Chapter 20
However brilliant the Dwemer may have been with their innovative machinery, clearly they were lacking in imagination when it came to something as simple as a bed. Marcus tossed and turned for at least an hour trying to get comfortable before giving it up. He couldn't even imagine what it might have been like trying to make love on something so cold and unyielding.
No wonder they died out, he thought sourly.
They didn't 'die out', they vanished.
"Where have you been?" he muttered.
I've been busy, his inner dragon said smugly. You aren't the only one I've been keeping an eye on.
He wanted to ask more, but felt the dragon withdraw and knew he was alone again. He lay there for a long while in the dark turning things over in his mind. Thonar clearly suspected Margret of being more than just an 'interested buyer' in a mine he had no intention of selling. His own brother was a Stormcloak supporter, which probably meant that Margret's assumption about the destination of the wealth coming out of Cidhna Mine couldn't be too far off.
Weylin, by his own admission – before the guards had cut him down – was a member of the Forsworn. What Marcus couldn't figure out was the connection between Thonar and the Forsworn. The Nords hated the Reachmen, and had done everything in their power to stomp them out of existence during the Markarth Incident. Why would Thonar hire a Forsworn to murder Margret?
To deflect attention from himself, obviously, he answered himself. But how could he have contacted them? And why would any self-respecting Reachman work for the same people who attempted to wipe out their entire race twenty-five years previous? It just didn't make sense.
There are always those who try to curry favor with the victors, Marcus thought wryly. Perhaps, but that still didn't explain what Thonar hoped to gain from Margret's murder. He might get her out of the way, but surely, if he suspected her Imperial involvement, he had to know the Empire would send someone else. Was he so supremely arrogant that he thought he could get away with murder? Wouldn't the Jarl, Igmund, sit up and take notice that Imperial agents were being murdered in his own city?
Not as long as Igmund believed there was Forsworn unrest in his city. It was the perfect cover for Thonar's operations. And neither he nor Margret could take a story like that to Igmund without solid proof; proof that Margret may have tried to acquire, but was caught before she obtained it.
Marcus sighed in the dark. He would have to pay Thonar a visit tomorrow.
Margret didn't come into the common room for breakfast the next morning and Marcus tapped on her door, concerned.
"I'm fine," she told him when she opened it. "I'm just going to stay out of sight for a while before I make my way back to Solitude."
"Alright," he said. "I'll see what I can find out for you today."
"Just be careful," she warned him. "I'm pretty sure some of the guards are on Thonar's payroll, but I couldn't tell you which ones."
"I'll be fine," Marcus assured her. "I can take care of myself."
After breakfast he returned to his room to gather up his gear. Repacking his belt pouch with another potion, he found the note from the young man in the marketplace that he had stuffed in there and forgotten.
"Meet me at the Shrine of Talos."
He sure hoped the poor guy hadn't been waiting there all night. Alright, so he'd meet with this mysterious young man before going to see Thonar.
He came out of the Silver-Blood Inn and spotted Kerah, the jeweler who again cheerfully pointed the way, after thanking him for making her delivery.
But before he could head in that direction, one of the guards stopped him.
"You've been warned," he said harshly. "Stop poking your nose in where it doesn't belong."
"This wouldn't have anything to do with the Markarth guards murdering a man in cold blood, would it?" Marcus retaliated, refusing to be intimidated.
"You have no idea what you're getting yourself into," the guard said threateningly. "Last warning: stay out of it." He turned on his heel and left.
I must be doing something right, if they felt the need to warn me off, Marcus thought smugly.
The Shrine of Talos was situated in the center of Markarth, in a large stone structure that also housed a Temple to Dibella further up. Inside, the Shrine was cool and quiet, with a large statue to the hero-god of the Nords its prominent feature in the middle of the chamber.
Standing in front of the Shrine itself was the young man from the marketplace.
"Thank the Eight, you're here!" he exclaimed when Marcus came into view.
"Who are you?" Marcus asked. "What's this all about?"
"My name is Eltrys," the young man replied. "I'm sorry to drag you into Markarth's problems, but after that attack in the market, I'm running out of time."
Marcus frowned. "What do you mean, 'running out of time'? Are you in some kind of trouble? Who was that man that attacked Margret in the marketplace?"
"You want answers?" Eltrys said, raising his voice. "Well so do I! So does everyone in this city! A man goes crazy in the market; everyone knows he's a Forsworn agent. Guards do nothing. Nothing but clean up the mess."
