Chapter 13
Morthal looked the same as it had when Marcus was last here. He'd taken the carriage from Solitude just as quickly as he could. If the Thalmor decided to question Thaer, they would only learn that a lone male passenger in Nordic carved armor had traveled to Morthal. It wasn't the best plan for avoiding potential pursuit, Marcus knew, and he doubted it would fool the Thalmor for a moment. But at least he would have to walk from here, and there would be any number of directions he could go.
He stopped at the guardhouse and found Benor sharpening the Orkish greatsword.
"Marcus!" the Nord cried delightedly when he saw him come in. "Good to see you again. I didn't expect it to be so soon, though. What's up?" The two men clasped wrists.
"Your sword still available?" the Dragonborn asked.
"You know it is," Benor enthused. "Where are we going?"
"Riverwood, eventually," Marcus replied quietly. "But there's a place I need to go first, and it's fairly nearby. Ever hear of Dead Men's Respite?"
"Yeah, I have," Benor said. "But why are you whispering?"
"I'm not—" Marcus realized that he had, in fact, been doing just that, and cleared his throat. "I'm not whispering," he continued in a normal voice. "I just want to make sure we're not overheard."
"Now you're sounding like Delphine," Benor said. Marcus scowled at him until Benor grinned, then he relaxed and chuckled.
"Yeah, I guess I am a bit," he admitted. "I understand a few things now I didn't know before. If you're ready to go, we'll talk on the way."
It didn't take long for Benor to get his gear together; they then headed out together on the road that led southwest out of town.
Marcus told Benor of his exploits infiltrating the Thalmor Embassy. Benor just whistled. "You sure know how to pick an enemy!" he commented.
"It's a gift," Marcus shrugged, hiding how worried he was. He didn't think they would be so foolish as to go after his family in Whiterun, but that depended on whether they put two and two together and figured out that Marcus Solomon of Des Moines – the alias he insisted Delphine use on his invitation – was actually Marcus Dragonborn of Whiterun.
"Why 'Solomon'?" Delphine had asked. "It's not very wise to use your real name, you know, especially where the Thalmor are concerned."
"It's not my real name," he quirked a grin at her. "'Solomon' means a solo man…a man working on his own. Des Moines is where I used to live before I came to Skyrim, but it's so far off the map it will take them years to find it. That's wasted time in my favor."
Delphine gave him an admiring look. "I guess you're thinking ahead after all," she admitted reluctantly as she forged the invitation.
Dead Men's Respite was a sprawling Nordic ruin set back into a hill along one of the tributaries of the Karth River. It was filled with draugr and frostbite spiders…and a ghost that seemed to be leading them through the barrow, down into its depths to a small, partially collapsed room containing the skeleton of a man in a tattered bard's tunic, clutching an ancient journal in the remains of its hand. The ghost sat silently nearby, waiting and watching.
Marcus took the journal, and the ghost disappeared. The leather-bound book was in a sad state of disrepair, but what he could read seemed to be a diatribe against King Olaf One-Eye.
"Olaf One-Eye?" Benor asked, when Marcus told him. "Who was that?"
"Jarl Balgruuf told me about him," Marcus said pensively. "He was supposedly the King that built Dragonsreach and used it to capture the dragon, Numinex. See? It says right here, 'O Olaf, our subjugator, the one-eyes betrayer, death-dealing demon and dragon-killing King. Your legend is lies, lurid and false; your cunning capture of Numinex, a con for the ages.'"
"I can't read, remember?" Benor grumbled.
"Sorry, I forgot," Marcus said, abashed. "It sounds like someone didn't like Olaf, that's for sure. I can't read very much more. This book is in bad shape. It must have been down here a long time. Let's see here. 'Olaf grabbed power by promise and threat; From Falkreath to Winterhold they fell to their knees; But Solitude stood strong, Skyrim's truest protectors. Olaf's vengeance was instant, inspired and wicked."
"What did he do?" Benor asked, curious in spite of himself.
"I don't know," Marcus said regretfully. "It's all smudged and faded from the dampness in this place. There's only a little bit at the end I can make out: 'So ends the story of Olaf the liar, a thief and a scoundrel we of Solitude commit to the fire. In Solitude bards train for their service, they also gather each year and burn a King who deserves it.'"
"Well, are we taking it with us?" Benor asked impatiently. "There's still that big door upstairs we haven't gone through yet."
"Not for lack of trying," Marcus muttered. "Yeah, I'll take the book with me. Balgruuf might want to look at it. I don't think he'll like what he'll read, though. Olaf One-Eye was supposedly some ancestor of his."
"Then don't show it to him," Benor shrugged as they made their way back up.
"You can't deny history just because it's unpleasant," Marcus said. "If this journal has any truth to it, and I think it might, we owe it to—" here he flipped it open to the flyleaf again. "We owe it to this Svaknir fellow to bring that truth to light."
"Who's Svaknir?"
"I think he's the ghost who's been leading us through here," Marcus said.
"You mean him?" Benor pointed.
At the top of the stairs, the ghost was waiting for them. As they approached, he drew his spectral sword, gestured toward the sealed door which banged open and charged down the hallway beyond, disappearing before he reached the end, where another Nordic puzzle door awaited them. By now, it was the work of a moment to dig out the ruby-tipped claw key they'd found near the entrance and set the proper combination – wolf, hawk, wolf – before fitting the claw into the holes and getting the door open. Marcus grinned as Benor's face fell in awe, then he grew serious.
