Chapter 31
Riften was about as dangerous and as aromatic as it was when Marcus had left it several weeks ago. He had delayed his trip to what he privately referred to as the "Sinkhole of Skyrim" in order to reassure his children that they were finally safe at home. When he told them about Alesan in Dawnstar, all three insisted on going up north with him to convince the eleven-year-old to join their family.
Like the others, Alesan couldn't believe the offer was genuine at first, but after a short period of adjustment, and making room for him in Blaise's room, the Redguard boy soon fit in. Lars Battle-born was especially pleased to have a boy his own age to pal around with who didn't want to beat him up at every opportunity.
"I'm not about to tell you your own business, Thane," Lydia warned. "But if you bring home any more children they'll have to sleep in your room. I don't know where else we'll put them!"
Marcus had chuckled and promised he would build his own house before that would happen. He sent Argis back to Markarth to make sure Vlindrel Hall was secure, and to make adjustments to the children's rooms to accommodate his growing family, should he decide to move them there for an extended stay. Then he took the children down to Belethor's for shopping while Argis and Lydia said good-bye to each other.
As soon as Marcus was confident that Alesan was settled in and the other three were happy to have a new brother, he set off on the 30th of Rain's Hand for Riften, promising to be gone "only for a day or two."
Now here he was in Riften again, his least favorite place in all of Skyrim, determined to talk to the people to see what they thought about their Jarl and the civil war in general. The papers Cicero had found in the Embassy and at Northwatch Keep hadn't told him much, except that the Thalmor Justiciars out in the field had been alerted to watch out for the Dragonborn, and to eliminate him "with extreme hatred" if that were at all possible. He still chuckled over that last bit. The feeling was mutual, he could assure them.
His dossier labeled him as a "dangerous threat to the glory of the Aldmeri Dominion", and gave a disturbingly accurate description of him. It also listed his known associates, including his children, his homes and Housecarls. Grimly Marcus renewed his private vow to take the fight to the Thalmor. If there was any other amusement to be found, it was that they knew nothing of his origins, where he had come from and who his ancestors were.
Elenwen's journal was more promising. It had hinted that Maven Black-briar was in tight with more than just the Thieves' Guild, the Dark Brotherhood and the Empire in general. She also seemed to have some sort of mutual arrangement going with the Aldmeri Dominion. In return for helping her become Jarl of Riften, Maven was prepared to permit free access to the Rift to any Justiciar in the area. What Maven didn't, and couldn't know, was that the Dominion intended to use this Hold as a staging area for a potential invasion should the Civil War finally be resolved, because of its proximity to Cyrodiil. Dominion allies could be funneled over the border and hidden within the birch forests and the foothills of the Jeralls until they were ready to strike. Elenwen admitted they were still a few years away from being prepared for the "Purge", as she called it, but seemed confident she could keep the conflict in Skyrim going for as long as necessary.
"Maven believes herself to be immune from harm," Elenwen wrote, "and she will be, as long as she proves useful to me. But ultimately all non-mer must be eradicated for this plan to be successful. It is also important to hold the Khajiit and the Argonians in reserve as our front-line fighters. Let them take the brunt of the Empire's wrath when war does come again. Let the Legions decimate the beast races for us, so that fewer Altmer will have to die. We are already sowing seeds of discontent between the humans and the other races of mer: the Orsimer, Bosmer and Dunmer. Very soon, they will be at each others' throats while we sit back and wait for the inevitable falling out. We must remember the ultimate goal is to re-join our birthright in Aetherius, and the only way that will be possible is to erase the mistake that was made eons ago when the lesser races were created. Only the Altmer deserve this. The Dominion must and willbe victorious!"
Marcus wasn't sure he'd read what he'd thought he had, so he'd gone over it again and again. But there could be no doubt: Elenwen was firmly convinced the Altmer were some kind of master race that was descended from the gods themselves. She truly believed none of the other races deserved to live, and was just biding her time until the Dominion could unleash its own form of genocide. The Thalmor really were fascists.
For the first time, Marcus began to wonder how much of this 'grand master plan' was known to the Emperor, and to the other ruling heads of the Provinces of Tamriel. Would the Argonians and the Khajiit be so willing to throw their lives away in a fight against the Empire if they knew they were being used as pawns? Would the Dunmer and Bosmer be as willing to wage war if they knew they were being fed falsehoods?
Killing Alduin was his primary goal, of course, but Tamsyn had said that this life of theirs would go on, and they would have to live with the consequences of the choices they had made. He'd struck a blow against the Dominion, though they didn't know he was responsible, when he lost the Ebony Blade in the Embassy. Now they would have to send another Ambassador, who would not realize that sensitive documents were missing until it was far too late. And despite his uneasiness over the loss of the Daedric sword, he honestly felt it was probably one of the better possibilities that it would end up far from here in the Summerset Isles, wreaking havoc among the Dominion and the Thalmor. He was grateful Cicero had found the dossier on him; that lack of information in their hands bought him a little more time to do what he needed to do. Quite possibly, he could set a few more wheels in motion.
For the moment, however, he needed to hamstring Maven Black-briar. As a Thalmor asset – albeit an unwitting one – he could not in good conscience allow her to become Jarl of Riften if he decided to throw his lot in with the Empire. And he'd made a good start. So far he had destroyed one of her allies, the Brotherhood; and though he was beginning to realize he may have cut off his own nose to spite his face, he still didn't regret what he had done.
With Elenwen gone, Maven would have to start all over building up a relationship with the new Thalmor Ambassador, whoever that turned out to be. This meant her power-base was weakened just that much more. He wasn't sure how much she depended on the Thieves' Guild, and wasn't sure Brynjolf would fess up if he asked, but he hoped they were the least of Maven's resources. He'd learned his lesson after destroying the Dark Brotherhood. It might have been better if he could have infiltrated them and turned them to wiping out the Dominion, but Marcus was also smart enough to realize that that might not have been possible to do. Dealing with Cicero alone was as much contact as he really wanted with that dangerous, underhanded organization.