"Calm down," Marcus said, "you're getting yourself all worked up. If you want my help, you're going to need to tell me what's going on."
Eltrys drew a ragged breath and ran a hand through his sandy blonde hair. "This has been going on for years," he said. "And all I've been able to find is murder and blood. I need help. Please. You find out why that woman was attacked, who's behind Weylin and the Forsworn, and I'll pay you for any information you bring to me."
"You've looked into these murders?" Marcus asked.
"Yes," said Eltrys. "It all started when I was a boy. My father owned one of the mines. Rare for anyone who isn't a Nord in these parts. He was killed. The guards said it was just a madman, but everyone knew the murderer was a member of the Forsworn." He paced up and down the small Shrine.
"That doesn't make sense," Marcus said. "If your father was a Reachman, why would the Forsworn attack and kill him?"
"That's exactly what I said!" Eltrys exclaimed. "But the Jarl just dismissed it. The 'evidence' was obvious it was the Forsworn, he said. He made every effort to brush it off. I've been trying to find out why ever since, but I've gotten nowhere. And then I got married." A faint smile crossed his lips. "I've got a child of my own on the way. I swore I was going to just give up, for my child's sake, but it's like my father's ghost is haunting me, asking me, 'Why?'"
"Would your father want you to put your child's future at risk?" Marcus frowned. "If anything happens to you, what happens to your wife and child?"
"I can't just quit, don't you see?" Eltrys said in frustration. "My father's spirit is crying out for vengeance."
"Alright, alright, take it easy," Marcus said, blowing out a breath of exasperation of his own. "What can you tell me about this Weylin guy? I assume he was the one who tried to kill Margret?"
Eltrys nodded. "He was one of the smelter workers. I used to have a job down there myself, casting silver ingots. I never knew much about Weylin, except he lives in the Warrens, like all the other workers."
Unwilling to compromise Margret's identity any further, Marcus refrained from revealing what he knew to Eltrys. For all he knew, this young man was an accomplice to the now-deceased Weylin, and was attempting to succeed where his partner had failed.
You are such a cynical bastard, Marcus, he told himself.
"Alright," he said now, "I'll go see what I can find out down in the Warrens. If I learn anything, I'll let you know."
"Thank you!" Eltrys breathed. "I'll wait here for you."
Marcus left the Shrine and promptly got lost trying to find his way to the Warrens. Markarth was a maze of a city with all of its twisting stairs, stone buildings that all looked alike, and winding streets. He finally figured out how to get to the Warrens by going through the excavation area in front of Cidhna Mine, through which the rushing brook cut its wide channel. High above on the western side of the pit he could see a colossal water wheel which powered an outdoor forge, and rising behind that, Understone Keep. The Warrens were an underground series of catacombs carved out of the cliff face on the eastern side of the city, and Marcus made his way there. A man blocked his way in.
"Who are you?" the man demanded. "You don't live here."
"I'm conducting an investigation into Weylin's death," he said, only stretching the truth a little bit. "I'd like to see his quarters, please."
"I don't think so," the man said sourly. "We don't like strangers poking their noses around down here."
Marcus gritted his teeth. "I. Wasn't. Asking," he said succinctly, leaning closer and putting his hand on his dagger.
"Now, now," the man said, cowed, "don't get all upset. Here…take the key!" He handed it over with trembling hands, and Marcus took it, giving a sardonic bow.
"Thank you for your cooperation," he said pleasantly.
Weylin's room was a ruin of tumbled boulders and broken furniture. A fire pit in the center of the room was cold now, with nothing but ash remaining where once a fire lent warmth. Marcus methodically searched the room for anything that could tell him more about Weylin or his connection to Thonar Silver-Blood, but the only thing he found was a note in a chest signed by a mysterious "N" person, informing Weylin he'd been chosen to "strike fear in the hearts of the Nords." That didn't give him much to go on. Who was "N"? Not Thonar, certainly.
Feeling there was nothing more to be learned here, Marcus left Weylin's room and exited the Warrens, intent on paying a visit to the Treasury House, where Margret had told him Thonar spent his days. He nearly plowed headlong into a burly Breton, menacingly blocking his way.
"You've been digging around where you don't belong," the man said, cracking his knuckles. "It's time you learned a lesson."
