Chapter 8
[Author's Note: Marcus learns a painful lesson about making assumptions…about people, about situations, and especially about his own abilities.]
The trip to Morthal was uneventful. The carriage dropped Marcus and Uthgerd off, then departed soon after. With no stable to rest the horses and few paying customers, there was no point in Bjorlam staying. Marcus had gotten to know more about the tall, blonde Nord woman during the ride, drawing her out in conversation without revealing too much about his own unbelievable past. She was Ulfberth War-Bear's sister, he learned, and that made her sister-in-law to Adrianne Avenicci, who owned Warmaiden's. No wonder she was equipped to the nines with her plate armor and finely-honed steel greatsword.
He mentioned his intentions to join the ranks of the Companions, and was instantly subject to a hostile, if quiet tirade against the group of mercenaries.
"I tried to join them," Uthgerd admitted, "but they threw me out."
Marcus didn't like the sound of this. Uthgerd, he could tell already, was a formidable woman. Why wouldn't the Companions want her at Jorrvaskr?
Uthgerd saw the surprise on his face, warring with the curiosity to know what had happened. She sighed and relented.
"It wasn't my fault," she said in her quiet way, gazing out over the tundra, and not meeting his eyes. "I told them over and over again that it was an accident. They wanted me to prove my worth, so they threw me up against a young whelp of a lad, hardly old enough to grow his first chin hairs." She gave a bitter laugh. "I guess they thought a woman wouldn't be strong enough to hurt him."
She turned back to Marcus, and he could see the anguish in her eyes, the pleading for him to understand. "I didn't mean for him to die. Why would I want that? I just….lost control."
Marcus didn't know what to say. It wasn't as if Uthgerd had deliberately set out to kill her opponent. Surely, the members of the Companions had to have seen that. But by her own admission, Uthgerd had lost control of herself in the heat of battle. Even when they had been talking, before their brawl the other night, she boasted that a true Nord would never back down from the opportunity to prove him or herself in battle.
But it wasn't a battle against a deadly opponent. It was a sparring match to see if she had what it took to be a Companion, and apparently, she had failed. It was probably why she spent most of her nights drinking at the Bannered Mare. Marcus felt sorry for her, but couldn't reconcile his own conflicting feelings. On the one hand, he wanted to be able to trust her to have his back; on the other, he needed to know she wouldn't go full-out berserker on him at the wrong moment. He almost wished Lydia were here.
Thinking of Lydia brought a flush of shame over his face. He'd treated her pretty shabbily, leaving her behind to take care of the house and keep an eye on Lucia for him. The woman was a fully trained Housecarl, sworn to protect him and all he owned. At the time, it seemed like the right idea to have her supervise the repairs to Breezehome and the organizing of the furnishings. And who better to make sure Hulda provided room and board to Lucia while he was gone than the woman who was sworn to look after his affairs?
But it was badly done, he realized. He'd pretty much told her without words that she was of no further use to him, he'd moved on to bigger and better things. Squirming inwardly, he vowed to make it up to her when he got back. Right now, he needed to focus on finding Ustengrav, which was clearly marked on the map Lydia had given him after comparing theirs to Farengar's. Once he had the Horn, he could return it, and then maybe they'd hire a nanny to look after Lucia while the two of them searched for those Word Walls together. As long as they weren't gone for extended periods of time, it could be a very good life for the little girl.
As they approached the largest building in Morthal, High Moon Hall, they saw a crowd of people gathered outside, angrily discussing civics with a man at the top of the stairs.
"And what's the Jarl going to do about it?" one man demanded.
"How are we supposed to feel safe in our own home?" insisted another.
Uh oh, he thought. Local politics again. Best not to get involved.
"Please," said the man on the stairs. "I have already told Idgrod of your concerns. The Jarl will be taking care of the matter. Now please, return to your homes, all of you."
Grumbling, the crowd dispersed, and Marcus heard mutterings about sorcerers in their midst. As it was late in the day, he decided the best thing to do would be to take rooms at the local inn and set out for Ustengrav in the morning. His own experiences with swamps and marshes from his previous life told him they were treacherous places to blunder around in the dark.
The shell of a burned-out house sat next to the Moorside Inn; its charred timbers and scorched stone a haunting reminder of a fairly recent tragedy, from the looks of it. Marcus shuddered and hoped everyone had gotten out alright.
A Redguard woman behind the counter looked up hopefully as they entered. Over in the corner, a fellow who looked like Shrek was tuning a lute.