Dealing with thieves, now, was another matter entirely. The only thing a thief really understood was wealth. And if someone waved enough money at them, they would switch loyalties to whomever was paying them the most. But Marcus wasn't after gold or jewels. He wanted information. That was where true power lay. The more you knew about your opponent, the easier it would be to undermine them and bring them down. So his first step would be to speak to Brynjolf and find out just how solid his loyalty to Maven Black-briar truly was. Perhaps with considerable luck, he could redirect the Thieves' Guild into a spy network. They would need an intelligence agency if they were to win against the Dominion.
"Please…" a voice croaked at him as he entered Riften's gates. "Please help me…"
He turned to see a bronze-scaled Argonian in a blue dress stagger toward him. As this was Riften, he checked first to make sure his belt-pouch was secure before approaching her.
"What seems to be the problem?" he asked kindly.
The woman seemed palsied, and her hands shook as she waved them about, as if she didn't know what to do with them. The bronze of her scales seemed clouded and pale, the frill down her back hung limply against her dress, her eyes were glassy and listless, and her tail dragged in the dirt. "My job at the Riften Fishery is in danger," she whispered hoarsely, a tremor in her voice. "The owner, Bolli, said that if I show up for work in this condition one more time, then I'm out!"
Her eyes seemed to plead with him. "I don't mean to do this to myself, but I can't help it!" she cried. "I tried some skooma a year ago, and ever since then, I can't stop!" She sniffled. "If you could give me a healing potion, I could cleanse this poison from my body and get back to my life."
One healing potion would not break her addiction. Marcus had been down that road before with Andrea. It had taken months of rehab for his daughter to get clean, and even then, every day was a challenge she fought to get through without going back to her old habits. But if this was what it would take to help this poor woman start down that difficult road, Marcus wasn't going to say no.
"What's your name?" he asked, smiling.
"Wujeeta," the Argonian replied slowly, caution making a belated appearance in her manner.
Marcus dug into his pack and pulled out the strongest healing potion in his inventory. "Here, Wujeeta," he said, passing it over. "I hope this will help."
"Your kindness will never be forgotten," the woman murmured thankfully, opening the bottle and drinking it on the spot. A little color seemed to come back to her scales, and her eyes seemed less glassy.
"Perhaps you can tell me where you get your skooma?" Marcus suggested lightly.
Wujeeta looked alarmed. "Oh no!" she protested. "I don't think I should say. They might kill me!"
"I think you owe me a little on this one," Marcus insisted.
Wujeeta seemed to consider this. She had no idea who this kind stranger was, but he had helped her, and he looked like he might be able to handle himself if things got rough.
"Alright," she sighed, "I'll tell you. I get my skooma from Sarthis Idren. He has some sort of a setup over at the Riften Warehouse. You can't get inside, though. They've kept that place locked up tight since the war began."
"Then how would I get in?" Marcus asked. If he could take out just one skooma dealer, he would consider it a victory against drug traffickers everywhere. He'd already handed Ysolda over to the authorities – and he still felt a pang of regret over that – so Sarthis Idren couldn't be much more difficult.
"I overheard Bolli say that only the Jarl carries the key to the warehouse," Wujeeta was saying. "When I meet Sarthis there, he's usually waiting for me outside with his bodyguard."
Wait. What? The Jarl knew about this? How could she not, if she had the only key to the warehouse? And clearly, it couldn't be the only key, if Sarthis Idren was able to get in and out to operate his illegal drug business. Was Laila Law-Giver in on this operation?
Grimly, Marcus resolved to get to the bottom of this. The Rift might be held by Stormcloaks right now, but that might soon change, if he threw his lot in with the Empire, and he'd be damned before he'd allow a drug-dealer to peddle his poison without doing something about it. If Laila Law-Giver wouldn't put a stop to it, he'd do what he could to put someone on the throne who would. He just needed to find someone more suitable than Maven Black-briar to take over.
And what gives you the right to decide who sits on a Hold's throne? he jibed privately. You're not the High King of Skyrim.
No, but nobody else seemed to care.
Marcus was left cooling his heels at Mistveil Keep for well over an hour after requesting an audience with the Jarl. It wasn't that Laila was even that busy; he had the distinct feeling that Anuriel was keeping him away from the Jarl after his concerns about the Orphanage led to questions with no satisfying answers.
While he waited, he found himself talking with the Jarl's two sons, first Harrald and then Saerlund. Of the two, he found Harrald pompous, spoiled and a completely unpleasant person.
"Out of my way," the young man sneered as he pushed past Marcus, heading outside. "The son of the Jarl has no time for idle conversation with travelers."
"The son of the Jarl needs to learn some manners," Marcus bit out. "You're not making a good impression on people who have come to speak with your mother."
Harrald's lip curled in contempt. "Look, stranger, every day the threat of exile from Riften draws closer for myself and my family. Who knows how many spies the Empire has sent into our midst already. We're at war! This isn't the time for hospitality."
"I would think it's precisely the time for hospitality," Marcus retorted. "If you discount everyone as a spy, and treat them the way you do, you might just turn away a potential ally." Not that he would be one, Marcus thought privately, but the young man's attitude deserved a calling-out.
"My mother is more than capable of rooting out allies from enemies," Harrald glared. It was everything Marcus could do to keep from snorting in derision. "Thank goodness she's keeping a level head about everything. If my brother Saerlund had his way, we'd be flying Imperial colors by now!"
Really? Now that's interesting, Marcus thought.
"I take it you don't get along with your brother," Marcus drawled. The sarcasm was lost on Harrald.
"Can you believe that fool had the audacity to speak of his love for the Empire in the plaza?" the Jarl's son sneered. "He expects us to drop our defenses and greet them with open arms. To…to dialogue with them rather than defend our homeland by spilling their blood!" Harrald's face hardened. "He's no brother of mine! He's a traitor, plain and simple. Had I been sitting on the throne, he'd be hanging from the gallows for his sympathies towards the Empire!"