"Get ready," he warned his friend. "Every time I've opened one of these doors, I've had the fight of my life on the other side."
"I'm ready," Benor grinned.
The chamber they entered was lined with draugr seated on stone and iron thrones flanking a shallow pool of water. At the far end of the chamber, stairs rose up to a platform with four more draugr – tougher-looking than any he'd seen so far – and beyond them it climbed to a final tier with a large sarcophagus situated there. Dimly, Marcus heard chanting, and knew he'd found the Word Wall his mysterious 'Friend' had told him would be here.
For the first time since they'd seen him at the barrow's entry hall, the ghost spoke in a raspy voice.
"Olaf!" he cried. "It is time!"
The ground rumbled, and several of the draugr near them awoke, evil blue lights in their eyes.
"Ysmir's beard!" Benor yelped.
"What's the matter?" Marcus grinned. "We've fought draugr before."
"Not so many at once, though!" Benor grumbled.
"At least they're not all getting up at once," Marcus offered, trying to be helpful. And then it was time to get serious as the undead strode towards them. The ghost of Svaknir seemed to enjoy the benefit of being able to cause damage without taking any. Marcus envied him only for that. He had no intention of letting the walking dead make him one of their number. He stood back to back with Benor and they systematically cut down every draugr that came their way.
When the first wave was defeated, Svaknir spoke again.
"Arise, Olaf! My vengeance is at hand!"
Once more the floor shook, and more draugr rose to their feet.
"Here we go again!" Benor warned. For several minutes the only sounds were the sounds of steel on steel, the grunting of the draugr, and Marcus' well-placed Shouts. This battle was even tougher, since several of the draugr were spell-casters, and a few of them even knew Shouts of their own. Benor went down at one point, and Svaknir stood over him, fending off attackers until the big Nord could wrest a healing potion out of his backpack to drink.
Finally it was quiet again, and Svaknir advanced up the stairs to the large sarcophagus that lay there.
"Olaf!" he demanded.
CRACK! The lid of the coffin blew off, and the mummified form of King Olaf One-Eye himself rose from his eternal sleep.
"Insolent Bard!" he growled. "Die!"
Svaknir leaped at him, and the two adversaries clashed. Benor held back and shot at the draugr-King with his bow, doing little damage. Marcus raised his elven sword and brought it down, but Olaf seemed to have expected this, and stopped the blow with a backward block with his Warhammer, twisting it around and nearly causing Marcus to lose his grip on his weapon.
The undead King glared at the Dragonborn and Shouted at him, "Zun haal viik!"
Now the elven sword did fly across the room, and Marcus suddenly found himself without a weapon.
Crap! He Shouts?
Seeing the dead King bearing down on him with Svaknir in hot pursuit, Marcus leaped down the stairs, scanning desperately for his sword.
"Over by the table!" Benor called, pointing. He shot two more arrows at the draugr King, but they had little effect. Svaknir stabbed with his sword, causing Olaf to turn and battle the ghost of the bard he had imprisoned here. Marcus took the opportunity of the distraction to scramble down and grab his sword. Feeling decidedly more comfortable now he was re-armed, Marcus made a mental note to try and carry more than one weapon from now on.
The battle raged on for several more minutes, until finally, Marcus was able to use his Unrelenting Force without catching either Benor or Svaknir in it. The undead monarch flew backward against the Word Wall, and Svaknir leaped up and stabbed him through the middle of his chest. The light went out of the undead's eyes, and it was over. Svaknir bowed to Benor and Marcus, then stood by a door to the left of the sarcophagus and took out a lute. They couldn't hear what he played, sadly, but suddenly Svaknir's ghost was enveloped in white light and he vanished.
Now that all the fighting was over, Marcus heard the chanting of the Word Wall louder than ever. Stepping closer, the now-familiar feeling of absorbing the Word came over him. Nah. Fury. He knew what it meant, knew that it belonged to Whirlwind Sprint, but could not lock its deeper understanding. He had no dragon soul in reserve. Well, that could be remedied soon enough. Dragons were, after all, returning to Skyrim.
The two living men found a key on Olaf's body which opened the door and revealed a tunnel that led out of the tomb. The large chest they passed along the way was, they felt, a justifiable reward for what they'd been through.
"What's the quickest way back to Whiterun from here?" Marcus asked Benor as they left the ruins.
"Hmm," the big Nord considered. "There's a trail that leads up to North Cold Rock Pass," he offered. It starts on the other side of the river just east of here. Not many people go that way, though. It's too dangerous."
"In what way?"
"Well, there's trolls, for example," Benor answered. "And lately I've heard reports of a dragon that's taken roost on Eldersblood Peak just above the pass."
"Well, we don't have to go that way, if you're not up to it," Marcus replied sincerely.
Benor snorted. "I can handle myself," he said firmly.
Uthgerd thought the same thing, Marcus thought, but kept it to himself.