"Oh, and I suppose you think you'll be the one to teach me?" Marcus challenged. He was prepared to go for his sword, but the man merely put up his dukes, and Marcus smiled grimly.
It's been a while since I've beaten the crap out of anybody.
It was short, ugly and painful. Months of being on the road, delving into barrows and climbing up to dragon lairs had honed Marcus' muscles to top condition. While the Breton was good, he couldn't hope to overcome a Dragonborn in full frustrated rage mode who knew tae kwon do. When Marcus had the man down on his knees he demanded, "Do you yield?"
"I yield! I yield!" the Breton wheezed. "No more!"
"Who sent you?" Marcus insisted.
"Nepos," the man said, wiping his bloody nose, "Nepos the Nose. The old man hands out the orders. He told me to make sure you didn't get in the way. That's all I know, I swear!"
Nepos the Nose, Marcus mused. The mysterious "N".
"Where does Nepos get his orders from, then?" Marcus asked.
"I told you, I don't know!" the Breton insisted. "I just do what I'm told."
So, Nepos thought Marcus was "getting in the way" of something. Was he connected to Thonar in any way? Time to find out. He left the Breton nursing his wounds and made his way out of the excavation site and began looking for the Treasury House. When he found it, he went inside and approached the front desk. A young woman who looked to be in the second trimester of pregnancy looked up as he entered.
"I'm sorry, sir," she said. "The Treasury House is really just for patrons of the Silver-Blood family. You don't belong here."
"I'm here to see Thonar Silver-Blood," Marcus stated.
The girl shook her head. "I'm sorry," she said, genuinely regretful. "He's asked not to be disturbed. He has important business."
"He'll see me," Marcus smiled persuasively. "He's expecting me." Well, if he wasn't expecting someone to come around and question him, he was a fool.
"Oh!" the girl smiled. "Alright then, go on in. Just that way, around the corner." She pointed to her right.
Marcus followed the counter around to a corridor that sloped up to a door. A cleaning woman was sweeping nearby and greeted him warmly.
"You just let old Nana know if you need anything, dear."
Seated at a small table tucked into a corner, a richly-dressed woman looked him appreciatively up and down before remarking, "You're new in Markarth, aren't you?"
When he nodded, she replied snidely, "I'm married to Thonar Silver-Blood. Keep that in mind while you're speaking to me."
Taken aback, Marcus could think of nothing in reply. He nodded curtly and continued up the ramp.
Thonar Silver-Blood was a balding Nord of middle-age, dressed in fine clothes and seated at a table in what appeared to be his private study. Stacks of coins were piled neatly on the table, and he was busy counting them, entering them in a ledger book in front of him.
Barely glancing up from his work, he said in a bored, irritated voice, "I told you I wasn't to be disturbed Rhiada. What is it now?"
"I'm not Rhiada," Marcus rumbled. "I've got some questions I'd like some answers to."
"How did you get in here?" Thonar demanded sharply. "I'll have that girl's head for this! I'm a busy man. Half this city works for my family and I have to keep them in line. And that means I don't have time to answer inane questions from every Sven, Tor and Ragnar who walks into my private study. Now get out!"
"Not until you answer a few questions," Marcus said dangerously. Thonar looked as though he would argue further, but at that point a commotion out in the common room caught both their attentions: the sounds of fighting.
Marcus charged back down the ramp in time to see the sweet little old cleaning lady draw her knife across the throat of Thonar's wife. The receptionist girl was valiantly trying to fight off a man twice her size, and Marcus leaped in and cut the man down. The girl sank to the floor, groaning, bleeding from a wound to her arm, and he hurriedly pulled out the healing potion from his belt pouch and pressed it into her hands.
Thonar drew his own sword and cut down the cleaning lady while defended himself against a third assailant, and Marcus was tempted to sit back and watch. But he needed answers only Thonar could give, so he reluctantly stepped in and lent his sword to the fight, easily finishing the attacker off.
"By the gods…" Thonar muttered, looking around. He saw his wife's body lying in a pool of her own blood. "Betrid? You Forsworn bastards!" he raged. "We had a deal! You're traitors, all of you!" He sank into the chair. "Why? Why?"
Marcus wiped his sword on Nana's dress. "What deal did you make with the Forsworn, Thonar?"
"My wife…." He murmured. "They killed her."
"Divine justice?" Marcus suggested.
"Shut up!" Thonar snarled. "Only the gods can judge me."