Harrald spun on his heel and left Marcus to ponder the young man's complete lack of discretion to a veritable stranger. Harrald saw spies in every corner, but didn't have the intelligence to hold his wagging tongue, assured he was safe in his own home. He was a braggart and a bully, and Marcus was glad about two things: first that Harrald was as clueless as his mother when it came to dealing with issues and people, and secondly that he was going to be talking to the mother rather than to the son about the skooma problem.
Deciding he wanted to hear the other side of the story, Marcus sought out Saerlund, the younger of Jarl Laila's two sons. He found the young man sitting in a corner of the great hall farthest from Laila's throne, brooding unhappily over the turn his life had taken.
"Come to gloat, have we?" he said sourly as Marcus sat down next to him. "Come to poke fun at the Jarl's youngest son?"
"No," Marcus answered, honestly. "Why would I do that?"
"Because I did something not a soul in this bloodstained house of war has the backbone to do," Saerlund muttered. "I dared to speak my mind."
"About what?" Marcus asked. He kept his expression as open and honest as he could. "I'd really like to know," he added.
Saerlund let out a frustrated sigh and ran a hand through his hair. "I dared to speak of the Empire, and the lies that have been spread by Ulfric, the leader of the Stormcloaks," he said finally. "Now my mother has stripped me of my heritage and incarcerated me here like a common criminal. My own brother has all but disowned me! Mother thinks I'm crazy, and keeps asking her court mage Wylandriah to 'find a cure' for me! Is it madness to speak one's mind? To disagree with the status quo when you know in your heart that it's all a pack of lies?"
"I've never felt it was wrong to buck the establishment," Marcus assured him. "I've spent most of my life supporting the causes I felt were just, that addressed social inequities."
"Then you know how I feel!" Saerlund said eagerly, a faint smile coming to his face for the first time.
"What sort of lies has Ulfric been spreading?" Marcus asked.
Saerlund scowled. "Ulfric only cares about one thing," he said. "Ulfric. He's ordained himself the future High King of Skyrim, and steps on anyone that gets in his way. He's begun a rebellion against those that wish to eradicate the worship of Talos, and he uses that as his rallying cry. His cause might be true, but the man is a lie…all he holds in his heart is his lust for the throne."
"And you believe that Jarl Elisif would be a better ruler for Skyrim?"
Saerlund snorted. "No, I don't," he answered. "Elisif only holds her position as Jarl of Solitude because her husband Torygg was both High King and the previous Jarl. We Nords only respect powerful people, not that Torygg was, but his father was a man to be reckoned with, from what I hear. And Elisif is too indecisive and crippled with grief to rule her Hold effectively. I've heard stories that her Steward and Thanes actually run Haafingar, and they override every decision she makes. Nords would never accept a ruler like that. If the Moot were held today, they would probably vote for Ulfric, because he's demonstrated his power. That's what scares me."
Marcus nodded. Saerlund had a point. He knew Igmund, the Jarl of Markarth, well enough to know that while the man favored the Empire, he respected strength. While he might not like Ulfric, he would probably vote for him. Balgruuf despised Ulfric, and would never vote for him as High King, but he had told Marcus months ago – in one of their quiet, fireside talks – that he could not in good conscience vote for a slip of a girl who had no idea how to manage her own Hold, much less an entire Province.
"How long was Torygg High King before he died?" Marcus asked.
Saerlund blinked. "I thought everyone knew that." He shrugged. "Two or three years, I think. He became High King after his father died because that's how the Moot voted. But Ulfric wasn't satisfied with their decision, and in the end, he took matters into his own hands."
"So he's Elisif's only challenger, then," Marcus mused. "How is it that he can murder the High King, yet still be eligible as a candidate for that position?"
"Ulfric was very careful how he eliminated Torygg," Saerlund murmured. "He challenged him in front of his own court, according to the ancient laws of our people. Torygg couldn't back down or he would have proven Ulfric's point, that he was too weak a King to rule Skyrim effectively."
"And Ulfric used the Thu'um on him," Marcus nodded, remembering the stories he'd heard. "Isn't that sort of unfair?"
Saerlund shrugged. "We Nords are a war-like people, mostly. We will use any advantage in combat. While it may not have been necessary for the Stormcloak to use his Shout against Torygg – he could certainly out-fight the boy – it wasn't disallowed. And it only highlighted Ulfric's claim that he was the stronger of the two and deserved to rule."
"Might doesn't always make right," Marcus pointed out.
"You're an Imperial," Saerlund smiled sardonically. "Of course you'd say that. Anyway, when Torygg's guard closed in on Ulfric to apprehend him for what they cried out was murder, he escaped in the confusion and was able to make his way back to Windhelm, where nearly half of Skyrim has flocked to his banner."
"Thus leaving the Empire to support Elisif as de facto Jarl of Solitude, and leaving Skyrim with no real power in the person of a High King or Queen," Marcus surmised.
"That's pretty much it," Saerlund agreed. "The Empire supports Elisif's claim to the throne, of course, because whatever ancient laws Ulfric invoked by challenging Torygg to a duel, he still murdered his own liege lord, and that's something the Empire won't tolerate. Until this war is resolved, Skyrim is still a part of the Empire. I just don't think Elisif is the right person to sit on the Throne of Skyrim. She's too ineffectual."
"Perhaps she needs a few pointers on how to be a better ruler," Marcus mused now.
Saerlund snorted again. "Perhaps she needs a backbone!"
"That's what I meant," Marcus grinned. "If she stood up to her court and didn't give in to them all the time, they would learn to respect her authority."
"Of course," the Jarl's younger son agreed. "That's basic diplomacy and politics. But where are you going to find someone who's willing to take the time to do that? Assuming they could even get close to her, that is."
Marcus kept his face impassive as he nodded his agreement. No sense in showing all his cards at once. If Elisif received a bit of coaching on how to manage her court, she might be grateful enough to her coach to reciprocate with future considerations. Laying groundwork with the Jarl of Solitude now might lead to favors returned later from the High Queen when it came time to separate a part of the Reach from Skyrim. So his next stop after Riften would have to be a trip to Solitude.