"Welcome to the Moorside," the woman said. "Name's Jonna. If you need anything, I'll be 'round. Good to have a customer!"
"Two rooms, and supper," Marcus said, warming his hands by the fire pit. It was always cold in Skyrim, it seemed, but the days seemed to be getting even shorter and colder than before. Lydia had schooled him on the calendar of Skyrim, and that it was currently the two hundred and first year of the fourth era. It seemed that the months had the same number of days as the Julian calendar he was familiar with, and since his arrival in Helgen, eight weeks had passed. It was now the beginning of Frostfall, or October in his old life, and he realized with a start that the next day, the 6th of Frostfall, would have been his birthday.
And how are you celebrating it? he mocked himself. By crawling around yet another ancient Nordic ruin!
Shoving those morbid thoughts aside, Marcus stowed his gear in the room to which he'd been assigned and rejoined Uthgerd in the main hall. A few of the locals were trickling in, and the green guy with the lute was talking with Jonna.
"Jonna, do you think the townspeople are warming to my serenades?" he rumbled expectantly.
"No," she said bluntly. "And they ain't gonna, Lurbuk. If you weren't payin' for your room, I'd have thrown you out a long time ago."
Marcus thought that was pretty harsh, but Lurbuk seemed unfazed by her criticism.
"Yes, but they'll come around eventually," he said confidently. "You'll see."
Jonna rolled her eyes, but clearly this was lost on Lurbuk. "Oh, I shouldn't be surprised if they come 'round," she said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "And if you're never seen or heard from agin."
Lurbuk shrugged and returned to his position at the back of the inn, playing on the lute. It wasn't bad, Marcus thought, though Sven was better.
"You don't seem to have much confidence in your bard," Marcus commented to Jonna as she served up the grilled chicken breasts and leeks.
"Ugh!" Jonna sighed exasperatedly. "He's not a bad fellow," she said, "for an Orc. Just don't let him sing. The man's got a wooden ear."
So, that was an Orc? Judging from his bulging muscles and brutish features, Marcus would have thought he'd have chosen a far different life in Skyrim than that of a bard, but it took all kinds.
"Well," a seductive voice purred in his ear, and Marcus started. He'd never heard the woman come up on his other side. Cold sweat broke out on his forehead as he realized that that kind of mistake could cost him his life here. He needed to stay aware of his surroundings at all times.
"Aren't you the handsome one," the dark-haired woman approved. "I'm Alva. You and I should spend some time together." She drew a caressing hand across his carved Nordic cuirass, practically oozing feminine charm. She wore a corset over a tight-fitting dress that was split up to her thighs, and cut so low in the front it did nothing to hide her ample charms. Gold bracelets jangled at her wrists, and an expensive-looking gold necklace hung around her long, sensuous neck, dropping into the valley between her breasts. Her eyes were so amber they almost glowed, and Marcus felt himself being drawn into that gaze.
She smelled so good, all earthy and musky, and Marcus never noticed the man sitting a few feet away scowling at him.
"We aren't staying that long," Uthgerd's usually mellow voice shattered the moment, seeming much coarser and harsher than the vision before him.
Irritated, Alva tore her gaze from Marcus and swept over Uthgerd's tightly braided hair, which looked like straw in comparison to the silken midnight of Alva's tresses. The plate steel armor was hard, cold and unyielding, whereas Alva was all curves in the right places and so, so inviting.
For a moment, it looked as though she might have said something to the warrior woman, but instead she affected a light laugh and touched Marcus on the hand.
"We'll have to get acquainted later, handsome," she promised. It was only after she left with the scowling man that Marcus realized how cold that touch had seemed.
"I'm sorry if I spoke out of turn," Uthgerd said, though there was nothing of apology in her tone. "I've seen her kind before."
"What do you mean?" Marcus said, giving himself a mental shake and trying to find the appetite for his dinner, which seemed now not so appetizing.
"That kind of woman preys on men," Uthgerd said disapprovingly. "She already came in with one man, and then decided you looked like a better choice, heedless of her partner's feelings." Uthgerd's lips pursed sourly. "She's a tramp, and I don't like her kind. Still, it's not my place to interfere, and if you were interested in her, I will apologize to her."
"No," Marcus said, shaking his head to get the vision of Alva out of it. "You're probably right. We've got other things to do, and I shouldn't get involved with someone like that."