"Like I said," Marcus couldn't help commenting. "So, about those answers?"
Thonar glared at him. "You want to know what the Forsworn really are?" he challenged. "They're my puppets. I have their 'king' rotting in Cidhna Mine."
"Madanach?" Marcus asked, not really surprised. He already knew the Reach King was there.
"The King in Rags himself," Thonar sneered. "He was supposed to keep them under control." He shook his head in disgust. "While we were off fighting the Elves in the Great War, Madanach was busy ruling over the Reach, until Ulfric came and put them down."
"From what I've read, they were doing a fairly decent job of running the Reach peacefully until the Nords came in and began practicing genocide," Marcus said.
"You know nothing about it!" Thonar said scathingly. "They were all lawless beasts, constantly raiding our villages, farms and settlements. When their uprising was crushed, I had Madanach brought to me. He was a wild animal, but a useful one. I offered him a stay of execution if he used his influence to deal with any annoyances that came up. Competitors, agents—" here he threw a glare at Marcus "—idiots. So I've let him run his little Forsworn rebellion from inside Cidhna Mine. Now he's out of control."
"The Reachfolk lived in this land long before the Nords came here," Marcus pointed out. "How can you blame them for wanting to drive you out? If someone came into my house and said, 'Hey, I like what you've done with the place, I think I'll stay, pack your things and get out,' I think I'd be pissed off, too."
"We won the land from them ages ago by right of conquest," Thonar said hotly. "It's ours now. They can crawl back into their caves and burrows and die, for all I care. If they come into my city, I throw them into Cidhna Mine. You've got the information you wanted, you damn hound. This is your fault."
"I fail to see how your greed and corruption are my fault," Marcus said angrily. "You brought this upon yourself Thonar."
"You got in my way," Thonar said menacingly. "I always eliminate those who get in my way. That Imperial agent, Margret, thinks she can hide from me, but I own the damn Inn she's hiding in! That mewling milk-drinker, Eltrys, thinks he can expose me? He'll learn just how wrong he is!"
"Wait! Eltrys?" the girl, Rhiada said from behind the counter. She dragged herself to her feet. "My husband, Thonar? You wouldn't hurt my husband!"
"Too late, my dear," Thonar laughed cruelly. "You should have told him to keep his nose out of my affairs."
"Nooo!" Rhiada moaned, and stumbled around the counter to get to the door. Marcus stopped her. "Go home, Rhiada," he said. "I'll try to stop them."
"So says the big hero!" Thonar sneered. "Go ahead! Try to stop it. I'll see both you and Madanach rot in Cidhna Mine. Now get out of my house!"
Then Marcus did something he hadn't done since he'd come to Skyrim. He raised his middle finger to Thonar. "Fuck you, you sick bastard," he said succinctly.
Racing along the raised stone streets, Marcus took the stairs up to the Shrine of Talos two at a time.
Please don't let it be too late! he prayed, but all hope was dashed as he entered the Shrine and his eyes adjusted to the gloom. Sprawled across the feet of Talos was Eltrys, run through by several swords. Three of Markarth's city guards stood over the body, waiting for him.
"We warned you," one of them said, smugly. "But you just had to go and cause trouble. Now we have to pin all these recent murders on you. Silence witnesses. Work, work, work."
"Why?" Marcus demanded, heart-broken. How could he tell Rhiada? "Why kill Eltrys? He didn't really know anything."
"We had a nice little deal going between Thonar and Madanach until you and this snot-nosed kid started snooping around," the guard shrugged. "Well, you wanted to find the man responsible for those killings? You'll have plenty of time with the King in Rags when you're in Cidhna Mine."
It was on the tip of his tongue to pull rank on them and inform them who they were about to throw into jail, and if they did they could bloody well fight Alduin on their own, but he didn't. From what he'd seen so far, it wouldn't make a difference, and the last thing he wanted to do was to tip off Thonar Silver-Blood about exactly who he'd thrown into his maximum-security prison. So he said nothing. The guards seemed to sense his frustration and acceptance, because they flanked him.
"Now you're coming with us," the first one said. "It's a life-sentence for you in Cidhna Mine. You'll never see the sun again, you hear me? No one escapes Cidhna Mine."
There had been many times in his life when he had despaired, Marcus thought, but few were the times when he felt the soul-crushing hopelessness that assailed him now. The worst was that his children would never know what had happened to their Papa. He knew Lydia would look after them, and he'd left quite a bit of his wealth behind for her to manage while he was gone; it was a standing arrangement he had with her. She invested some of his money in the local businesses and the profits went back into his nest egg. His children would be provided for.
