I apologize that this chapter took me so long. I had intended to be done days ago, but life just got in the way. Then I had some computer issues. Anyway, innumerable thanks to SuperGreG, OpalBee, and Dany le fou for the reviews.
Laid to Rest
General Tullius folded his arms as he turned from his secretary back to Aleron.
"All right, now that this is taken care of, I'd like to extend the apologies of the Empire for any injury to your person or your pride. I hope this will make up for any inconvenience, during your wrongful imprisonment or since." He handed Aleron a leather bag. "Fifty gold dragons and a letter of assurance I signed, myself. Don't lose that letter. If you plan on returning to Cyrodiil, or leaving Skyrim at all, it will be useful to you. Also, it will likely get you passage on any Imperial vessel and an invitation to travel with any Imperial convoy moving openly."
Aleron was stunned, though he thought he did a good job of hiding it. Fifty gold Imperial coins was a small fortune; enough to pay men to work his mine. "That's very generous, sir. However unfairly, my freedom was in your hands. You're an honorable man."
The general sniffed at that, but he made it seem a humble gesture. "You may not think so after I take advantage of your gratitude. I have a favor to ask." He held out a leather cylinder. "I've been having troubles with my couriers. Imperial soldiers carrying messages have a tendency to run into trouble with Stormcloaks, even as close as Morthal. And since you're headed down that way," he trailed off, still holding out the cylinder.
"I'm not headed that way, sir. It's just me and one companion; we're not risking Labyrinthian with just two men."
Tullius let the letter fall to his side. "I see. Tell you what, you show that letter I gave you to Legate Duilis, he'll give you an escort through the White Mountains. Sound fair?"
Aleron smiled at the general. He hadn't said he wouldn't take it before. He took the cylinder, gave his thanks, and turned to leave. He looked around, impressed once again with the organization of the war room in Castle Dour. The stone-walled room was large enough for a dozen or so men to crowd around the table of maps, though only three officers were currently present. There were no chairs, and what shelves and cupboards there were housed maps and books and writing instruments. The last bit of efficiency was its placement within the castle. Just past the entryway, anyone coming or going would have to pass within sight of this room. That should keep soldiers on their toes, in case Tullius or another Legate was in attendance.
As Aleron was leaving, though, Tullius said, "By the way, that letter proved you're from Weynon Priory. I was sorry to hear about Gregory. He was a good man. Too clever for his own good maybe, but a man of the Empire."
Aleron was poleaxed. How in the name of Talos did this man know Brother Gregory? There was too much coincidence here. Did Gregory send him here to be killed by Tullius? If so, why? And why was Tullius acting so graciously, now? Something is very wrong here.
He had to clear his throat before he asked, "If I may, sir, how did you know him?"
Tullius looked sympathetic for a moment. He clearly thought the hesitation from Aleron was emotion. "Gregory…" He seemed to catch himself. Startled, he just said, "He wasn't always a priest. Be sure to get that missive to Legate Duilis directly. It's doesn't disclose any of our troop movements, or anything that could hurt the war effort, but it's still important."
It was clear Aleron was not getting any more from him. Something strange was definitely going on, though.
.
"Whatever gods hated you in Cyrodiil," Erik said to him, as Aleron handed the coins to Geimund, the stable master at Katla's Farm, "they certainly love you here in Skryim."
Aleron wasn't so sure of that. In fact, his recent good fortune felt more like the gods fattening him up for the feast. A wary man keeps his eyes open always, not just when the road is dark. That thought bothered him. It was something Brother Gregory used to tell him. He supposed he should expect thoughts like that when he was thinking of the man, but sometimes he wondered if Gregory hadn't had more of an effect on him than his own father. It was a sour thought.
Erik smiled as he mounted the big flaxen warhorse, which he'd already named Aslak. The big Nord didn't understand at all why Aleron would buy the thing for him. It had cost ten of his gold dragons. In truth, Aleron didn't feel right about accepting the Imperial gold, but he felt even worse about that. It was honorable, what Tullius did. He had meant that. But it robbed him of his hate. And even if he knew the thought for foolishness, he couldn't dismiss it. So he took the money, and he intended to spend none of it on himself.