They finished their meal in silence, and afterwards Marcus stepped outside for a breath of fresh air. The dark skeleton of the burned-out house caught his eye again, and he wondered again how long ago it had happened, and if anyone had been hurt. Why hadn't they pulled the rest of it down? It was an eyesore now, and a sad reminder of a tragedy, whatever its magnitude.
The night sky was clear, and he stared in wonder at the scattering of stars across the firmament. There were no moons tonight. Masser and Secunda had both risen late last night and had set sometime during the day. They wouldn't be up for hours yet. Lydia had told him some of the brightest stars formed constellations that related to the Standing Stones that were scattered across Skyrim, and she had pointed out The Warrior to him. He searched for it now, and found it just above the Jarl's longhouse, High Moon Hall.
The one I chose, that first day out of Helgen, he thought. The one that is supposed to guide my steps. He hoped that was true. He was stronger now than he used to be; more confident, able to fight better. Where it would lead, he didn't know. Not for the first time he wished he knew where Tamsyn had gone, but now, instead of feeling resentment over the abandonment, he felt a sense of sadness and concern. He hoped she was alright.
"You're sure we're doing the right thing?" Uthgerd said for the fourth time. They were sitting in a clump of trees near an open grave. A small coffin rested awkwardly in it, as though someone had tried to remove it, but wasn't strong enough to.
"I'm positive," Marcus said. "The little girl, Helgi, told me to find her before the 'other one' could. Jarl Idgrod thought the cemetery would be the best place to start looking."
"You were talking to a ghost," Uthgerd muttered, and Marcus gave an exasperated sigh.
"I know that!" he hissed. "But that little girl won't rest easy unless someone helps her. Now let's just be quiet and wait for this 'other one' to show up."
Uthgerd looked as though she would argue the point, but decided to take a more diplomatic tack and said nothing. Marcus could sense her impatience and irritation, but he knew he was doing the right thing.
He had never believed in ghosts before, in his old life, but since he had arrived in Skyrim he'd seen a lot of things he would have said were impossible before; dragons were foremost among them, followed closely by walking dead. But an idle comment to Jonna last night told him the story of the burned-out house, and sensing an opportunity to unravel a mystery – which he never could resist – Marcus had gone to Jarl Idgrod and found himself staking out the cemetery after talking to the ghost of a little girl, Helgi, who had died in the fire. Now he felt he owed it to Helgi to uncover the truth. Did her father really set the fire that claimed her life, and the life of her mother?
He'd sought out Hroggar earlier in the day, at the lumber mill – even chopped wood for the man to get him to talk – but he seemed completely unaffected by the recent loss of his wife and daughter. So much so that he had moved in with Alva, the vision of beauty Marcus had seen the night before, shortly after the fire. That alone was enough to elicit feelings he'd rather not name. He'd gone to sleep the night before and had had erotic dreams involving the woman, and had awoken with a raging hard-on.
Something moved in the shadows, and Marcus and Uthgerd pulled back further into their copse of trees. A solitary figure emerged and picked up a nearby shovel, attempting to clear more of the newly-turned earth in an attempt to remove the coffin.
Marcus felt rage boiling up. How dare they desecrate that little girl's grave? Without thinking, he rushed forward, drawing his sword. Twin pin-points of amber glared at him in the darkness and the figure raised a hand. A reddish glow spewed forth, hitting Marcus directly in the chest. Weakness filled him as lethargy spread through his limbs. He nearly dropped the battleaxe as his hands lost the sensation of feeling.
"Oblivion take you, you filthy vampire!" Uthgerd shouted. She leaped over the grave and brought her greatsword sweeping around, slicing the figure across the middle. With a shriek, the figure collapsed to the ground. The reddish glow stopped, and Marcus felt his strength slowly returning.
"What the fuck what that?" he gasped.
Uthgerd scowled at his epithet. "Watch the language, mister," she warned. "I may be a warrior, but I'm still a lady!" She pointed at the woman lying on the ground. "That, my friend, is – or I should say, was – a vampire."
"Sorry," Marcus muttered. Another aspect of this new world he needed to remember: when and where it was appropriate to swear. "That's a vampire?" he asked now.
"Didn't you notice the glowing eyes?" Uthgerd asked in surprise. "The way she was drawing out your life-force?" Glowing eyes? Amber eyes, like Alva's.
"She?" Marcus echoed. A sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach lurched through him. It wasn't Alva, was it? In the gloom of the night it was hard to tell. But no, this woman, though she had dark hair, was not Alva, and he breathed a sigh of relief. This woman had the softer features, despite the vampiric look, of a Breton.