"You've been kind to me," Saerlund said now, "and I'm grateful. So I'll give you a word of advice: be wary what you say around here, friend. You'll find not all take kindly to 'insurrection'."
Marcus nodded as a guard came up and informed him the Jarl would see him now.
"I've enjoyed our talk, Saerlund," he said honestly, taking his leave. "I hope I get a chance to speak with you again soon."
"I'll be here," Saerlund grimaced. "It's not like I'm going anywhere."
Marcus followed the guard and was admitted to Laila's presence, still musing over her younger son. He was a good man, with a level head on his shoulders, and he certainly didn't deserve the punishment he was enduring for speaking his mind. Though in retrospect, Saerlund was lucky Laila was his mother; had he not been related to the Jarl, he might have disappeared in the night and his body dumped into the canal, if it was ever found at all.
"Ah! Marcus of Whiterun, is it?" Laila said brightly now. "You're the young man who was so concerned about the children at Honorhall. I think you'll be saddened as I was to learn of Grelod the Kind's death. It was a terrible tragedy, that poor woman just dropping dead of a heart attack the way she did."
"Is that how she died?" Marcus couldn't help but ask. After all the commotion Constance Michel made, he was fairly certain his description would have been on Wanted posters all over the Rift.
"It was confirmed by Alessandra, our Priestess of Arkay," Laila nodded. "There were no signs of foul play, and the woman who has taken over running the place was in such an hysterical state at the time that she later recanted the ridiculous accusations of assassins coming in and killing Grelod. I mean honestly, who would want to kill a kindly old woman whose only concern was the care of our war orphans?"
Marcus threw a look at Anuriel and caught the self-satisfied glint in the woman's eyes. Once again, Anuriel was manipulating Laila into believing what she wanted her to believe, and the Jarl was too clueless to question it. For the time being, however, it worked in his favor, and he wasn't going to call her on it.
"But how can I help you today young man?" the Jarl asked now.
Now they came to the purpose of his meeting with Riften's Jarl.
"Are you aware there's a skooma dealer in town?" he asked, watching Anuriel carefully from the corner of his eye. To his satisfaction, he saw her start.
You might not know I had anything to do with the Orphanage, he thought privately, but you know what happened when I began to question the way things were being run. Gird your loins, bitch, because I'm coming after you!
"Yes," Laila said now, unsurprisingly. "We've been aware for some time that somehow, Sarthis Idren has been running his operation out of our warehouse, but every time we've sent guards in to deal with it, he's melted away and they could find nothing."
Marcus didn't have to look at Anuriel to know she had something to do with alerting Sarthis of impending raids on the warehouse. He was convinced the woman was getting a cut from the deal.
"But perhaps you, a stranger to our town, could succeed where the guards have failed," Laila said now, igniting a look of alarm in her Steward's eyes. "Here's the key to the warehouse. If you act quickly, you may be able to catch him before he slips away."
Maybe Laila's not as clueless as she seems, Marcus thought, eyes narrowing. She knows someone in her court is tipping him off.
"It would be my pleasure to look into it for you, Jarl," Marcus smiled pleasantly, enjoying the rising panic in Anuriel's eyes.
"Excellent!" Laila approved. "Let me know the minute you find anything out."
Marcus bowed and made his way out of Mistveil Keep, heading immediately for the Bee and Barb. If he was right, there was someone there who might have his back while he handled this situation. He didn't usually think about hiring mercenaries, but both Argis and Lydia were too far away to get here immediately, and he couldn't take the time to wait for them.
"Marcurio!" he greeted the spellsword as he entered the inn. "Are you still for hire?"
"Ah! The gentleman from Whiterun seeks to add my formidable arcane power to his side?" the young Imperial gloated. "I think we can come to some arrangement for say…five hundred gold?"
Marcus tossed him a pouch. "Half now and half later," he said. "And I think I can promise a bonus if you keep me alive."
Marcurio's eyes narrowed. "You don't look like you need someone keeping you alive," he judged keenly, "but very well. I accept your offer."
Pickings must be slim, Marcus grinned to himself. He had every intention of paying the mercenary the balance, but the two-hundred and fifty he just handed over was almost all the cash he had on him. "We need to go right now," he said.
"Lead on, then," Marcurio invited, gesturing toward the door. When they made their way through town, down to the lakeside docks and headed for the warehouse, however, Marcurio looked doubtful. "You're expecting trouble from a bunch of longshoremen?" he scoffed. "That hardly seems a fair test of my considerable talents."
"I have a feeling this is just phase one," Marcus said. "If I'm right about this, we're going to have bigger fish to fry."
A dealer was the lowest rung of any drug-dealing operation, Marcus knew. He wanted to go after the kingpin, but until he could learn who that was, and where the skooma was coming from, they'd have to take things one step at a time.
The key let them into the warehouse, and Marcus didn't even try to hide from Sarthis Idren and his crony, Orini Dral – a huge, brutish Dunmer, larger than Marcus had ever seen. Marcurio was as good as his word, blasting off precise shots of fire and lightning while keeping a shimmering ward between himself and Orini's attacks. In a few moments, it was all over, and together they searched the place.
"Want to tell me exactly what it is we're looking for?" Marcurio asked.
"These two were drug-dealers," Marcus said. "They're part of a skooma ring I'm trying to bust up."
Marcurio digested this bit of information. "And the reason you're so interested is…personal?" he asked.
A curt nod from the Dragonborn was all he got, but it was enough. "So we're looking for information, then, about who is supplying them," the spellsword mused. "I don't see anything here," he added, looking around. "Is that an office back there?" He pointed to a doorway in the far corner.
"Maybe," Marcus grunted. "Let's check it out."
The small room proved unhelpful, and they turned their attention to the stairs leading down to the basement. Again, there appeared to be nothing out of the ordinary here. Rows of barrels and crates lined the shelves and walls, as they might have found in any other warehouse. One door was locked, however, and Marcurio produced a key.
"Where'd you get that from?" Marcus demanded.
"Oh, it was on Sarthis' body," Marcurio said blandly. "I didn't think he'd be needing it anymore."
