "But before we do any of that," she said, "the two of us need to put the word out. I'll handle finding any news on this Draconian Madstone—one of our scholars at the College has a knack for finding artifacts like this. Well, I say find—but it's more like he's connected with people who can find them. So I'll ask him to check his sources and see what they can dig up on the Madstone."

"All right—then I'll take care of the White Phial," agreed Madena. "We have some messenger hawks here—they can deliver messages much faster than ordinary couriers when the situation calls for them. I can send one to Windhelm, and you to Winterhold. I doubt they'll linger long enough to transmit the Flu—they're trained not to. They'll stay long enough to deliver their message, and come back to Dawnstar when they do."

"I see. Even so, it's best to be cautious," Colette remarked, as she began gathering some loose sacks along the way, with which they could take along whatever supplies they could find. "Whatever we send ought to be destroyed as soon as possible. Do you know any spells or enchantments that could do the job?"

"They don't teach anything like that up at Winterhold?" Madena asked, raising an eyebrow. When Colette shook her head: "Just a simple flame spell would be enough—barring that, a torch or a fireplace. Spells like what you have in mind aren't widely used—usually, agencies like the Penitus Oculatus would use them for security reasons. Maybe if they'd used them last year, there'd still be an Emperor," she added bitingly.

The two mages observed a brief moment of silence. Colette, being a senior member of the College, had sworn an oath of neutrality in the political affairs of Tamriel, much like the Greybeards of High Hrothgar. Nevertheless, the news of Titus Mede's assassination last year had been a shock to her system; combined with the Stormcloaks' independence from Imperial rule, her home of High Rock was now effectively cut off from the rest of the Empire. Even a neutral attitude could not lessen that sting.

Finally, Colette spoke again. "Let's get to it," she said. "The sooner we've got everything packed up, the sooner we can prepare Nightcaller Temple—and the sooner we can treat all these infected"—and Grimnir, she added in her head, knowing at a glance that Madena was thinking the same thing she was.

Even if they saved all of these people, would it still be worth it if the Dragonborn couldn't be saved with them?


One hour later

"Seren, Jod said no crockery," Rustleif said in exasperation as his wife attempted—for the third time in the past hour—to smuggle out the big pot he'd been using to cook all their broth in. "There's pots where we're going—and Arkay knows they're probably bigger than the one you keep trying to load up."

"But none of them are this pot," Seren sighed, putting the large vessel aside on the table. "When I moved to Skyrim from Hammerfell, I carried my whole life in this—all my clothes, all my food, the money I'd been saving up just so I could come here … Rustleif, this is more than just a cooking pot to me. This is the only thing I have left of home."

Rustleif, deep down, knew that she was right. They'd torn up most of their clothes—including the ones Seren had brought from her old home—so they could cover every inch of their skin to ward off the Flu. Some of the older garments had been ripped into smaller strips so they could be wrapped around Makela. The baby seemed quite happy, in spite of the angry red dots that spread out from her lips, and now covered most of her neck and the top half of her breast ever since it had first appeared that morning.

Had it really only been less than a day? Rustleif wondered. It seemed like so long ago since his entire family had been turned upside down—when a simple wish to keep them happy and content with their lives in Dawnstar had turned into a feverish obsession to keep them alive and well.

He glanced once at Seren. Although Rustleif could not determine how far the rash had spread out from her breast ever since she'd exposed it this morning, he knew from other reasons that Seren was not faring nearly as well as their daughter; what remained of the breakfast Rustleif had tried to feed her along with the chicken broth had gone straight through her. The subsequent trip to the chamber pot had been an experience Rustleif did not want to repeat—let alone to clean up—and he suspected it would not be the last time he'd be taking care of his weakened wife in such an inglorious way.

Finally, he sighed. "All right—take it, then," Rustleif relented. "But keep it wrapped up so no one can see it. Jod'll be here any minute, and the man will throw us on your horsecart if he thinks we're holding up the evacuation!"

Seren, leaning on a walking stick (the closest thing they had in this house to a cane) beamed at him—though it was hard to tell through all the wrappings—and produced a number of sacks. All but one she stuffed inside the other—and then she slipped her favored pot inside, where it promptly disappeared amidst all the padding.

"Wan' stabby," Makela piped up just then.

Rustleif couldn't resist a chuckle—the last birthday present for their little girl had been a wooden sword that he'd painstakingly honed from a fallen oak branch—with just the right amount of curve to it to fashion it after the scimitars of High Rock. Makela had named it 'Stabby' almost immediately, and was almost never seen without it.

"I know you want 'Stabby', little warrior, but we have to leave home now," Rustleif said soothingly. "Daddy's got to take you and Mommy someplace where you can get better—where we can all get better," he added, shooting as best a reassuring look at Seren as the torn cloth covering his face would allow.