But he wouldn't be there.
Somehow or other, he had to get out of here. But how? He didn't believe for a moment that this jail was inescapable. Even Alcatraz had had a few prison breaks in its time. There had to be a way, and if that meant digging his way out of here with Ysgramor's Soup Spoon, he was prepared to do just that.
Except everything he owned had been taken from him. The only thing he could claim right now was a roughspun tunic, footwraps, trousers, and a pickaxe the female Orc guard had shoved into his hands when she told him to mine ore until he "started throwing up silver bars", a particularly unpleasant imagery, to be sure.
Working his way down to the main cavern, he saw several men sitting around, resting. One, a huge, burly Orc with a broken tusk, was leaning against a wall near an iron gate. A tunnel led away from the gate, but no one went through it.
He moved closer to the fire to get warmer. Despite being underground, it was chilly, and he only had the tunic for protection from the elements.
"Hello, friend," one of the inmates greeted him. "What are you in for?"
"I got framed for murder," Marcus said.
"Oh?" the man said, eyebrows rising. "Well, I would have said that's what they all say, but I think I heard about you. You're that Imperial Thonar set up for a fall, aren't you?"
Marcus nodded miserably.
"Name's Urracen, by the way," the Reachman said kindly. "What's yours?"
"Marcus," he told him. "How'd you end up in here?"
Urracen sighed resignedly. "A Nord nobleman I served was stabbed in the night. Wasn't me, but I knew I'd get blamed for it. So I ran. Joined the Forsworn, started killing, got caught. Now I'm here."
"So you're innocent of murder, too?"
"I'm innocent of the first one," Uraacen shrugged. "All the rest are on me."
"And the others?" Marcus asked. "Are they all innocent too?"
"Some are," Urracen admitted. "But some are cold-blooded killers. Like Borkul the Beast over there. I heard he once ripped a man's arm off and beat him to death with it. He's old-fashioned that way."
Marcus studied the Orc. Huge, muscled and built for power. He didn't really want to tangle with that if he could avoid it.
"What's through that gate over there?"
Urracen chuckled. "That's where the King in Rags lives," he told Marcus. "Nobody talks to him without going through Borkul the Beast first."
"Then he's the guy I need to talk to," Marcus said, getting up.
"What?" Urracen blinked. "Are you out of your mind? Didn't you just hear what I said?"
Marcus heard, but he knew his only hope of getting out of here lay with a man who was already defying the one who'd thrown him in here. If Madanach was testing Thonar's hold over him in Cidhna Mine, then he probably already had some kind of escape plan in mind. Marcus wanted to be a part of that plan.
"That's far enough," the Orc rumbled.
"I need to speak to Madanach."
"When skeevers fly," Borkul grunted. "Go back and dig, you little pipsqueak."
Marcus held on to his temper. This was not the time to unleash the dragon. Not when charm might get him so much further. "He's expecting me," he said now, throwing everything he had into it.
Borkul was unmoved.
"I'll believe it when he tells me," the Orc said scathingly. "Not when it comes from a milk-drinker like you."
"Don't make me angry," Marcus said, restraining himself. "You wouldn't like me when I'm angry."
Borkul laughed, and it was not a pleasant sound. "Whaddya gonna do?" he taunted. "Breathe on me?"
The punch landed solid and hard, and Marcus felt the knuckles in his right hand protest violently. The brow ridge of an orc came down much lower on the forehead, reinforcing the septum of the nose. A punch thrown with the force that Marcus had put behind his would have broken the nose of a human. It only made the Orc mad.
"Why you little—" Borkul growled, and Marcus had to dance out of the way to avoid the swipe the Orc took at him.
"No shivs! No shivs!" Urracen cried, and several others took up the call. Borkul growled, but tucked the small blade back into his waistband. Apparently, this was to be some sort of trial; if he could best Borkul the Beast without a weapon, he would be "in" with the other prisoners. And while Borkul didn't look happy about missing an opportunity to play butcher, he nevertheless felt confident about crushing the smaller man without it.