In the end, at Benor's urging, they took the pass and dealt with the trolls and the dragon. Marcus learned another Word, zun, which meant "weapon". This was the first word of the disarming Shout Master Arngeir had told him about, that had been taught to Ulfric Stormcloak. Between zun and nah, Marcus decided to unlock the Disarm Shout first. He could already sprint; being able to rip someone's weapon out of their hand seemed a better strategy.
As they surveyed the land from the top of Eldersblood Peak, Marcus could just make out a small town far to the southwest in the fading light of the day.
"Rorikstead," Benor told him. "Ain't much there, really. It's kind of a farming village."
He couldn't see Whiterun from here; too dark, too much distance, and too many hills. But he did notice a ruin tucked at the foot of the mountain. "What's that place?" He asked Benor, pointed down below them.
The big Nord shrugged. "Not sure," he said. "But if you're not in a hurry and you want to check it out, I'm with you.
Rannveig's Fast, the place turned out to be. It was a small, insignificant dot on his map, and haunted by ghosts who protested they didn't want to hurt the two men while still rushing forward to attack. Inside, he'd quickly found a Word Wall behind a large chest. Benor had charged forward, and only Marcus' quick reflexes kept the big Nord from plummeting down a hidden trap in the floor. Stairways to either side led safely around the trap so that Marcus could get access to the Wall.
Drem, he read. Peace. Ah ha! This belonged to the other Word which would calm animals. Well, he'd file it away for now. He had no more dragon souls in any case. What concerned him more was that this was obviously a set-up: an empty chest just beyond a trap door; the ghosts which pleaded with them to understand they didn't want to fight them. Something wasn't right here. Sensing another mystery, Marcus and Benor pushed on further into the barrow, laying more ghosts to rest along the way.
Eventually they came to a room under the main chamber which housed the Word Wall. There, a chamber of horrors met their eyes as a sadistic warlock waited for unwary victims to fall into his traps. They made short work of him when he attempted to add the two men to his ranks of subjugated ghosts, and his journal told the whole sordid story. Marcus was sickened, and was all for burning the place to ashes right then and there. Aside from the new Word and an interesting-looking book called The Aetherium Wars, the only other good thing to come out of the barrow was another of those unusual gems, and the feeling that he had been able to give several spirits a final rest.
Exiting the barrow through a secret, rear entrance, Marcus and Benor found the tundra of Whiterun Hold rolling away before them. They had come through the hills and mountains at last, and would be able to make good time from here on in. They decided to push on through the night.
By the time they got to Whiterun, the sun was already well on its way up the sky. Adrianne nodded to him at her forge, and the guards greeted him with, "Staying safe, I hope?"
"I'm trying to," he answered cheerfully.
Down the street, toward the market, Marcus noticed a crowd had gathered. There was a lot of shouting going on. This was most unusual.
"Some kind of celebration?" Benor asked. "A holiday I don't know about?" He hoped there would be mead, if that was the case.
"I don't know," Marcus said. "Maybe we'd better go check it out."
"Lead the way," Benor grinned.
It was difficult to push through the crowd, as they were tightly packed, shoulder to shoulder. He noticed the guards weren't doing anything to stop whatever was going on, so it couldn't be that serious. And indeed, now he was closer, he could hear a lot of childish voices raised in aggression and encouragement.
"Don't just lie there! Get up and do something!" someone called. It sounded like Amren.
"I'm trying!" a girl's voice whined, "but she won't stand still!"
"What's going on?" Marcus asked the person closest to him. It was Anoriath. The Bosmer did a double-take and suddenly cleared his throat.
"Oh! Ah, hello there, Marcus!" the butcher called, a bit too loudly. "I didn't know you'd returned!"
Several other people nearby turned their heads at that point, and suddenly Marcus felt like he was Moses parting the Red Sea as the crowd divided before him.
In the middle of the market square, near the well, Lucia was balancing on the balls of her feet, her arms held in close, but balanced. On the ground in front of his daughter was a very dusty, very disheveled Braith. There was a scrape on one cheek, and it looked like she had a split lip.
Marcus shot a critical look at Lucia; there wasn't a scratch on her.
"Lucia," he said, as lightly as he could. "You want to tell me what's going on around here?"
"Papa!" Lucia cried, running to him and throwing her arms around his waist. "I did what you said, Papa! I didn't let her touch me!"
Parental pride warred with the need to remain stern. "I see," he said, setting her an arm's length away from him as the townsfolk suddenly realized they had other places to be. "So you started the fight?"
"No, Papa! I didn't!" Lucia looked stricken.
"She didn't start the fight," Braith said now, getting up from the ground and gingerly touching her mouth. "I did."
"You did, Braith?" Amren looked shocked. "But why, sweetling?" He looked helplessly over to the man who had generously helped him out when he didn't have to. "Marcus, I'm sorry, I didn't know—"
"Let your daughter explain, Amren," Marcus said quietly.
Braith shuffled her feet and looked at the ground, refusing to meet her father's gaze. "I was mad because I though Lars liked her better 'n me," she said finally.
"Lars?" Amren blinked. "I thought you didn't like Lars! You're always going on about what a mi—" once again Amren bit off what he'd been about to said, seeing Jon Battle-Born standing nearby, unashamedly watching the proceedings.
"I just wanted him to notice me," Braith mumbled.
"Threatening to beat someone up isn't a good way to get noticed," Marcus told her. "You'll get noticed, alright, but for all the wrong reasons."