Looking back, Solitude was still impressive. He had read that it was built entirely on a land bridge, but reading about it had not prepared him. It was a beautiful sight from afar, almost as if the city were suspended in air. When he had first entered the city gates, he was shocked that a city so old could be so clean. Every street was cobbled stone. None of the buildings looked to be in disrepair; the architecture was familiar, the sharp angled roofs and distant hints at Akaviri influence reminding him of his short stay in Bruma, on his way to the border. In the courtyard to Castle Dour, an Oblivion gate stood over a well, a reminder of the events that had ended the Third Era, when Martin Septim, bastard son of the last true Septim emperor, gave his life to close all the gates and shield the world from the realm of Oblivion. It was a picturesque city. The citizens, however, made him glad to be leaving the high seat of the Jarls behind. One High Elf woman had laughed at the cut of his clothes, while an old beggar had nearly torn his arm off pleading for help breaking into the Blue Palace. Twice an Argonian man had stopped him to try getting him involved in some crime he was working. The market was completely strange. The stall owners spent more time shouting at each other than hawking their wares. And the guards eyed anyone everyone like owls watching mice. Yes, he was glad to be leaving, and hopeful that the backwater town of Morthal would be more welcoming.
.
Even riding sparingly, the road to Morthal was surprisingly fast. Aleron was unused to long travel by horse, but he remembered everything his father had taught him. Nordic warhorses were slower than the swift Imperials his father had bred, but they were hardier by far, and fierce. They took the mountain passes the first day so well that Aleron wondered whether they were not really giant, horse-shaped goats.
They reached Dragon Bridge by evening the first day. As Erik spoke with the trader and the innkeeper, Aleron marveled at the bridge over the Karth River that gave the town its name. A huge stone construction of unknown origin, with a massive dragon head carved into an arch overstretching the apex, it far outshined the quiet Nord village that had grown up on its northern landing. Set against the snow-and-stone backdrop of the Northern Reach, it was a view any painter would likely travel a thousand miles to capture. He had missed this sight before. Or rather, he had not noticed, in his confusion and anger.
Restocking there, they set off the next morning, out of the highlands and into the cold forest of Hjaalmarch. The roads were not as well maintained in this hold, and many of the bridges seemed in need of a stoneworker, but the way was likely passable without roads, if barely. Hints of farms were visible every few miles, and there was a large clearing where a village had once been, now burned to the ground. It was beautiful country. There was something haunting and serine about the silence of the forest. Aleron found himself staring into the trees with an odd sense of home. By the time the sun was setting, Aleron thought they were going to need to sleep in whatever camp they could make on the wet snowy ground. They left the road to find a suitable clearing.
As he and Erik were unpacking their camp in the dimming light, making a neat pile with all the camping necessities, Aleron heard rustling further into the forest. Erik snatched his bow from atop Aslak, while Aleron bent low, unarmored, picking up his axe from beside the pile of gear.
"If it's a wolf, it's just one," Erik informed him.
Aleron gave him a skeptical sidelong glance. "One wolf wouldn't come so close to two men on horses."
And then they heard the loud barking of a dog. A gray wolfhound stepped into the clearing, excitedly dancing and barking and shaking its head toward the woods. Aleron had seen a few of the great Nordic wolfhounds, sometimes called warhounds, but this one was big even for his breed.
"Get out of here!" Erik shouted at the hound.
The beast whined rather than growl or flee. Aleron shot out a hand to still Erik, and moved slowly toward the dog. It rushed to him, and licked his hand, then jerked its head back toward the forest again. It wanted them to follow.
The tree cover was thin enough that the failing light was not so bad. Aleron told Erik to stay behind in case he got lost, then followed the dog. It led him through the trees about a half-mile. Aleron could see a structure of some kind, ahead. It must be where the animal was leading him. He loosened the axe in its belt loop, cautious of some bizarre ambush. There was no need.