Marcus knew his only hope was to stay out of the Orc's reach and use his size and weight against him. Borkul had never fought anyone who knew tae kwon do, and after tasting dust for the umpteenth time, something snapped in him. In rage, he charged straight at Marcus who leaped up over the Orc and tumbled over him, landing lightly on his feet. Borkul plowed into a support post which shook alarmingly. Dust sifted down from the ceiling. Turning, red-eyed, he grabbed a handful of loose dirt and threw it into Marcus' eyes, blinding him.
"Cheat!" cried one of the other prisoners, but Borkul now had Marcus pinned against the wall and was drawing back to deliver a solid punch to the face.
"FEIM!" Marcus Shouted as the massive mattock of flesh loomed, and suddenly he was free, slipping easily away from Borkul as the Orc drove his fist with a sickening crack into the stone wall where Marcus had been pinned an instant before. He howled in pain as several bones fractured with the force of the blow.
"By the Old Ones!" Urracen exclaimed. "What manner of power is that?"
"It's the power of the Thu'um!" one of the other prisoners, a Nord, murmured. "Can it really be…?"
"My hand…" Borkul moaned.
"Do you yield?" Marcus demanded, feeling himself start to solidify.
Borkul looked up at him, eyes narrowed in thought. Big he might have been, but he wasn't stupid. If this Imperial could slip out of his grasp so quickly the way he had, could flip him around like a toy and hit him in places that seized up muscles and nerves the way he had, then Borkul wanted nothing more to do with him. He knew when he'd been beaten.
"I yield," he muttered. "Go see Madanach, then, if you're so intent on it."
Marcus straightened and bowed. "You're a worthy opponent, Borkul," he said, with complete sincerity.
He headed down the tunnel as one of the other prisoners began casting a healing spell on Borkul's fist.
The short tunnel twisted left, then right, and Marcus noticed a spur tunnel leading off behind an iron gate. It was locked, so he made his way to the end of the passage that opened into a small chamber. Seated at a desk to one side was an elderly Reachman who was busily writing a letter.
Without even looking up, the King in Rags – for it could only be Madanach himself – said, "You've beaten my Orc. That takes some doing. There aren't many who can boast they've gotten the better of Borkul. So, my fellow beast, what do you want? Answers about the Forsworn? Revenge for trying to have you killed?"
"I'd like to think I know quite a bit about the Reachfolk by now," Marcus said.
"'Reachfolk', is it? Not 'Forsworn'?" Madanach laid down his quill and turned to look at Marcus for the first time.
"Hmm…younger than I expected," he mused. "Thonar made it sound like you were much older."
"I'm older than I look," Marcus said stiffly. "And you're prevaricating."
"You haven't asked a question yet," Madanach said blandly, and Marcus nodded his head in recognition of the point taken.
"Maybe that's because I really don't have many," Marcus said. "I've figured out that Thonar is trying to keep his corrupt little scheme away from the prying eyes of the Jarl, but I haven't figured out yet how much Igmund knows."
"Igmund won't do anything to the Silver-Bloods because they own every damn thing in this city," Madanach sneered. "Any move he would make to stop them would cause economic disaster of epic proportions all across Skyrim. What else do you think you know?"
"I know Thonar pardoned you years ago when you were captured, after the Nords took back the Reach and threw you in here," Marcus went on. "He hoped to use you to eliminate his competition, and anyone – like me – who asked too many questions."
"But you managed to neutralize the thug I sent after you," Madanach said, eyes narrowing. "And you managed to beat my Beast out there. Oh yes, I heard everything that went on. Sound carries in these tunnels, you know. And I have eyes and ears where I need them."
"Thonar thought he had you on a leash," Marcus said now, "but you were just biding your time, making him fall into a false sense of security, waiting for your moment to strike back."
"So you've got something between the ears besides troll fat," Madanach murmured. "That's good. You see, I happen to know a bit about you, too, Marcus Dragonborn. Oh, don't look so surprised. I told you I had eyes and ears where I needed them. You accelerated my plans, young man," Madanach said severely, but not threateningly. "I had already set some of my escape plans into motion, and was going to break out soon anyway. You just forced me to move my plans up."
"Why?"
"My people need me," Madanach said. "While I've been in here, they've been suffering out there, leaderless, without a goal. It's time to take back the Reach!"
"And then what?" Marcus asked.
"Then we'll have our country back," Madanach said fiercely. "Oh, I know it won't happen overnight. It might not even happen in what's left of my lifetime, but it will happen."
He turned a keen eye towards Marcus. "And where do you stand on the issue, young Dragonborn?"