"I thought Lucia hurt you?" Amren said now, squatting down next to his daughter and brushing her hair away from her face.
"She never touched me," Braith admitted. "She kept ducking out of the way. I didn't know she was so fast!"
"Then how did you get this?" her father asked, gently touching the scraped face.
Braith hung her head again. "I—I leaped at her, and she moved, and the next thing I knew I was kissing the well," she said, abashed. She looked up at Lucia and gave a tremulous smile. "You're pretty good, you know?" she said admiringly. "How did you learn to move like that?"
Lucia smiled back and looked up at Marcus, eyes glowing with love. "My Papa taught me," she said proudly.
The crisis averted, the crowd dispersed completely and the marketplace got back to the business of business. Amren took his daughter home to clean her up, with a solemn promise to the Dragonborn to talk to Braith.
"Don't just talk to her," Marcus told him. "Listen to her as well. Her acting out like she does is a plea for attention. If you and Saffir don't give it to her willingly, she'll find other ways to get it."
Amren hung his head and again apologized for Braith's bullying behavior, vowing it would cease.
Not overnight it won't, Marcus thought, but it's a start.
Once inside Breezehome, he told Lucia to get washed up for supper.
"And for the record," he whispered in her ear, "I'm very proud of you!"
She giggled happily as she ran off to get ready for the midday meal.
Benor stayed for lunch, and Marcus filled Lydia in on everything that had transpired, except for the invasion of the Thalmor Embassy. The less she – or anyone else – knew about that, the better. But he did caution her, out of earshot of his daughter, that he may have made some dangerous enemies, and she should take note of any strangers coming in to town.
"Are you staying home now, Papa?" Lucia asked hopefully.
"I'm sorry, chica," he apologized. "Benor and I have to go to Riverwood this afternoon to speak with someone. I hope to be back soon, but I'm not sure how the meeting will go."
Lucia's face fell. "I understand," she said, containing her disappointment. "But do you think I could have a little gold to spend? Please?"
Des Moines or Skyrim, all kids are alike, he grinned privately. "Well, I don't know," he mused exaggeratedly. "Is your room clean?"
The little girl nodded. It wasn't a very convincing nod, however.
"Hmm…I wonder what I would find if I looked in there?"
Lucia's face looked shocked. "Give me five minutes, Papa!" she exclaimed, and made a dash for her bedroom.
Grinning, Marcus looked over at Benor who was shaking his head. "You really have a way with kids, you know that?" the big Nord said.
"I've been around the block a few times," the Dragonborn replied cryptically, still with that smug grin.
When Lucia returned, Marcus picked her up and sat down with her in a chair. "Now listen, Lucia," he said seriously. "I'm going to give you an allowance, but only on condition that you do your chores each day and keep your room clean, understand?"
Lucia cocked her head to one side. "What kind of chores, Papa?"
"I expect you to help Lydia keep the place clean, wash your clothes when they're dirty, and keep your room tidy. If you do that, you'll get a regular allowance."
"But I thought Lydia was our housekeeper," Lucia frowned.
Uh oh, Marcus thought. Intervention time. Let's nip this attitude in the bud.
"Lydia is my Housecarl," he corrected his daughter. "She answers to me, not to you. She's sworn to my service, not yours. As such, she's not a 'hired hand' to be ordered around."
Lucia turned this over in her mind. "Alright, Papa," she said finally. "I understand. I'll do my chores and help Lydia when she asks me."
I'd like it better if you did things without asking, he thought, but I'll take what I can get. Baby steps, Marcus. Baby steps.
He gave his daughter a small pouch of coins, kissed her on the forehead and let her rejoin her friends outside.
"Thank you, my Thane," Lydia said from the corner by the pantry. He hadn't even seen her standing there. He'd thought she was upstairs.
Nodding his acknowledgement, he set about unloading his pack to prepare for the trip to Riverwood.
"I don't know about you, Marcus," Benor remarked, "and don't get me wrong; I think Riverwood's a nice enough little village, but I'm getting awfully tired of seeing it."
Marcus privately agreed, but he needed to give the information to Delphine that they had risked so much to get. He hadn't had a chance to read the dossiers he'd picked up, so he resolved not to show those to the innkeeper slash covert operations manager. He did manage to read the parchment he'd found, labeled Dragon Investigation: Current Status, penned by Rulindil and meant for Ambassador Elenwen's eyes. According to Rulindil, the Thalmor knew very little about the return of the dragons, but expected to gain some information soon, by means which were obscure, but undoubtedly involved some of the torture apparati he'd seen in the lower level of the Embassy. It was very interesting reading, and Marcus was gladder than ever that he had ended the sadistic torturer's life.
This time Delphine wasn't waiting in the common room for them, but by now both men knew where they'd find her. They made their way downstairs, after securing the doors.
She looked up from the alchemy lab as they entered.
"You made it out alive, at least," she said in obvious relief. For a moment, Marcus was almost touched by her concern. "Your gear is safe over there in the chest, as promised."
He'd almost forgotten about that. After giving almost everything over to Malborn (whom he still thought had taken the Ebony Blade) the little he had left – a few gold, keys he didn't need, extra lockpicks and so forth – had had to be turned over to Delphine to avoid any possibility that he would be refused entry into the Embassy.