The dog led him straight inside a small daub-and-timber hut, with barely enough room for the few furnishings that occupied it. It was dark inside the shack. There was a lamp by the door, though not lit. The dog was somewhere in the far corner now, barking at him. He took out his tinderbox, and after striking a spark he lit the oil lamp wick with the charcloth. He could see what the dog had brought him to, now.
An elderly Nord man lay on a bed in the back of the hut, unconscious or dead. Aleron brushed passed the dog, who licked the man's hand. From this close, he was clearly dead. In this cold, any breath would be obvious in the air; and he was as cold as the rest of the room, as cold as snow. His eyes were closed, though. That was a comfort, somehow; the man had died in his sleep.
The hound licked Aleron's hand, now, and whined. He patted its head, thinking. They should bury this man. Whoever he was, it was only right. He would have to ask Erik about Nordic customs on burial. He knew some, but surely the Nord knew more. He wondered if there was some way to find out the man's name. He searched around the room for anything that might give him a clue. There was a leather-bound book on a table near the bed. It seemed to be a journal. Leafing through it by the light of the lamp, he found no mention of the man's name. The last page, though, explained how he had died:
Well, after all my years living in these woods, it looks like the Rockjoint will finally be the end of me. I guess that's fine. All my friends are long dead. The only one left is poor Meeko. He was always a loyal companion, and I know he'll be able to take care of himself. I hope someday I'll see him again.
He looked at the dog, who was staring up at him and whining. "Meeko, eh?" The shaggy gray beast wagged its tail and barked happily. "You want to come along with me?"
.
They spent the last of the light and into the night burying the man. Erik slept in the nameless old Nord's bed, while Aleron slept on a pallet on the floor, Meeko curled up on his feet.
The next morning, they set off for Morthal. Skirting the marshes, the Morthal road took them along the northern shadow of the White Mountains. Meeko following alongside Aleron and Caddock, the group made more great time. The horses never really seemed to tire, and Aleron found himself riding Caddock far more than he ever would have dared if he had not seen the animal's stamina for himself. They saw no trace of farms once they came near to the town. The land became wetter, and they crossed another stone bridge, over the River Hjaal where it then became hilly again.
The town of Morthal came on them suddenly. One moment they were trudging through the ever more snowy forest, watching the late-afternoon sunlight split and color through the snowcapped branches, and the next a space emptied in the hills and forest for a wide road descending northward out of the hills. Reaching the road, they could see Morthal down at its end. The high seat of Hjaalmarch, it was little more than a longhouse with a small town built around it. Half of the town was built on stilts over the marsh, with a creative latticework of boardwalks connecting the houses.
The Imperial Legate was to be found in Highmoon Hall, the Jarl's longhouse. Outside the longhouse, though, there was some meeting of the townsfolk, who were clearly petitioning the man standing in front of the longhouse.
"We have no need of wizards here," a tall townsman said. "The Jarl needs to put the man out of Morthal."
The well-dressed Nord facing the crowd looked tired, and then firmed his face with an authority and finality that named him a noble as much as his fine clothes. "The Jarl is aware of your petition. She will take it into consideration. Now please go. Be about your business, and trust Jarl Idgrod to protect you." With that, he turned and entered the longhouse.
Aleron and Erik left their horses with a stable boy at the town's inn, the Moorside. Aleron noticed a house, not far from the inn, that looked to have recently burned down. Something drew his eye there, more than just curiosity. It was a feeling he'd had before, but he never knew what it meant. As he turned away, he saw another man watching the house. A tall Nord, with a shaved head and blond mustaches that curled down to either side of his chin, he stared at the burned wreckage with a dark look. The man noticed him, then, and after a moment gave a start, with a look as of recognition. He quickly turned away, and walked toward the inn. Aleron noticed Erik getting further ahead of him, toward Highmoon Hall, and he turned to catch up.
Two guards waited at the entry to the hall, their spears held straight upward and their faces hard. They stepped in front of the travelers as they approached.
"This is the Jarl's longhouse," the taller of the two guards intoned. "Visitors are welcome to enter, but know that the guards inside will kill any man who draws a blade or raises a hand to Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone."
"Keep the peace," the other guard said as they parted to let the travelers through.