Marcus glared at his mercenary friend. "I thought you were a spellsword," he accused, "not a pickpocket."
"Pickpocket?!" the young Imperial said in mock-outrage. "I am a College-trained wizard, I'll have you know! Besides, I prefer to think of it as 'procurer of unique items,' as my mentor Enthir would say."
Enthir. That just explained everything.
Marcus grinned sardonically. "Fine, then, let's see you open the door with that 'unique' item you just procured."
In the small room behind the door they found several small bottles of skooma and bowls of moon sugar, which Marcus confiscated as proof. There was also a letter lying on a rough, wooden table set against the wall.
"Sarthis, just got in a shipment of Moon Sugar from Morrowind. We're refining it now, and the skooma should be ready by the time you get to Cragslane Cavern. Bring the gold or don't show up at all. – Kilnyr."
"Is that what you were looking for?" Marcurio asked, diffidently.
"It's a start," Marcus said. "I'll need to talk to Jarl Laila about this. Will you be at the Bee and Barb? I don't relish the thought of going into a drug-dealer's den alone."
"You still haven't paid me the balance of what you owe me," Marcurio pointed out. "If it's all the same to you, I'll come with you to Mistveil Keep. Oh, don't worry," he added swiftly, seeing Marcus scowl. "I'm sure you have every intention of honoring your debt, and I'll hang out by the door. But I wouldn't be a good mercenary if I let good coin slip through my fingers."
"Suit yourself," Marcus shrugged, not really offended at the offer of company so much as the suggestion he might try to welch on their agreement.
Laila was delighted to hear of his success. "This is the best news I've received in a long time!" she beamed. "But it also means that there's more work to be done. If we take out one dealer, another will simply rise in his place."
Marcus was mildly surprised. He hadn't given Laila enough credit to have realized that on her own. It was yet another reminder not to judge her at face value.
"What would you like me to do, Jarl?" he asked.
"We need to wipe out this operation at its source," Laila said now. "Go to Cragslane Cavern and destroy the operation. I don't care how you do it. Just make sure they can never produce this poison in my Hold again. If you can do this, you will be well on your way to becoming a Thane in my Hold."
Marcus heard a low whistle from somewhere near the door where Marcurio waited for him. Anuriel glared at him with open hostility, which she masked as soon as her Jarl turned to her.
"I'll need a list of potential Housecarls drawn up, Anuriel," she said. "See who's available."
"Yes, my Jarl," the Altmer woman smiled. "I'll make sure we find someone suitable."
Marcus had no doubt that whoever he ended up with would probably report all his movements directly to the Steward. He had no intention of living in Riften, but neither would he allow a spy in his employ. Which begged a further question: where did the loyalties of a Housecarl lie? Lydia had told him at the very beginning that she was sworn to his service, and answerable to him alone. Would he be doing his potential future Housecarl a disservice by automatically assuming they were spying on him?
He couldn't think about that right now. He wasn't Thane of Riften yet, and wasn't sure he wanted to be, especially if it meant pledging loyalty to Jarl Laila. Becoming a Thane was ostensibly a reward for services rendered, and not every Jarl, according to Argis, had one. Balgruuf had made him Thane for killing Mir Mul Nir, and Igmund in Markarth had granted him the title when he had returned his ancestral shield to him. As far as he was concerned, his Markarth title meant little to him, except that it had given him a great Housecarl in the Bulwark. And he couldn't imagine how he could have come as far as he had without Lydia's help.
But that didn't mean he was going to suck up to every Jarl across Skyrim. Lydia had once told him that becoming a Thane in every Hold would give him the opportunity to help the people. He had decided that he didn't need to be Thane to do that. And until the civil war was resolved, it simply wasn't going to happen. His status as Dragonborn would just have to be enough.
"I'll head out to Cragslane immediately, Jarl," he told Laila now. He bowed and headed for the door, motioning Marcurio to follow.
"Do you know where Cragslane Cavern is?" Marcurio asked now.
Marcus gave a sheepish smile. "I was kind of hoping you knew," he admitted. "I haven't spent much time in the Rift."
Marcurio chuckled. "You're in luck. I do know where it is," he replied. "I hope you've got your walking shoes on."
Cragslane Cavern was a hidden, unremarkable cave just over the border in Eastmarch, Marcurio told Marcus. Or at least, it had been unremarkable before gamblers settled in and began capturing pit wolves to fight in a ring. With only one man outside guarding the entrance, Marcus felt confident he could overpower the man and gain access to the cave.
He didn't count on the man releasing the pit wolves from their cages and siccing them on Marcurio and him.
"I think your strategy leaves a lot to be desired!" Marcurio called as he put up his warding spell with one hand and cast Destruction magic with the other.
Marcus ground his teeth. "Okay, I admit it, I underestimated them!" he called back as the bandit on guard began shooting at them with Orcish arrows from a distance. "Next time I'll think it through better."
"There won't be a next time!" the bandit snarled. "You'll be so much easier to rob when you're dead!"
"I've fought dragons more frightening than you," Marcus scoffed as he brought down one of the pit wolves with a powerful sweep of the Blades sword.
"I have to admit," Marcurio added, "that as far as intimidating lines go, that one doesn't even make my top ten list!" He sent out a blast of Chain Lightning which caught both the bandit and the other pit wolf at the same time. The pit wolf yelped as it died, and the bandit went down to one knee.
"No more!" he cried. "I yield! I yield!"
"Hold your fire, Marcurio!" Marcus called out.
The spellsword looked at him in disbelief. "You're kidding, right?" he asked. "These guys don't give up!"
"There's always a first time," Marcus said. "Stand down. I'm not going to strike a man who's yielded." He sheathed his sword and approached the bandit, who was still gasping for breath.
Fuming, but quenching his magic for now, Marcurio stood his ground and watched.
"Is Kilnyr inside?" Marcus demanded of the bandit.
"Yes!" the balding man groaned. "But you won't be able to get close to him. The others…they'll kill you first."
"They'll have to try," Marcus said. "Get out of here and don't come back. I'm busting up this operation for good!" He turned to walk toward the entrance.