"Did you learn anything useful?" Delphine asked now, as he reclaimed his possessions.
"No," Marcus said shortly. "It's like I thought. They don't know anything about it."
"Really?" she blinked, then frowned. "That seems hard to believe. You're sure about that?"
"Why did you send me on that wild goose chase if you aren't going to believe me?" he snapped. "I risked my neck both getting in there and out of there!" And I didn't come out with everything I went in there with, he simmered privately.
Delphine saw the anger in his amber eyes and backed down. "You're right!" she said, putting her hands up in surrender. "You're right. I just..I was sure it must have been them."
"Well, you were wrong," Marcus stated without sarcasm. He was proud of himself for keeping his voice neutral.
Delphine paced up and down the small room. "If not the Thalmor, then who?" she muttered. "Or what?"
"I don't know," Marcus sighed. "I still personally think the dragons have their own agenda going. The Thalmor certainly don't know, but they're looking for someone they think does. Some guy named Esbern."
At this, Delphine's head shot up. "Esbern?" she cried. "He's alive?" Her voice was laced with delight, underlined with worry. "I thought the Thalmor must have got him years ago." She chuckled softly. "That crazy old man…it figures they'd be on his trail, though, if they were trying to find out what's going on with the dragons."
"Why would they want this Esbern guy?" Benor asked.
"You mean, aside from wanting to kill every Blade they can lay their hands on?" She shuddered, and Marcus felt a pang of sympathy for what she must have endured the last thirty years. "Esbern was one of the Blades' archivists," she explained, "back before the Thalmor smashed us during the Great War. You two are too young to remember that, but for me it could have been yesterday." Her eyes grew distant, as she looked back over memories of which the two men with her were no part.
She seemed to give herself a mental shake, however, and continued. "Esbern knew everything about the ancient dragonlore of the Blades," she said. "Obsessed with it, really. Nobody paid much attention back then. I guess he wasn't as crazy as we all thought." This last was said softly, sadly, and again Marcus felt that pang of empathy. Delphine had lost nearly as much as he had.
Damn you, Delphine, he thought. Don't make me start liking you!
Benor seemed to be turning everything over in his mind. "So the Thalmor seem to think the Blades know about the dragons…" he mused.
Delphine gave a mirthless snort. "Ironic, isn't it?" she acknowledged. "The old enemies always assume that every calamity must be a plot by the other side. Even so, we've got to find Esbern before they do. He'll know how to stop the dragons, if anybody does." She turned to Marcus. "Do they know where he is?"
"Yeah," Marcus said. "They seem to think he's in Riften."
"Riften, eh?" Delphine pondered. "Probably down in the Ratway, then," she nodded. "It's where I'd go. You'd better get to Riften, then. Talk to Brynjolf. He's…well connected. It's a good starting point, at least."
The two men turned to leave, but Delphine forestalled them. "Oh, and when you find Esbern…if you think I'm paranoid…you may have some trouble getting him to trust you. Just ask him where he was on the thirtieth of Frostfall," she said softly. "He'll know what it means."
The 30th of Frostfall, Marcus thought. The day the Great War officially began when the Aldmeri Dominion sent an ultimatum to the Imperial City along with a covered cart. When the long list of impossible demands were rejected, the Thalmor ambassador upended the cart, dumping out hundreds of disembodied heads of Blades agents from across Summerset and Valenwood. Marcus had read about that in The Great War. That both Delphine, and this Esbern fellow had survived that purge was a testament to their ingenuity and resourcefulness.
He might be angry at Delphine's attempts to manipulate him, but even he had to admit she was a tough old broad. He'd rather have her at his back than threatening his front.
The ride to Riften had been long. Marcus and Benor had traveled back to Whiterun, but it was late by the time they got back. Benor went back to the Bannered Mare and Marcus headed home to sleep in his own bed once more. Lucia had been waiting up for him and presented him with the gift of a minor healing potion she'd bought with some of the coin he'd given her.
"I just want to make sure you're safe," she said, hugging him.
Marcus thanked her for her thoughtfulness and tucked her back into bed, telling her the story of Jack and the Beanstalk until her eyelids grew heavy, she yawned and snuggled under her blanket with her doll, and her soft, even breathing told him she was asleep before Jack had even gotten away with the goose that laid the golden eggs.
He and Benor caught the early carriage to Riften, leaving Whiterun before the sun was up. There was a stop in Ivarstead at midday for food, comfort and to rest the Gerduin, who had pulled them valiantly through the snowy pass, and then it was off to Riften, following the road that led around Lake Honrich.
"Ever been to Riften before?" Bjorlam had asked them. Neither man had, and their driver smiled. "If you get a chance, make sure to stop in at the Black-Briar Meadery for some of their brew. One sip of that stuff and you'll forget all about the long trip!"
This sounded like a plan to Benor, but Marcus didn't think they'd have any leisure time to explore the city. They needed to find this Brynjolf character that Delphine had mentioned, and see if he knew anything about Esbern.