"It's Laelette," a small voice said behind him. Turning, Marcus saw the ghost of little Helgi standing there. "Alva told Laelette to burn Mommy and me, but she didn't want to," Helgi said. "She kissed me on the neck, and I got so cold the fire didn't even hurt. She wanted to take me and keep me forever, but she can't; I'm all burned up," the little girl finished sadly. "I'm tired now. I'm going to go to sleep."
"Helgi, wait!" Marcus exclaimed, but she was gone. That cold feeling in the pit of his stomach was threatening to bring supper up with it. Alva told Laelette to set the fire? Just so she could have Hroggar? But that would mean Hroggar had had no objections to the murder of his own wife and daughter; he might even have been an accomplice to it! Feeling sick, Marcus realized he'd almost felt attracted to the woman.
"Laelette!" a man's voice cried out. "Laelette!"
Running up the path from the village was Thonnir. Marcus remembered him from earlier in the day, when he'd gone to the mill to talk to Hroggar. In point of fact, he had talked to nearly everyone in town that day to find out more about what had happened at Hroggar's house. Thonnir was particularly unhelpful, being more concerned about his missing wife, Laelette. The man had a son, too, Virkmund, whom Marcus had overheard talking to Joric, the Jarl's son, and Agni, the little girl who lived with Jonna's brother Falion, the sorcerer.
"Who are the Stormcloaks?" he'd asked. "And why would Mama want to spend time with them instead of me?" His friends had shaken their heads, unable to answer the question.
"She's….she'd dead…" Thonnir muttered brokenly now, crouching and picking up the bloody remains of the vampire they'd slain. "My poor, poor Laelette!"
Marcus and Uthgerd said nothing for several moments as they let the man's grief run its course.
"Thonnir," Marcus said finally, quietly, "I'm more sorry for this than you can know. But maybe I can find out what happened, if you'll tell me what you know."
Making a huge effort to get himself under control, Thonnir looked up at the two of them. Drawing a ragged breath, he spoke. "Laelette just vanished one day. Left without a word. I searched all over the marshes for her, but I couldn't find any trace. Virkmund, my boy, has been doing his best to keep a brave face, but how could a mother just leave her child like that? It isn't right!"
Marcus could hardly agree more.
"Is there anything else you can tell me?" he asked. "Who was the last person to have seen her?"
"She began spending a lot of time with Alva," Thonnir said slowly, as if remembering back, "yet just a week before she despised the woman. The night before she disappeared, she was supposed to meet with Alva out on the marsh, but Alva told me later she never showed up, and said she'd gone to join the Stormcloaks."
The pieces clicked into place in a theory Marcus couldn't ignore.
"They say if a vampire so much as scratches you, that you'll turn into one!" How many times had he heard one of the guards say that?
"I think they may have met after all," he said gently. He didn't want to believe it himself, but the circumstantial evidence against Alva was piling up.
"But that would mean—" Thonnir was quick on the uptake, Marcus would give him that. "You think Alva is a vampire?"
"It's a possibility we can't ignore," Marcus said.
"No!" Thonnir cried, "You're wrong! I'll never believe Alva was involved in this! There's no way you can prove that!" He collapsed, sobbing, back down onto the body of his wife.
There was nothing more Marcus and Uthgerd could do. They left the cemetery to head back into the village.
"What now, Marcus?" Uthgerd asked. Despite herself, she found she was becoming more and more interested in solving the mystery they'd discovered here. "Without proof, you can't go to Jarl Idgrod and accuse Alva of being a vampire. Especially if she's known here and you're not, and she's already got half the men in this town under her sway."
"We'll need more evidence, then," Marcus said grimly.
"And how are you going to get it?" Uthgerd asked.
"I'm going to search her house."
Bad idea, Marcus thought. This was a very bad idea. He and Uthgerd entered the cave known as Movarth's Lair together, after insisting the townsfolk return to their homes.
"Go!" Thonnir, the last to be persuaded, had said. "Go and avenge my Laelette for me!"
He wasn't doing it for vengeance, Marcus thought. Well, okay, partly for that, but not really for Laelette. It was for a little girl who would never have the chance to grow up and live the life she should have had.
Breaking into Alva's house was nerve-wracking enough. He had to wait until the village guards were looking the other way, and then try to pick the lock on the door. He didn't have many picks with him, either, and during his trip through Bleak Falls Barrow, Tamsyn had picked all the locks they'd had to get through. She had showed him how, but it was still very difficult to do.