Makela sniffled from under the mountain of swaddled cloth that covered her. "Bu … bu' stabby … "

"Stabby will be here when we come back, dearest," Seren told her sweetly, attempting to hoist her up with the arm that wasn't clinging to her traveling stick. It was very hard work; in the end, Rustleif had to help his wife finish it, and then make sure Makela was properly secured on her perch above Seren's shoulders.

"Besides," Seren added, once Rustleif assured her she was, "maybe there'll be another Stabby for you to play with while you and Mommy get better."

Makela, however, did not appear satisfied. "When go home?" she whined, and immediately Rustleif felt a thud in his stomach—as though an ebony weight had just appeared inside him and dropped.

He had no idea when they'd be back home again—or even if they'd be home. He didn't how to answer that question—not without making Seren even more upset, and then Makela would get upset too …

He sighed. "When the Dragonborn says we can," was the best answer he could give. For who else, he thought, could save his family from this awful fate? Who else was there to turn to, at a time as bleak as this?

"Where is the Dragonborn, come to think?" Seren asked. "No one's seen him after he tried to sink that thrice-cursed ship. He was with Madena and that other mage from the College—but there's been no trace of him or his pet dragon since. I wish I'd thought to ask when she'd come by for all those ingots you had in your supply—she was practically shaking you down with how she was behaving—"

She suddenly stiffened in apparent horror, and her cane began to wobble where she stood. "You don't think—!"

"No, Seren," Rustleif said immediately. "The Dragonborn wouldn't leave unless he had a very good reason."

"Like what?" Seren pressed on.

Rustleif could think of no reply—and the knock that finally sounded on the door a few moments later could not have been a more welcome distraction.

He knew who it was—and why he was here—even before he'd thrown open the door to reveal Jod on the threshold.

"It's time to pack up," the guard captain said, gesturing to the horsecart he'd brought with him. Rustleif was grateful to see he'd taken the liberty of helping them pack already; several of their bags now sat in the back of the cart, forming a simple cushion where Seren and Makela could rest up during the ride.

As Rustleif began to help finish up the packing process, he turned to Jod. "Has anyone seen the Dragonborn?" he asked.

"Aye," said Jod. Was it Rustleif's imagination, or did he see the man's arms flinch under his mail? Jod wasn't a man known to flinch, he thought—but then, this whole day had been hell on everyone; perhaps even he was feeling the strain. "He went on up with the mages, so I'm told—Madena and the Winterhold woman. Skald says they're to give Nightcaller Temple a once-over before he's satisfied we can go in the place."

"You saw them go up, then?" said Rustleif.

"Oh, aye." This time, there was no mistaking it—Jod had flinched at the question, even as he'd answered it. "They went up half an hour ago. I hope that's enough time for them to make the place presentable."

Rustleif bit his lip. That was around the time that Colette woman had demanded he turn over every single ingot of gold and silver he had in his stock. And there'd been a cart full of sacks that she'd hauled them onto. Madena had been there too—but Grimnir he hadn't seen with them. Had he simply gone on ahead, or … ?

He shook his head, groaning. This wasn't the time to think about such things. "I hope so, too," he eventually replied to Jod, before nodding to Seren. "Let's get that sack on, dearest, and we'll be off."

"Stabby!" Makela crowed from atop the Redguard's shoulder, and Rustleif couldn't help but laugh as he and Jod took up positions at the cart, lowering it so Seren and their daughter could board it safely.

Two minutes later they were off, following the other men, women and children of Dawnstar. Rustleif turned back for one last look at his house and forge, feeling the deep pit in his stomach widen even further.

I'll come back, he told himself. I swear in the name of the Nine, I'll come back.

And then he'd turned forward, to the path that lay ahead, curving over the cliffs and turning eastward, where the foreboding ruins of Nightcaller Temple loomed before them.

Rustleif knew the day would come when he would set foot inside his home again, and set his other foot on the forge and grindstone that he'd known since he was a lad. Until then, however, he knew there would be dark days ahead—whether his gut feeling about Grimnir and those mages was ringing true or not. Something was definitely up about them, and he hoped it wasn't what a dark voice in the corner of his mind was telling him.

I'll save this town with my own two hands if I have to, he thought, quickening his pace and setting his jaw. Dawnstar needs me more than ever—and my family needs me most of all …


Aboard the ship moored off shore, invisible eyes watched as the tiny stream of civilization finally departed Dawnstar, snaking into the distance and up the mountainside, slowly but surely.

The commander of the Crimson Ship was not close enough to see the individual people that formed that desolate band—whether on their own two feet or those of their comrades. Nor did she need to—it was enough to feel the anguish that had settled over the town like a pall, to feel the suffering that the Knahaten Flu was causing among them, for only the third time in a thousand years.

Of the Dragonborn, too, there had been no sign—and this had been especially pleasing; the commander had been close enough to him to see the whites of his eyes that one time—or at least, she might have if it weren't for that mask he'd been wearing. She knew of its origin, and the powers it possessed—and they would not be enough to save his life. It would offer no help to him, but would instead prolong his suffering until he tired of the pain, casting it off until the sweet release of death finally claimed him.