Since the return of the dragons, Marcus had found himself watching the skies as he traveled. Riding by carriage was not necessarily a guarantee of safety, but he had never been attacked so far. All that changed as they approached the walled city of Riften. A thunderous roar filled the air, and Gerduin reared in her traces, screaming out her fear. Bjorlam wrestled to keep her under control, to prevent her from bolting. Marcus and Benor looked up to see a large, bronze-colored dragon swoop overhead. The guards at the gate had their bows out and ready, trying to get a clear shot at the drake through the thick birch trees that surrounded the city.
Leaping down off the carriage, Marcus and his companion drew their own bows. The dragon hovered directly in front of him, and he Shouted Unrelenting Force at it, even as it belched forth a column of flame in his direction. There was no way to dodge that, and Marcus once again felt the sting of blistered skin and the stench of singed hair.
Quickly, as the dragon flew off and circled around for a strafing run, Marcus grabbed two potions from his pack: one to resist fire and the other to heal the damage he'd taken.
Benor was plugging away at the beast with the new Dwarven arrows he'd bought from Elrindir before they left. He'd also taken the time to repair and improve his bow, and the damage he was doing to the dragon was showing. Marcus nocked his own Dwarven arrows and let fly, getting off only one more before he had to leap aside to avoid the flames headed his way.
It was too soon to Shout again, Marcus knew, and the dragon was smart enough not to land, staying in the air and choosing to use its fire breath instead.
"Aim for the armpits!" he yelled at the guards.
"The what?" the woman called back, perplexed. Did dragons even have armpits?
"The joint where it meets the body!" Marcus clarified, sending an arrow to that exact spot, and seeing with satisfaction how the dragon staggered in the air. "It's a weak spot!"
"Ohh! I get it!" she said, a tone of comprehension in her voice. He couldn't see her face behind the helmet, but he was pretty sure she was grinning, because her next shot could have split his arrow as the dragon screeched and pulled itself away from the city.
"It's headed for the Merryfair Farm!" the other guard called out.
"Let's go get it!" Benor rumbled.
"No need," Marcus said. "It's only wheeling around, looking for a place to land. Here it comes! Watch out!"
The dragon landed in the middle of the road with an earth-quaking thud, and immediately lashed out with its wings, knocking several guards away and sending them flying. Marcus and Benor closed with it, flanking it on either side; by now, it was a comfortable, familiar tactic with proven results.
The dragon snapped at Benor and Marcus slashed at it with Uthgerd, which he had brought along. Benor's battleaxe was practically singing as it sliced through the air, whittling away at the dragon on its other side. The guards had recovered and returned, and in a few moments, it was all over as the dragon gasped its last, the light leaving its eyes. The soul poured forth, and Marcus claimed his prize, closing his eyes against the heady rush of knowledge and experience that always filled him. He took a moment to unlock the deeper understanding of nah before opening his eyes.
Closed helmets or not, the guards were all gaping at him.
"I can't believe it!" one said. "You took its very soul!"
"I would never believe it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes.
"It may be dead now," the female guard worried, "but where did it come from?"
Marcus wished he had an answer for that. All he could do now was to kill them and take their souls one by one, until he was strong enough to face their lord.
"Let's go," he told Benor. They headed up to the gate, where two guards remained, despite the unusual turn of events.
"Hold there," one of them said, stopping him from entering. "Before I can let you into the city, you have to pay the visitor tax."
What kind of crap is this? Marcus felt his inner dragon rumbling. "What's the tax for?" he asked, dangerously.
"For the privilege of entering the city," the guard said, and there was a hint of amusement in his voice. "What does it matter?"
That did it. Something snapped inside the Dragonborn.
"I just killed a fucking dragon out here!" he snarled, shoving himself into the man's personal space without touching him. "I saved your fucking city, I saved your worthless fucking hide, and now you're going to shake me down for a few coins out here just to let me in this stinking cesspool?"
Cowed, the man backed down. "Alright, alright!" he said, putting his hands up and attempting in vain to shush the enraged man standing before him. "I'll let you in. Just give me a moment to get the gate open!" He couldn't scurry over to the iron-clad wooden portal fast enough, and fumbled with the lock. Returning, he made sure to stay out of arm's reach. "The gate's open now," he said apologetically. "You can go in when you're ready."
Marcus didn't even bother to utter his thanks. He strode through the gate, Benor a few steps after him. Behind him he heard the female guard smirk, "Told you it wouldn't work."
"Shut up," her companion said sourly.
If the guard at the gate put him in a foul mood, what Marcus found inside did little to improve it.
"I had another run-in with the Thieves' Guild today," a painted-faced woman in banded iron said to a young man wearing a brown tunic.
"Be careful, Mjoll!" the man said, genuinely alarmed. "The Thieves' Guild has Maven Black-Briar at their back. One snap of her fingers, and you could end up in Riften Jail…or worse!"
"They represent the reason I'm here, Aerin," the woman, Mjoll, insisted. "I can't just ignore them!"
Aerin's brow furrowed. "I know, I know," he said worriedly. "I just don't want you to leave. You're the only good thing that's happened to this city in a long time."
Maven Black-Briar. As in, Black-Briar Meadery? Marcus wondered. And she was allegedly connected with this 'Thieves' Guild' that had Riften in its grip. Marcus sighed.
I'm only one Dragonborn, okay? he sent up to whatever Powers might be listening.
He pressed on into the heart of Riften, but he didn't get far before a large, brutish man accosted him.