"Not if I kill you first!" he heard behind him. Whirling around he saw the bandit charging him with sword drawn, fully alert and not looking the least bit injured.
Marcus fumbled for his sword but knew he wouldn't get it drawn in time to block the blade aimed right at him. He gathered his vital essence to Shout, but never got the chance.
Boom!
Fire exploded around the bandit and the heat washed over Marcus as the impact swept the fur-clad brigand off his feet and sent him sprawling several yards away. Marcurio stood calmly nearby, fire still dancing from his hands. He very diplomatically said nothing.
The reality of just how naïve he'd been humbled Marcus. He'd been in Skyrim how long now? He shook his head in self-disgust and closed the distance to Marcurio, putting his hand on the man's shoulder. "Thanks," he said sincerely. "I was wrong, and you were right."
Marcurio accepted the apology with a nod. "Shall we go see what they're hiding in there?" he smirked.
Marcus returned the grin. "Bet they've got a lot of ill-gotten gains in there," he mused.
"Those are my favorite kind," Marcurio quipped. "Lead on!"
The guard inside the cave entrance never knew what hit him. A blast of Ice Spikes from Marcurio was all it took to take him out. Around the corner the gamblers and the barkeep were less of a problem, though the pit wolf was more challenging, especially as it appeared to feel cornered in the small cavern.
Marcus was feeling pretty confident at this point. So far, so good.
"You picked a bad day to get lost, friend," a gravelly voice rumbled from a tunnel near the back of the cave. A huge, walking wall of a man in Nordic carved armor stood there, a greatsword gleaming red in the darkness of the cave. This had to be Kilnyr. "You've disrupted my operations here, and I'm a very busy man," he growled. "Too busy to waste time dealing with you two milk-drinkers."
Marcurio didn't hesitate. He shot off a firebolt and cast a mage armor spell on himself, limning his figure with a bluish glow. The firebolt hit Kilnyr, but fizzled against the armor.
Kilnyr grinned evilly. "Nice try, little mage," he sneered, "but it will take more than you've got to hurt me!" He roared a wordless cry as he raised the greatsword and rushed at Marcurio. Panicking, the mage back-pedaled and threw off another spell, spearing Kilnyr with an Ice Spike. Again, the drug kingpin seemed to shrug off the magic. He swung the greatsword – a huge hunk of metal heavily engraved with Nordic knotwork – and narrowly missed Marcurio, who danced lightly out of the way.
Marcus rushed in from Kilnyr's left and struck out twice with Dragonbane and the Blades sword, but the bandit chief easily blocked both attacks.
"What happened to your magic?" the Dragonborn threw at the spellsword.
"He's a damned Breton!" Marcurio called out, frustrated, when a Lightning Bolt strong enough to light all the homes in Whiterun – if they'd had electrical lighting – failed to bring the brigand down. "He's got a natural resistance to it."
"That's only part of it," Kilnyr grinned wickedly. "See if you can figure out the rest before I kill you both. But you'd better hurry!" He made a grand sweep with the sword, and caught Marcus across the middle, who failed to block the attack in time. The greatsword gleamed red and Marcus felt weaker. There was an enchantment on Kilnyr's blade, he could tell. The cut seemed to bleed more profusely than it should.
Furious, Marcus renewed his efforts to try and land a blow on Kilnyr, and was gratified to hear a grunt from his enemy. But the Akaviri blades weren't doing nearly the amount of damage the greatsword was doing to him. Kilnyr swung again and Marcurio, backed up against a table and unable to retreat, barely put up his ward in time to prevent his head from being lopped off. The magic crackled and hissed under the force of the blow, before the blade skittered off and Kilnyr brought it up to block Marcus' next attack.
Damn! The man is fast! Marcus thought to himself. How is he not getting winded?
Desperately, he initiated a flurry of blows which Kilnyr was forced to deal with, giving Marcurio time to get out of his corner. Marcus led Kilnyr near the pit wolf ring in the center of the chamber where natural light from outside leaked down into the cave.
"You're good, I'll give you that," Kilnyr sneered. "But it won't help you. You're never leaving here alive!" He wielded the greatsword as if it weighed no more than a butter knife, and Marcus was immediately on the defensive once more.
"I hope you've got a plan, Marcus!" Marcurio called.
"I'm working on it!" Marcus shot back, blocking another bone-aching attack. "Just keep pegging him with those spells of yours."
"Nothing I've tried has worked!"
"I thought you were a College-trained wizard," Marcus grumbled sourly, sweeping low with Dragonbane and cutting up sharply with the Blades sword, only to have it deflect off Kilnyr's armor.
"It doesn't help when his armor has a built-in magic resistance and he's a Breton!" Marcurio shot back, disgruntled. This was definitely not going the way it was supposed to have done.
"So you figured it out, eh?" Kilnyr grinned wickedly. "Well, now that you know my little secret, it's time to die!" He brought the greatsword around again, and Marcus found himself in the wrong position, unable to block another draining blow to his left leg, which buckled under him, bringing him to his knees. How was the man able to move the way he did?
"He needs to be softened up first," Marcus called out, breathing hard. He was bleeding from several places, but didn't dare take the time to pull out a healing potion, or try the simple healing spell Tamsyn had taught him.
"I suppose you think you'll be the one to do it?" Kilnyr sneered. "Do you know what I say to that? Come and try!" He held back, poised in his fighting stance, waiting for one of the two men to come at him.
Scowling at Kilnyr, Marcus knew it was time to pull out his trump card.
"Do you know what I say to that?" he gritted. "FUS RO DAH!"
Whatever Kilnyr expected, it certainly wasn't that. The percussion of the Dragonborn's Shout reverberated around the cavern, and Marcurio clapped his hands over his ears. Kilnyr was flung across the chamber, slamming against the far wall so hard that even the spellsword heard bones cracking. The skooma kingpin lay still on the floor, unmoving. Marcurio crossed quickly over, spells at the ready in case this was another ploy, but he needn't have bothered. The impact had broken Kilnyr's neck. He was dead.