"I'm not sure," Marcus said honestly. "If you had your country back, would you align yourself with the Empire, or the Thalmor?" He thought he knew the answer, but he wanted to be sure.
"Why would I align with either side?" Madanach said shrewdly, surprising him. "We have no love for the Thalmor. They betrayed us. They promised to recognize our petition for an independent Reach if we took our land back while the Empire was still in the throes of the Great War. So we did, and we ruled here in relative peace for two years, before the Empire rallied. The Thalmor then told the Empire that we were traitors, opportunists who took advantage of the Empire in a weakened state to foment unrest. The Empire came back in force and brought in Ulfric Stormcloak to slaughter my people and put their own Jarl back on a throne that was never his to begin with!"
"Why did the Thalmor do that, when they supported you before?" Marcus asked.
"Because we have Breton and Altmer heritage, young man," Madanach said. "We are very good at casting magic, and very good at resisting it when it's being thrown at us. The Thalmor know this, and would rather face a disorganized rabble of non-magic wielding Nords than trained witchblades like us."
Now it makes sense! The Reachfolk were also masters of guerilla warfare, adept at hiding in plain sight and popping up out of nowhere, if the tales Urika and Maiara told him were true, and he had no reason to doubt it. The Thalmor certainly would want to eliminate that kind of potential threat.
"So, you're going to break out then," Marcus said now.
"Soon," Madanach admitted. "My problem now is what to do with you."
"I'm not your problem," Marcus said evenly. "Thonar Silver-Blood is."
Madanach actually laughed at that. "Thonar won't be a problem much longer," he promised. "No, you see, you are an unknown quantity. I don't know if I can trust you or not. It might be better if I just kill you now."
"I think you'd find that a lot more difficult than you imagine," Marcus said, tensing. "Besides, if you kill me, the whole world goes kablooie."
"What? What kind of word is that?"
"It means that Alduin, the World-Eater, will win. No Dragonborn: no one to stop him. Game over."
"I'm not a Nord," Madanach scoffed. "I don't believe in Nord superstitions."
Marcus smiled grimly. "In case you hadn't noticed, I'm not a Nord, either."
There was silence for a moment or two while the King in Rags considered this. "And you're buying into this fairy tale?" he asked skeptically.
"If I hadn't seen Alduin with my own eyes, then no, I wouldn't have." He put every bit of persuasion into his voice he could muster. "If Alduin devours the world and everything in it, I don't think he cares much if you're Nord or not. There will be no Sovngarde, no Aetherius, no Void…nothing. Everything ceases to exist."
Madanach glared at Marcus, who met the older man's gaze steadily.
"Alright," the Reachman said finally. "Let's say for a moment I believe you. Why should I let you take advantage of the plans I've been working on for months? I could just let you find your own way out of here. Of course," he grinned wickedly, "that wouldn't clear your name. The blood of Eltrys and a score of others Thonar has blamed you for would still be on your hands."
Marcus frowned. "And if the Dragonborn has a tainted reputation, your chances of getting your land back are no better than they were before." Did he just promise to help them get the Reach back?
"Well now," Madanach murmured slowly. "This is an interesting proposition. You're suggesting you'd throw your lot in with mine for an independent Reach? That's not going to make you very popular with the locals, you know."
"I'm not here to win a popularity contest," Marcus said. "I'm here to slay the Destroyer of Worlds. But if, along the way, I can correct a few social injustices, I'm okay with that."
Madanach chuckled low and long. "I like you, Dragonborn. I don't trust you, but I like you. Alright, here's what I'm prepared to do. You do something for me as a show of good faith, and I'll make sure your name is cleared when we break out. Everyone in the Reach will know who to blame for the murders that have been committed."
"What do I have to do?" Marcus asked warily.
"There's a sniveling little snitch in our midst who carries tales to Thonar," the King in Rags said. "His name is Grisvar the Unlucky. Quite a fitting name, really, as his luck is about to run out. He was useful for a while, when I wanted to send misinformation Thonar's way, but now he's outlived his usefulness. Take care of him for me."
"You want me to kill him?" Marcus gaped.
"You want me to exonerate you?" Madanach asked grimly. "Use this." He held out a shiv.
Marcus closed his mouth and simmered. Damn the man! He was over a barrel, and Madanach knew it. He couldn't remain here, but if he escaped on his own, he would be a fugitive the rest of his life. Madanach was prepared to take the blame, but only if he committed murder in cold blood. If he refused, he'd be stuck here the rest of his life and the world would end.