Hroggar had attacked them as they came in, which meant a scuffle ensued, resulting in the man's death. Marcus tried to feel some kind of pity for him, but if he was merely a thrall under Alva's control, surviving the ordeal would have broken the man, once he realized he'd helped to murder his own family.
Down in the basement of Alva's house, he and Uthgerd had finally found the proof they needed: a coffin lined with soil, open and waiting for its mistress to return, and tucked inside was a journal revealing the grand master plan regarding the bleak future of Morthal. Alva had been turned by a vampire named Movarth Pequine out in the marshes. With his help, Alva planned to turn the entire village of Morthal into a kind of "feeding farm" for the coven of vampires Movarth planned to create in a nearby cave.
Marcus had taken the journal to Jarl Idgrod, who had looked through it and expressed her concern about the Master Vampire mentioned in the leather-bound book.
"I had thought, like many others, that Morvath Pequine had been destroyed centuries ago," she confessed. "Now it appears he threatens Morthal once more. I beg you, young Marcus, go into the lair and rid us of this menace once and for all. I'll assemble a group of people to go with you."
The angry mob – for indeed, they were little more than that – had more anger than courage, it turned out. While all of them agreed the vampires must be destroyed, none of them – except Thonnir – wanted to go into the lair and risk their lives to do it. Not one of them wore armor, or were skilled with weapons.
Where's all the guards I've seen wandering around? Marcus wondered. Isn't this their bailiwick?
He couldn't risk the lives of the townsfolk. He knew that. But two of them – he and Uthgerd – going into the vampire lair by themselves wasn't exactly the best laid plan, either. He was low on potions, and mentioned this to Uthgerd. Thankfully, Lami, at the Thaumaturgist's Hut offered to open her shop for him. She had a handful of potions, she told him, which would cure vampirism, if he caught it while clearing out the lair, and he gratefully bought everything she had, in addition to some healing and stamina potions. He had decided to wait until dawn, figuring the vampires in the lair might be weaker than if he attempted to fight them in the middle of the night.
"I'm right behind you," Uthgerd said now, and to the woman's credit, there was no trace of the nervousness he felt inside. These were honest-to-God, blood-sucking vampires, for Christ's sake, and he'd seen too many movies not to be unnerved about walking right into a den full of them. And one of them was supposed to be this Vampire Lord, Movarth, who was supposed to have died hundreds of years ago.
Surprise! he thought sourly. Well, you wanted a mystery. This is the end of the story. Let's do this.
The first two caverns were easy enough. He got the drop on the look-out stationed near the entrance to the cave by shooting her in the back. She never heard the arrow that claimed her unlife. The one in the pit was a bit trickier, since in order to get him, Marcus had had to sneak up closer. But stepping on a femur bone that crunched under his steel-shod boot alerted the man, and from there it was a frenzied skirmish to take him out while avoiding getting scratched or drained again.
The inner chamber was large and sprawling, with a path that led up and around the outer perimeter to the left. Uthgerd motioned she would move ahead, and let Marcus take the upper level if he chose. He nodded and they split up.
The path dog-legged to the left, but gave him a great view overlooking the entire chamber. A handful of lesser vampires, and what Uthgerd told him were thralls – those bound to serve the vampire, like Hroggar had been – wandered around the cavern, waiting on their Lord's pleasure.
There he was: the Vampire Lord Movarth himself. The black armor he wore was fastened with silver buckles. His long white hair was swept back from a cruelly-chisled face. Amber eyes glared out over his domain. Marcus realized several things at once: he was totally outclassed here, Uthgerd was waiting for his signal, and his best chance of victory was to take Movarth out as quickly as possible. He nocked an arrow, drew and let fly, following it swiftly with two more, only one of which hit as Movarth stood quickly and side-stepped out of the way.
Damn! He had been hoping to avoid going toe-to-toe with the Vampire Lord. But Uthgerd was already rushing in. When several more of the lesser vampires and thralls moved in from the side chambers, Marcus realized he may have made a great tactical error. He should have sneaked quietly through the side chambers and taken them out one at a time. Now the entire complex was arrayed against them.
We're fucked.
There was no hope for it. Uthgerd was already staggering under the onslaught of five lesser vampires. Movarth didn't see the need to become involved, confident his minions would be able to handle things without his assistance or interference.