Fear and awe made him turn around to Marcus, spells still at the ready.
"What did you do to him?" he breathed warily.
Instantly self-conscious, Marcus sheathed his swords, pulling out a healing potion. "I Shouted at him," he said cautiously after a long pull at the bottle. No one had ever regarded him with fear after he'd used his Thu'um. With awe, yes, but never with the guardedness that Marcurio was displaying now, as if afraid Marcus might turn on him. He didn't like how that made him feel.
"How is that possible?" the spellsword demanded. "I've heard that Ulfric Stormcloak did the same thing to High King Torygg—"
"I'm not Ulfric," Marcus said evenly, refusing to give in to anger. Marcurio had done nothing for him to be angry about, except to make him question if he had the right to use the Thu'um as he had, and that was hardly Marcurio's fault. Maybe Master Arngeir was right. Misuse of the Thu'um could lead him down the same road as the Jarl of Windhelm. "I probably shouldn't have done that, but—"
"No, no!" Marcurio said quickly. "I'm glad you did! I mean, he certainly wouldn't have hesitated to kill us, and nothing else we tried was working, but…" Marcurio let his voice trail off.
"But you're wondering now just who you've thrown your lot in with, aren't you?" Marcus finished for him. At Marcurio's nod, Marcus blew out a breath and went over to set a stool back on its legs before sitting down on it. "I'm the Dragonborn," he said simply.
To his credit, Marcurio's face remained impassive, except for a sudden widening of his eyes. "That makes everything a lot clearer," he said. "But how is it that you, an Imperial like me, ended up the Hero of the Nords?"
"I guess the gods have a sense of humor," Marcus replied wryly, remembering that Tamsyn had once said something similar.
"How did you learn you were Dragonborn?" the spellsword wondered, and before Marcus realized it, he'd told Marcurio all about waking up in the cart in Helgen, nearly getting executed, teaming up with Tamsyn and Faendal to go to Bleak Falls Barrow, finding the Dragonstone—in short, everything that had happened to him since he came to Skyrim. He did not, however, tell the young mage where he and Tamsyn had come from, or that he sometimes had conversations with Akatosh in his head. Some things were just best left unsaid.
Marcurio chuckled. "Well, I know I'm glad to be fighting with you, rather than against you!"
"So am I," Marcus said sincerely, smiling back. "Shall we see what they were hoarding here?"
"That works for me," Marcurio agreed. "Just remember you still owe me two hundred and fifty gold."
They found much more than that hidden away behind the bar in a chest, as well as tucked away in Kilnyr's private quarters at the back of the cave. They elected to kill the two pit wolves in the cages, simply because releasing them was not an option; Marcus didn't want to, but the wolves would have turned on them had they been freed, and wolves in Skyrim generally preyed on travelers anyway. They weren't like the wolves Marcus had known in his previous life who mostly wanted nothing to do with man. He was sincerely glad Kilnyr hadn't released them on him and Marcurio.
They looted Kilnyr's body as well; a practice Marcus had never quite gotten used to, but it would have been a shame to leave such valuable armor and weapons behind. In addition, they discovered the Breton had been wearing an amulet with a magic resistance enchantment on it, and a ring which boosted his stamina.
"He must really have been paranoid about magical attacks," Marcus mused.
"He must have known I was coming for him," Marcurio said with a smirk. "He was one of the best swordsmen I've ever seen, though. He almost crushed my ward!"
"He almost crushed me," Marcus reminded his companion. He confiscated the moon sugar and skooma they found, just as he'd done at the warehouse, to present to Jarl Laila as evidence.
"What makes you so certain it won't end up back in circulation again?" Marcurio asked shrewdly.
"Won't they destroy it?" Marcus countered. The look in the young Imperial's eyes said it all. The Dragonborn was being naïve again.
"Okay, fine," he grumbled sourly. "What would you have me do?"
"Dump it out," the mage replied. "If the Jarl asks, and I doubt she will, just say you've already taken care of the problem."
"And the moon sugar?" Marcus inquired. "It's not refined, so it's not illegal."
"No," Marcurio agreed. "By itself you wouldn't get much for selling it. But use it as a component in potions, and it won't go to waste. Or bake something with it."
"I'll just hang onto it, then," Marcus nodded. "Unless you want it."
"I don't do alchemy," Marcurio said dismissively. "That would require a lab and a place of my own, which means things that would tie me down. No, thank you."
Marcus grinned and put the moon sugar away. Maybe Tamsyn would like to have it. The skooma was poured out onto the ground.
It was very early in the morning when they finally returned to Riften, and both men were tired, but fatigue would have to be put on hold. A dragon was attacking the city.
"Come on, Marcurio!" Marcus called. "We've got to stop it!"
"Is that even possible?" Marcurio demanded. "Look at the size of that thing! I've heard stories, but never believed them before."
"They can be killed," Marcus said grimly. "I've done it. Let's move, before it does any more damage!"
They sprinted the last few hundred yards until Marcus was close enough to use Dragonrend and force the dragon – an Elder wyrm, he noted – to the ground.
"Watch its wings and tail!" he warned Marcurio. "Stay back and use your magic."
"You don't need to tell me twice!" the spellsword assured him. He sent off a frigid sheet of ice toward the firedrake and scrambled to get out of the way of its deadly breath.
"YOL TOOR SHUL!" the dragon roared, and the carpet of dry birch leaves left over from winter ignited, smoldering in the early dawn.
"Aim for its armpits!" Marcus heard a female guard call to the others, and he grinned privately. Some lessons stuck, once learned.
"FO KRAH!" he Shouted at the dragon, and watched with satisfaction as a cloud of frost smacked the beast in the face. Having been on the receiving end of that Shout himself, he could testify how the bitter cold would seize up muscles and slow one down.
But this was a dragon, not a man, and it would take a Shout from a much larger opponent than the Dragonborn to affect the elder wyrm as deeply as a human would feel it. Shrugging off the cold and freed from Dragonrend, the dragon launched itself into the air.
"Bring him down again, Marcus!" Marcurio called. "He's out of my range now!"