"I'll do it," he muttered. "Damn you." He took the shiv.
"Too late," Madanach grinned.
Marcus stormed out of the tunnel and tersely demanded of Urracen where he might find Grisvar. Pointed in the right direction, Marcus blindly marched down the tunnel and found Grisvar picking away unenthusiastically at a vein of silver ore.
"Madanach sends his regards, Grisvar," he told the man, who leaped to his feet.
"No! Please don't kill me! I can be useful!"
Marcus didn't say anything. He didn't trust himself to. He hated this. Grisvar took his silence for intimidation and sprang into action.
"I won't let you kill me without a fight!" he said, two shivs appearing in his hands.
"ZUN!" Marcus Shouted, and one of the shivs flew into a crevice, where it immediately became irretrievable.
"What did you do?" shrieked Grisvar. He began flailing like a madman, and Marcus ducked and dodged the wild swipes, waiting for an opening. Grisvar's shiv caught him on the shoulder, and he winced, cursing Madanach under his breath for putting him in this position.
Grisvar kept ducking out of the way of Marcus' blows. The wiry little man had spent most of his life avoiding getting hit, and today was no exception. Marcus was getting worn out trying keep up with the man. But Grisvar was too scared to pay attention to what he was doing. He kept backing up, further and further into the mine, past the point where torches illuminated the tunnel and glinted off the silvery threads of ore buried in the rock.
Marcus stopped and called out, "Watch out behind you!"
But Grisvar refused to be taken in by such an old trick. "Oh, no, you don't!" he sneered. "I'm not falliiiiiiiiiiinnnnngggg—" The shriek as Grisvar felt his foot slip, felt his body overbalance, felt himself falling over the edge into one of the bottomless shafts would stay with Marcus for many nights. He stood there, in the semi-darkness, breathing hard and pounding his fist against a support post. Damn Madanach!
The King in Rags looked up as Marcus re-entered his private quarters.
"Grisvar's dead," the Dragonborn announced.
"Yes, so I hear," Madanach answered. "And I also hear you didn't kill him, the fall did. Anyway, it's done. If it's any consolation to you, Grisvar would have sold us all out to Thonar Silver-Blood in return for a little skooma. He's not worth the plague to your conscience. Get some rest. I have some things to do, and then we're getting out of here."
Marcus returned to the main chamber and sat down next to the fire, staring at it moodily. Urracen came and sat down next to him. "Don't be upset about Grisvar," Urracen told him. "He had it coming. If it hadn't been you, Madanach would have had one of us do it, and we wouldn't have hesitated."
"He's right," Borkul rumbled from the other side of the fire. "Little snitch was askin' for it. I'm still sure it was him that told the guards about the skooma stash."
Others murmured agreement.
"You all use skooma down here?" Marcus asked.
"Depends on what you mean by 'use'," Urracen said. "I won't deny some here are addicted, but we also use it as a form of currency. We were pooling our skooma to sneak it out and get some much-needed supplies in here. You know, food, clothing, potions and so forth. Madanach has his sources, you see. Grisvar must have tipped off the guards, because the next thing we knew, they came in and cleaned us out. Took us months to collect it, and it was gone like that. We couldn't prove it was Grisvar, of course, but it was rather telling that he had skooma for the next few weeks while the rest of us had none. Those who were really bad off had to suck up to him to get a fix."
"What, you mean, work his shifts and stuff?" Marcus asked.
"Or anything else," another man, Duach, said. "Grisvar wasn't particular when it came to men or women. He'd fuck either."
Oh.
"So don't feel bad, Marcus," Duach said kindly. "You did us all a favor." The others murmured their agreement and wandered off to pretend they were working while they waited for Madanach to give the word.
Marcus stared into the fire a while longer, still not at ease over his part in Grisvar's death. The man might have been a complete weasel, but he'd never offered Marcus any harm. He stretched out on the ground – which was still more comfortable than his bed in the Silver-Blood Inn had been – and cushioned his head on his arm. It was still some time before he drifted off to sleep, and that was filled with dark thoughts of murder and screams that never ended.
[Author's Note: Next up, it's jailbreak time! Marcus' name is cleared and tentative promises are made for the future of the Reach. Then it's back to Whiterun to make plans for that long-delayed trip to Winterhold.]