Reloading his bow, and keeping the advantage of height for now, Marcus began picking off the thralls and lesser vampires from his vantage point on the causeway. But as two and three and four of them fell to his arrows, he soon realized that some, including Movarth himself, were taking aim at him with their draining spells. He felt himself weakening and withdrew further around the corner, discovering a tunnel which led away and down, probably to the main chamber below. From the tail of his eye, he saw two vampires duck down a passage to the left which most likely joined up with the tunnel at his back.
Putting the bow away and drawing his battleaxe, Marcus hurried down the corridor to meet them. Before he got to the bottom, however, he heard the sounds of fighting ahead of him and peeked around a corner In time to see Alva kill one of the vampires before being killed by the other. The last one standing turned and saw him, advancing with red glowing hand extended.
Marcus gritted his teeth against the weakness and swung the axe as he ran forward, cleaving the vampire in two. Huffing with the exertion, he paused for a moment to be sure Alva and the other vampire were both dead. Why had she turned on them? Or had they turned on her, thinking she had led Uthgerd and him here. That was the more likely explanation.
But time to think about that later. Right now, Uthgerd needed his help.
He rounded the corner to see a terrifying tableau: Movarth had Uthgerd gripped about her neck with one hand, raised off the floor of the cavern. Her eyes were dull with pain and she didn't see him. Movarth did, however, and grinned cruelly as he drew her close and sank his fangs into her neck. She twitched once or twice while Marcus remained rooted to the spot in horror, then went limp. Movarth casually threw the woman away from him. She landed in an undignified heap against the cavern wall.
"Pathetic fool!" the Vampire Lord rasped. "Did you honestly believe you could defeat me? I have survived thousands of such attempts over hundreds of years. You may have decimated my ranks for now, but when I have drained you, you will rise up again as a thrall under my control, and you will serve me loyally." The audacity of it all seemed to amuse Movarth no end, for he began cackling madly.
Marcus found he could move again, and did so.
"FUS RO!"
Movarth staggered back several feet, not expecting this kind of assault.
Screaming out his anguish, Marcus charged forward with the Axe of Whiterun raised, swinging it with everything that was in him. The look of surprise on Movarth's face stayed long after it was separated from his body.
Ignoring the dead vampire for the moment, Marcus rushed to Uthgerd's side. Quickly he stripped off his gauntlets and felt for a pulse. Nothing. He could feel nothing, and anguish threatened to choke him. No. Not like this!
"I'm so sorry, Uthgerd," he whispered, cradling her head in his lap. Tears streamed down his face, and he didn't care. Uthgerd was dead because of him, because of his poor planning, because he wasn't good enough. It would have been better if he'd been the one to die. If this new world of his, Skyrim, depended on him to save them, they were fucked, because he couldn't even keep one traveling companion alive.
How long he sat there in misery, he had no idea. Numbly, he finally rose to his feet, gently laying Uthgerd down and covering her with her traveling cloak. Remembering Lami's caution about the vampiric disease, he downed a potion, then made his way out of the cavern, pausing only long enough to bid farewell to Helgi's ghost, who met him at the top and thanked him for avenging her and her mother.
He barely remembered the trek back to Morthal, alerting the Jarl that the job was done, and guiding a contingent of guards back to retrieve Uthgerd's and Alva's bodies, as well as make sure the bodies of the vampires were destroyed by fire. The pyres burned well into the afternoon and evening, and still Marcus felt detached from it all.
He sat in a corner of the Moorside, nursing a bottle of mead, and staring at the fire dancing in the fire pit. He was aware that someone had come up to sit beside him on the bench, but didn't turn to see who it was until they spoke.
"Uthgerd's death wasn't your fault, young Marcus," the Jarl of Morthal said.
Marcus said nothing, but turned back to stare into the flames.
"From what I saw of her, she was a warrior, and a true Nord through and through," Idgrod continued. "She died doing what she did best – fighting to protect others – and for that, she will rest easy in Sovngarde."
"She'd still be alive if I hadn't brought her with me," Marcus muttered.
"True," Idgrod acknowledged, "but she might have died perhaps in some other battle. Who is to say? Perhaps she might have died of old age, friendless and alone, with no one to take care of her. That is no kind of death for someone who dreams of glory and honor. You gave her that. And truth be told, I think Uthgerd would have preferred to die in combat, than in an old woman's sickbed."
Marcus thought of Tamsyn, and her comments to him in Riverwood.
"I was an old woman, in a nursing home. My family must have had money…they made sure I was taken care of, so they wouldn't have to."