"I can't!" Marcus said, gasping for breath. He'd thrown everything into that Shout, and the rawness at the back of his throat told him it would be several minutes before he could Shout again. "I'm out of juice!"
"Noted!" the battlemage said cheerfully. "We'll just have to keep him busy while you recharge, then."
The dragon swept around for a strafing run, and Marcus heard the female guard warning the others to hold their fire until the dragon was close enough to hit.
She's Captain material, that one, he thought, satisfied. If she isn't already, that is.
As the dragon rushed past, it sent out another gout of flame, this time catching some of the younger trees on fire. Over by the stables, Hofgrir, Shadr and Sigaar were forming a bucket-brigade with the Khajiit traders down to Lake Honrich to try to keep the buildings from going up in flames. The panicked horses weren't making it any easier for them. Their screams almost drowned out the dragon's roaring.
"We need to draw it away from the city," Marcus shouted to Marcurio.
"You lead, I'll follow," the younger man called back, sending off another wave of frost toward the beast.
Marcus followed the trajectory and located his quarry swooping down for another strafing attack.
"JOOR ZAH FRUL!" he Shouted, and watched with satisfaction as the percussion of his Thu'um hit the dragon squarely in the chest. Writhing in paroxysms of fear and mortality, the great beast hit the ground and glared around for the one responsible for this repeated humiliation, its golden eyes fixing on Marcus.
"That's it, you overgrown lizard," Marcus jeered. "Come at me! I've fought better dragons than you! Some of them even had names!" He loved tormenting them with that line. It made them mad enough to get careless.
True to form, the enraged elder wyrm crawled after the Dragonborn who continued to elude the snapping jaws and razor-sharp teeth as he backed up, drawing the dragon away from the city. The needle-sharp peppering of Ice Spikes on its flank were only marginally more irritating than the plinking of arrows against its hide, but this…this joor had dared to use the Thu'um in twisted, warped words of hate that made it feel its body weaken and decay. This one had to die! If only it would just hold still long enough to bite…
Marcus held back, continuing to dodge the dragons' attacks, waiting for it to become careless enough to make a mistake. He felt his Thu'um recharge, but waited. If he didn't get the opening he was looking for he didn't want the dragon to take off again. He'd have Dragonrend ready.
Finally, his patience was rewarded. Just as Dragonrend was dissipating, he Shouted again, and the elder drake, infuriated at once more being unable to take flight, lowered its head and snaked forward to snap from the right. Marcus leaped to the left and jumped onto the beast's head, slashing and stabbing down with Dragonbane with all his might.
He felt the shuddering impact as Marcurio's spells pounded into the dragon's flesh, heard the triumphant cries of the Riften guard as they realized they were winning, saw the blood pouring out of the gaping wounds he was making as Akaviri steel cut through hardened scales and hide. Never could he have imagined the exhilaration he felt at defeating this great enemy. The rush of power he felt as the soul poured out of the dragon and settled into him was heady and gratifying. The most exciting thing he had ever done in his previous life had been hang-gliding, and it couldn't begin to compare with this new life he'd been given.
All he had wanted before coming to Skyrim was to make a difference, to feel as if the causes he supported made his world a little bit better. But it was so hard to see if his efforts were truly having any effect on the jaded, cynical world he'd left behind. Here, there could be no doubt. Every dragon he killed was one less beast to terrorize Skyrim, one less ally for the World-Eater to use to soften up Tamriel for his insatiable appetite. He mattered here. He was the Dragonborn. And while the responsibilities of that title humbled him, the pride he felt in knowing he truly was making a difference was reward enough in itself.
Marcus jumped lightly down from the dragon's skeleton, unharmed by the flames that had consumed its body and transferred its soul to him. The guards stood in awe around the carcass, and Marcurio watched soberly as Marcus gathered up the few loose bones and scales left behind; just a few more to add to his growing collection back home. He hoped to learn how to make the dragonbone armor soon. He saw Marcurio eyeing him warily.
"I never would have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes," he murmured. "You really are Dragonborn, aren't you?"
Marcus nodded. "I really am," he said. "Ready to head inside?"
"Dragonborn, wait!" the female guard called. She took off her helmet, and Marcus noted she had dark brown hair braided neatly and coiled up on top of her head. "I'm Ynga; we've met before," she added, by way of introduction.
"I remember you, Ynga," he smiled. "What can I do for you?"
"This dragon isn't the only one to terrorize the Rift," she said. "There's another one roosting at Lost Tongue Overlook, south of here in the Jeralls."
"How do you know it's not the same one?" Marcurio asked doubtfully. "If you've seen one dragon, you've seen them all, right?"
Marcus and Ynga exchanged a look between them.
"Wait, isn't that right?" Marcurio demanded.
"There are several different kinds of dragons," Ynga explained, as if to a child. "This one was a firedrake. The one at Lost Tongue Overlook is a coldrake, from the reports I've received."
"Meaning…?"
"It breathes frost instead of fire," Marcus clarified. "Come on, I'll explain as we go."
"Go?" Marcurio gulped. "You mean, right now?"
"Sure," Marcus said. "I'm the Dragonborn. This is what I do. Of course, if you'd rather not, you're free to stay here."
"What?" Marcurio blinked. "And let you walk into a dragon's den with no magical back-up? I don't think so!"
"I don't know," Marcus mused innocently. "I seem to recall they weren't that effective against Kilnyr."
"One Breton!" Marcurio said exasperatedly. "One Breton! You can't judge a mage over one minor mishap like that!"
"That was hardly a minor mishap," Marcus grinned as he started down the road that headed south past Riften. Their voices faded as Ynga watched them go. "More like a major miscalculation. Come on! Let's go before that dragon decides to head down into Cyrodiil."
"You don't think he'd do that, do you?" Marcurio asked worriedly.
"It's possible," the Dragonborn shrugged.
"Well let's hope he leaves his treasure behind, then, because after all—"
"I know, I know. I still owe you two hundred and fifty septims…"
[Author's Note: Marcus isn't done with Riften yet. There's still much more for him to do here. The next chapter will be up soon.]