The Dragonborn is half dead already, thought the commander, and he knows it, too—it will make his demise all the sweeter. Idly, she wondered how many of the townspeople knew what had happened to the hero of Skyrim. Such was the strength of the Flu that had been loosed on the town that even she could not tell whether the sorrow she felt in their hearts was from the loss of their loved ones—or the loss of hope in its entirety.

Just like her, the commander knew, feeling a faint sense of triumph. It hadn't even been twenty-four hours, and she'd already claimed victory; she had singlehandedly broken Dawnstar more thoroughly than any company of battlemages or legions of soldiers could ever hope to accomplish.

In less than a day, the White Widow had satisfied its thirst for vengeance.

But, thought the spectral apparition, as a sepulchral moan sounded within the depths of the Crimson Ship, she knew there was still more work to be done. It would only be a matter of time until Dawnstar had been slain to the last man, woman, and child. And once they had …

The commander began to sing soothingly as another piteous wail reached her ears, and she disappeared below the decks with nary a sound.

Send them all … to Oblivion's flame …


Three hours later

Masser and Secunda had reached their zenith by the time the last cart had clattered inside. The rickety wooden door shut behind them with a clacking noise that sounded more final than it had any right to be.

"Okay," said Colette to Madena. "Everyone's made it in safe. Glad they were able to get out one last pot of that broth before the evacuation took place; I thought this cold weather would have been the end of these people."

"Dawnstar's not the first place many people choose to live," remarked Madena. "But for all the misfortune we've had to bear these past few years, those that do make that choice are tougher sorts for it. Do you have the letters?"

Colette produced two thinly furled scrolls—each one as thin around as her little finger. "Do you have the hawks?"

Madena went to one of the carts that had been left outside the door. A rustling noise seemed to be coming from one of the sacks. She threw back the burlap, revealing two iron cages—each with a tawny, streamlined hawk looking at them with yellow eyes that looked just as sharp as their beaks.

A brief burst of calming magic from Madena ensured that the birds remained tame long enough for her to open the cages, and for Colette to secure one scroll each to their leg with a bit of twine.

Then, once that was done, Madena released the spell, and immediately the birds took off from their cages like arrows shot from bows. They streaked eastward, their retreating forms barely visible in the night sky.

Colette watched them leave, biting her lip. "You're sure they'll get there in time?" she asked.

Madena nodded. That would have to be enough. "Come on—let's help everyone get situated down there," she said, motioning back toward Nightcaller Temple. "Grimnir can wait a while longer—he said as much himself."

The restoration instructor followed after her, after taking one last look at the retreating messenger hawks, now just mere dots against the aurorae that lined the sky.

Had Colette lingered a few moments longer, however, she would have seen one of the birds suddenly drop out of the sky like a stone … and land against the side of an icy crevasse with a final squawk that would never reach her ears.


The black arrow had found its mark—straight through the heart of the majestic bird, cruelly pinning it to the gorge as its life slowly slipped away. It wasn't until the hawk finally slumped forward in death that something else moved into view, silently stepping out from where the arrow had been fired.

The woman was lithe and supple—and the leather armor she wore made every effort to accentuate her deceptively slight figure. The red-and-black ensemble hugged every inch of her body save for the neck up, where only a slit of moon-pale skin was exposed to the elements. From this peered a pair of dark eyes—darker than even the night in which she'd stalked her prey, hunted it down … and from whom she would now reap her reward.

The woman crept up the icy gorge towards the carcass of the messenger hawk. Already ice was beginning to form on the tips of its feathers—she would have to be quick to retrieve what she'd come here for.

From a leather holster, the woman now withdrew a knife. This she slit across the twine that bound Colette's scroll to the dead bird's leg. The woman unfurled the tiny message, its black eyes darting hither and thither across the strip of parchment.

And then, quite suddenly, her mouth—unseen under the black veil that covered it from the elements—turned upwards in a smirk. Sithis had smiled on her today, she knew.

It was time to fulfill her mission.


Next chapter: An impatient Grimnir takes matters into his own hands.


A/N: … Ugh. I don't know how many of you I speak for when I say this year can go to Oblivion—but good Lord, I've never felt so unmotivated to do any writing as I have for the last few months. I blame the insanity that was the American election—for which every side, I suspect, can sympathize—and for a slew of events whose occurrence and timing can pretty much be summed up as 'Sheogorath having a laugh at my expense'.

But despite all that, here I am. I'm not dead, I'm still writing—and even though it's still weird to type, not everything that happened this year was bad; I still have some reason to look forward to the future, and to hope that 2017 will be a more positive experience for all involved.

Thanks for your patience and understanding in waiting for this chapter. I'm not proud of it by any stretch of the imagination, but I'm proud that I was able to put something out after being gone for so long. Thanks so much for reading, and as always, I hope you enjoyed it. – K