"I don't know you," he rumbled. "You In Riften lookin' for trouble?"
That inner dragon refused to be intimidated by a small change ruffian. "What's it to you?"
The man scowled. "Don't say something you'll regret," he said with a threatening edge to his voice.
"Why?" Marcus scoffed. "I'm not afraid of you." He'd faced down draugrs and dragons. A small-town hood like this jerk was nothing to be concerned about.
"Wrong answer, friend," the guy shot back, with enough sarcasm on the word 'friend' to imply the exact opposite. "Last thing the Black-Briars need is a stranger stickin' their nose where it doesn't belong."
"Yeah, yeah," Marcus said, bored already. He turned to walk away.
"You can pretend not to hear me all you want," the man warned, "but you better stay out of the Black-Briars' business if you know what's good for you!"
Marcus waved a dismissive hand behind him. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, pal," he sneered.
"You think he means it?" Benor asked, a little concerned.
"Oh, I'm sure he means every word," Marcus said. "The real question is: will he follow through on his implied threat? If he does, it will be the biggest mistake of his life."
A canal snaked its way through Riften, filling the air with its pungent odor. Apparently the canal served as both a method of transportation for barges coming in and out of the lake, as well as a sewer for the entire city.
"This place reeks," Benor complained. "I've been in barrows that didn't smell this bad!"
"I won't argue that point, my friend," Marcus grimaced. On the other side of the canal, they saw a sign outside a building: The Bee and Barb. Marcus pointed, and Benor nodded enthusiastically. As they crossed over a bridge which connected two walkways lining the canal, the two men noticed a Redguard in a heated argument with a young woman in rather distinctive leather armor. It looked nothing like the armor Delphine wore, which seemed to be a more standard style.
"I'm really getting tired of your excuses, Shadr," the woman said. "When you borrowed the money, you said you'd pay it back on time, and for double the usual fee."
The Redguard man, Shadr, looked frantic. "I know I did, Sapphire," he pleaded, "but how was I to know the shipment would get robbed?"
The girl gave a cruel smile. "Next time, keep your plans quieter, and nothing would have happened to it."
Wait. What? Marcus paused, already almost out of earshot. He turned back to see the hapless Shadr practically beside himself with frustration and fear.
"What?" Shadr exclaimed in disbelief. "Are you telling me you robbed it? Why? Why are you doing this to me?"
Sapphire appeared unconcerned. "Look, Shadr, last warning. Pay up, or else. All I care about is the gold. Everything else is your problem!"
She turned and left Shadr slumped on a bench on the bridge, fear written all over his face. As she passed the two men standing outside the Bee and Barb, she paused to look them up and down, then sneered.
"I don't have any business with either of you," she announced. "So get out of my face."
Bitch. How he kept that word from slipping out was a mystery he had no intention of exploring. What mattered now was getting to the root of the issue between Shadr and Sapphire. Benor shook his head in resignation as Marcus told him to go on inside and wait for him, then retraced his steps back to the bridge and sat down next to the young Redguard.
"Huh?" the young man started. He relaxed only a little when he saw that it wasn't Sapphire returning.
"Something on your mind, friend?" Marcus asked kindly.
Shadr nodded miserably. "I owe a great deal of money to someone and I think they cheated me," he confessed. "I don't know what to do."
"Maybe if you tell me about it, I can help you figure something out," the Dragonborn offered.
Shadr seemed to consider this, then shrugged as if realizing he wouldn't be any worse off for it.
"I was able to work out a deal with the stables in Whiterun to sell me some of their tack and harnesses," he explained. "I borrowed money from Sapphire to pay for the shipment, but it got robbed before it even got here. Now Sapphire wants her money back, and if I don't pay her…" he broke off and swallowed hard. "I think she's going to kill me!" he whispered.
So Sapphire stole the shipment, and was still trying to shake poor Shadr down for the money he owed her; money which Marcus guessed would be impossible for the man to pay now, unless he knew enough people who could help him. He rather doubted that would be the case here.
Just the thought of serving up the cold-hearted bitch a dose of her own medicine made up his mind for him. "What if I talk to her?" he offered.
"You will?" Shadr asked incredulously. "Oh, thank you! But—" here he frowned, and the fear was back. "Be careful with Sapphire. She mixes with all sorts of nasty people.
Not half as nasty as I'll be to her if she doesn't absolve your debt, Marcus smiled grimly to himself.
Marcus stepped inside the inn and saw Sapphire right away, leaning against a corner near the staircase. She apparently saw him as well, because her eyes narrowed as he approached.
"Well?" she demanded. "What do you want?"
The direct approach is always the best, he thought.
"You need to let Shadr out of his debt," he said without preamble.
Sapphire snorted. "I knew that stupid kid would try and find a way to weasel out of his debt." She glared at him. "Look, this is really simple: I lent him some gold, he promised to pay it back, and now he says he's broke. End of story."
"Fine then," Marcus murmured, dropping his voice to a dangerously low level. "How about if I take what he owes you out of your hide? We both know this is a set-up. Drop the debt, and you get to live."
Sapphire had had a very hard life, and not much intimidated her, but staring into this Imperial's unearthly amber eyes unnerved her in a way she hadn't felt in a long time. Tales had been drifting into Riften for several weeks now about the return of the dragons, and she had scoffed at them – until today, when one flew over the city and landed outside.