"It's my fault she's dead," Marcus insisted. "If we hadn't gone in there, she'd still be alive."
"And if you hadn't," the Jarl of Morthal said sharply, "we would all have ended up as cattle for a lair full of vampires. We have you to thank for preventing that tragedy," Idgrod continued, more gently. "You and your companion, Uthgerd. We will always remember what the two of you did for Morthal."
She rose stiffly and stepped away, turning back as if remembering something.
"No good thing ever comes without a cost, young Dragonborn," she said. "Oh yes, I know who you are. Word is spreading. And even if it hadn't, I see things others don't. Just remember that the good you do in the end will far outweigh the bad that must come with it. Keep that in mind, and as you grow stronger, tragedies like this will not follow as often as you fear they might."
The Jarl left the Inn, and Marcus resumed his study of the fire pit, thinking about what the old woman had said. She might be right, Marcus thought, about some things anyway. Uthgerd loved combat, he knew that, so yes, she probably would have preferred to die in battle as opposed to dying of old age. And yes, if they hadn't gone in to clear the place, it would have been so much worse for the people of Morthal.
"No good thing ever comes without a cost."
Perhaps that was true, too, Marcus thought. But there was always a way to minimize risk, if one explored one's options thoroughly enough. He knew that now, and he would never make that mistake again. Before he took anyone else with him on his quests, as he'd come to think of them, he would make sure they knew the risks involved. Not for the first time, he wished he'd brought Lydia with him after all. And for the hundredth time that month, he wondered where Tamsyn was.
"I don't understand," Benor said, rubbing his head. "What's missing?"
"The Horn, dammit!" Marcus raged. "The goddamned Horn of Jurgen Windcaller that we crawled all the way through this stinking place to retrieve! It should be right there, but it's not!"
Benor looked again at the sarcophagus, inscribed with scratchings that made no sense to him. The center of the lid had an effigy of a hand, raised up to hold something, but it was empty. Empty, that was, except for a folded up piece of parchment.
"Well, whoever took it left you a note, looks like," Benor said, pulling it out of the hand and offering it to Marcus.
Marcus grabbed the parchment and opened it up.
"Dragonborn," the note read. "I need to speak to you urgently. Rent the attic room at the Sleeping Giant Inn in Riverwood and I'll meet you. –A Friend."
Attic room? There was no attic room at the Sleeping Giant, he knew that for a fact.
"Someone you know?" Benor asked.
"No," Marcus gritted, crushing the paper in his hands and throwing it away from him. "But I bloody well intend to find out who it is."
"So we're headed to Riverwood then?" Benor asked hopefully.
Marcus looked at the man he'd beaten in a fair fist fight, attempting to relieve some of the anguish and guilt he'd felt over Uthgerd's death. Ironically, it was the same way he'd met her, each of them attempting to punch out the other's lights. When Benor went down to his knees, Marcus pulled back, his frustration forgotten. Benor had laughed, clapped him on the back and told him he was one hell of a fighter, and could call on him anytime he needed an extra sword.
Knowing he still needed to delve into Ustengrav for the Horn, Marcus had enlisted the other man's aid, and found him to be an admirable fighter. Benor wasn't afraid of draugr, spiders or things that went bump in the night. They got along reasonably well, and Marcus felt good giving Benor some kind of purpose.
"I keep asking to join the guard here in Morthal," he admitted, "but they keep turning me down. Doesn't keep me from hoping, though."
Now, looking at the hope and expectation in the other man's eyes, Marcus relented.
"Sure," he said. "Let's head back to Morthal. You can pick up whatever you need for a journey and then we'll head out."
"What about all this stuff we've picked up in here?" Benor asked.
"We'll stop at Whiterun on the way to Riverwood," Marcus assured him. "I need to check on a few things at home, anyway."
The trip back took longer than Marcus anticipated. There was no carriage from Morthal, so they had to walk. That meant dealing with anything they met on the road, which included bandits, spiders, wolves, and even, to Benor's amazement, a dragon.
The creature dropped down out of the sky on them without warning and breathed a spew of frost at them that chilled Marcus to the bone. Benor seemed unaffected, however, and immediately drew his sword.
"I'll rip you to pieces!" he shouted, laying into the dragon, who appeared startled that this puny creature would assault him thusly. It snapped at Benor, who merely laughed and dodged out of its way before it launched itself into the air again.
Marcus took aim and Shouted, "Fus Ro!" at it, hitting it squarely on the underbelly, making it lurch before it wheeled off.