Tales had also been pouring in about the return of the Dragonborn. Sapphire was a Nord; she'd grown up hearing the stories. When reports came in about a man – an Imperial in carved Nordic armor – killing dragons single-handedly and taking their souls, she had discounted them, because they were just stories, and Sapphire only believed in gold, and what she had seen for herself.
Now she was staring into the deadly serious eyes of a living legend, and she told herself the cold, wrenching feeling in her gut had nothing to do with his quiet tone, with his eyes that glittered danger itself, with the fact that his hand rested oh-so-lightly on the dagger at his belt.
Her eyes flicked around the room. There was no one from the Guild here at the moment. She was alone. If any of her Guild brothers and sisters had been present, she might have been foolish enough to call the man's bluff. But something in his eyes told her he wasn't bluffing.
Sapphire was no fool. She'd already made plenty of money selling off the goods she'd stolen from Shadr. Anything above and beyond that was just gravy. It galled her to give up this easy, but her life was worth much more to her than the few coins she might have been able to squeeze out of a stable boy.
"Alright, alright!" she hissed. "I don't know why you'd make such a fuss over a perfect stranger like this, but it's not worth a fight. Tell Shadr he doesn't owe me anything."
The man smiled, and Sapphire shuddered, as it was not a pleasant smile. "I'm delighted you've chosen to see reason," he commented. Then he turned on his heel and left the Bee and Barb through the same door he'd come in by. Sapphire didn't wait. She bolted out the door on the other side of the room.
Shadr had retreated to the relative safety of the stables. Marcus found him not-so-casually hiding in one of the stalls, pretending to groom one of the horses. He jumped nervously when Marcus came in.
"It's just me, Shadr," he smiled. "And don't worry, I persuaded Sapphire to cancel your debt."
"By the Eight!" the young man exclaimed. "You actually talked her into it?" He gave a little dance of glee. "I don't know what to say!" he gushed. "I didn't think anyone in Riften even cared what happened to me!" He danced around a little more, and Marcus watched him with a grin on his face. It was good to see someone so happy.
Finally, the young Redguard sat down on a hay bale and sighed his relief. "I can't thank you enough, my friend," he said. He rummaged in a sack next to the straw and pulled out a potion bottle. "Look," he smiled, "I was saving this, but I want you to have it."
"What is it?" Marcus asked. The only potions he was really familiar with came in little red and green bottles. This one was white.
"It's a potion of invisibility," Shadr explained. "I thought I might need it if Sapphire came for me, but I don't need it now. Thank you again, friend! You've saved my life!"
Marcus met up with Benor when he returned to the Bee and Barb.
"Saw you talking to that Sapphire a bit ago," Benor said, pushing a mug of cold ale toward his friend. Marcus accepted it gratefully as he sank into the chair opposite the big Nord. "She cut out of here after you left like a bat out of Oblivion. What'd you say to her?"
"Just made her see reason, that's all," Marcus demurred. "Did you find out where we can find this Brynjolf person?"
"Yeah," Benor said. "Most folks around here seem to know him. They don't all like him, but they know him. They said he runs a stall in the marketplace through that door over there. Sells all kinds of stuff, from what I heard, but mainly to the travelers that come through. The locals all think he's a scam artist."
"Delphine said he 'had connections'," Marcus mused. "I guess we'll just have to find out how good those connections are."
The two men finished their drinks and headed for the door leading to the marketplace. Nearby, sitting on a bench, an Imperial dressed in mages' robes looked up from his drink, noticing the two warriors.
"Well, well," he commented, "two warriors out to conquer the world, eh? Name's Marcurio."
Benor snorted, but Marcus just inclined his head.
"Mercenaries?" Marcurio asked. "Treasure-seekers? Why hire a common soldier to protect you when you can have a master of the arcane?"
Hand on the doorknob, Marcus paused and turned back. "You're a mage?"
"A spellsword, actually," Marcurio clarified. "My skill in battle is unmatched. Fortunately for you that skill can be bought."
"How much?" Marcus asked, curious.
"You're not seriously thinking of hiring him, are you?" Benor exclaimed, dismayed.
"And why shouldn't he?" Marcurio demanded. "The only thing better than a powerful mage fighting at your side is…well, nothing, really."
Benor scowled and Marcus chuckled. Marcurio certainly seemed to know how to sell himself.
"How much?" he asked again.
"Five hundred septims, and I'll bring my formidable arcane powers to bear against your foes," the Imperial mage promised, a bit too eagerly. Business must be slow. "What do you say?"
"I'll take it under advisement," Marcus smiled. "I've got a few other irons in the fire right now."
"If you change your mind, seek me out here," Marcurio called after their retreating backs.
Outside once more, with the evening wearing on, Benor and Marcus didn't need to look far to find Brynjolf. He found them first.
"Well, lad," the well-dressed red-haired man said, accosting them. "you haven't done an honest day's work in your life for all that coin you're carrying, have you?"
[Author's Note: This was a long one, I admit, but I hope you enjoyed it. Next up, Marcus and Benor have to get to Esbern before the Thalmor do, and then it's off to Sky Haven Temple, where there will be a parting of ways. Thanks for staying with me so far!]