"Uh oh, incoming!" Marcus warned. He darted to one side to avoid the stream of ice strafing them. He felt the temperature in the immediate area plummet, but at least he hadn't got hit this time.
The dragon was circling around for another attack and Marcus drew his bow. He was getting better at archery, he felt, but only because the bow had a very small learning curve to it. Once you learned the basics, it was simply a matter of practice, practice, practice until you were as good as you were possibly going to get. He'd found some arrows in Ustengrav that Benor told him were of Dwarven make, and said they were stronger than steel. This would be the perfect opportunity to test them out – assuming he hit the dragon, of course.
"Here he comes!" Benor shouted, and fired his own bow with his share of the Dwemer arrows. Two of his shots hit, but the third went wide as the dragon swooped past.
Marcus fired his own bow, but only two shots. He wanted the thing to land. Both shots hit, and once more the dragon shuddered in mid-air. Its circle around wasn't quite as wide this time, and it landed about a hundred yards away from them in the flattest, clearest spot it could find.
"FO KRAH DIIN!" the creature Shouted at them, sending another blast of frost their way, and Marcus made a mental note to see if he could find that Shout anywhere. Breathing fire would be cool; breathing fire and ice would be even better.
"Let's flank it!" he yelled to Benor, who nodded and began circling around the dragon's left side while Marcus worked his way around its right. Unable to keep its eyes on both men at the same time, the dragon opted to go after Marcus.
"That's it, you scaly, overgrown newt!" he taunted. "Come at me!"
SNAP!
Jaws full of razor-sharp teeth lunged at him, missing by a mere arm's length. Marcus refused to be intimidated, however, and slashed at the giant, flying lizard's wing. If it couldn't fly, he and Benor could take it out.
The axe connected, but only a glancing blow; the dragon's scales were tougher than anything Marcus had ever tried to cut through. A shriek from the creature, and a reflexive snap at its left side told him Benor must have hit. His suspicions were confirmed when he heard Benor laugh.
"Didn't like that, did ya, you egg-sucking salamander!"
The dragon attempted to turn itself toward Benor to be able to snap at him, but Marcus swung the battleaxe again and kept its attention focused on him. No way did he want to lose another companion due to his own failings.
"The fight's over here, draugr-breath!" he mocked the drake. "I'm waiting to take your soul!"
Furious, the frost dragon blew out a cone of cold right at Marcus, who felt it deep in his bones. He thought Des Moines had brutal winters, but he'd never faced a cold that sunk in right to his core the way the dragon breath did. His muscles screamed in protest and refused to move as fast as they should.
Panicking, he backed away, but it wasn't fast enough. The dragon was coming right at him, maw gaping wide open to chomp him into a mass of quivering, bloody flesh, and there was nothing he could do about it.
And suddenly, the dragon convulsed as Benor sliced open its throat with his battleaxe.
Relief washed over Marcus. "Thanks, Benor!" he gulped gratefully. "I owe you one."
And then the dragon lit up like the Fourth of July as its soul poured forth, streaming into Marcus and settling into a corner of his mind next to Mir Mul Nir. For a long moment, Marcus stood there, sifting through the creature's memories and knowledge. He knew he could use the soul to unlock the meaning of kaan, the Word he'd found in Shroud Hearth Barrow, but instead he decided to wait and see what other Words might come along.
Benor stood dumbfounded and open-mouthed. "I—I can't believe it!" he finally exclaimed. "You took its soul!"
"Yeah," Marcus admitted, still trying to get used to the idea himself. "I have a habit of doing that, it appears."
"You—you're the one!" Benor breathed in awe. "You're the Dragonborn!"
"Yeah," Marcus nodded. "I guess I am."
"And this Horn you had to find…?"
"For the Greybeards," Marcus told him. "It's supposed to be my final trial before they officially recognize me as Dragonborn. Only now it's gone missing."
Benor smirked. "Well, then, let's get going and find this thief. And when we catch up to them –" Here he cracked his knuckles in apparent glee. "We'll show 'em you don't steal from a Dragon!"
Marcus found himself actually grinning. There was no mistake: Benor was starting to grow on him.
[For those of you who love Uthgerd, I'm sorry. I toyed with the idea of letting her live, but the story seemed too sappy and contrived that way. To all intents and purposes, this is Marcus' "real life", now. Very often in life, people die and you are helpless to prevent it. Next chapter is ready, so I'm posting it along with this. It's shorter, but much more light-hearted.]