Inside, the hall was actually quite impressive. Almost a smaller version of the great hall in Dragonsreach, without the massive dining area; under high-pointed ceiling beams, the timber columns held balconies to either side of the large firepit that warmed the room nicely, and the Jarl's throne occupied a raised dais at the end of the hall. The Jarl was in attendance, an elderly woman with dark hair, sitting her massive throne, looking bored and frustrated. She too, though, gave Aleron an odd look of recognition as her steward and husband, the long-haired noble who had spoken to the petitioners outside, questioned the travelers.
"If you have business with the Jarl, I'll ask that you speak to me first." He gave a sharp look to Meeko, then an admonishing glare to Aleron.
"We don't, actually," Aleron told him. "But one of your guards told us that Legate Duilis could be found here."
The steward just nodded, and started off toward a room to the left. Behind the Jarl, a fair-haired Nord in a leather jerkin and studded fur kilt, wearing a broad steel sword at his hip, eyed them suspiciously as they went along.
Inside the room with the Legate, a large map of Skyrim was set on a table, with different colored flags and figurines indicating troop and fortification positions. The Legate, Duilis, was a tanned Gold Coaster in a heavy steel plate lorica over mail and leather jerkin, with brown hair gathered at the nape of his neck, and a thin mustache above his lip. He was not at the map, but rather he lounged confidently in a chair on the far side of the room, listening to a legionary give a report. The legionary was an orc the size of a troll, in his own steel lorica, with the biggest warhammer Aleron had ever seen in a sling strapped to his back. What looked almost like an eye in the center of the warhammer seemed to glow in pulses of deep orangey red.
"They're out there, sir. I trust Ghorbash saw what he said he saw. They're in the marshes, just waiting for us to send everyone south."
The Legate seemed irritated by the Orc, but he seemed to weigh what he'd heard before answering in a deep Imperial drawl. "Ghorbash can scout, I'll give him that. But does he know how many? I can't keep more than a century here once I get orders."
"I told him that," the big Orc replied. "He said he can't see how more than seventy or eighty men could remain that hidden. I'd bet on a hundred."
"So with a century, the city guard here, and reinforcements if needed from Snowhawk, we should have numbers. Thank you, Auxiliary. Go about your duties."
The Orc saluted with a fist to his chest, and turned to leave. As he passed the newcomers, he spared them not even a glance.
Legate Duilis frowned as they approached, clearly wondering what they could possibly want of him. His eyes showed mild shock, though, when Aleron dug the leather cylinder out of his bag. Before Aleron could even speak, he stood to snatch the thing away, and started to open it.
"Where did you get this, citizen? Did you find it on some courier?" Finally he looked up, when Aleron didn't give an immediate answer.
Aleron was holding out the letter from Tullius; that would answer the man's questions to satisfaction far better than he could. Duilis saw the seal, snatched the letter, and read through it quickly. Finally letting go of some of his tension, he looked to Aleron, handing him back his letter.
"The thanks of the Empire to you, citizen."
Duilis turned to his maps, reading the missive.
"Sir," Aleron interrupted. "I was told we could get an escort through the mountain pass to the south."
Duilis looked back around, surprised to see the group still there. "An escort? South? Where south?"
"We just need to get through Labyrinthian. From there we'll go our way."
Duilis thought about that for a moment. "Two days. Two days, three at the most, I'll send you with an escort. Now, I really must see to these orders."
.
Three days, Aleron thought, as he sat at a corner bench in the Moorside Inn, scratching Meeko's head. Erik was speaking to the innkeeper, procuring them a room for the next two-to-three days. Something felt wrong. This whole town felt strange to him, but that burned-down house… Three days. I just need to stay out of trouble for three days.
There were no real roads in this part of Hjaalmarch. Mjoll thought it was still Hjaalmarch, anyway. It could be the Pale; you'd have to ask a Jarl. Truthfully, she wasn't even certain of where exactly she was. The snow in the hills this far north washed everything white, made everything look the same. The only way to tell where you were was to look at the peaks all around and try to figure out where you stood in relation to them. It wasn't easy; one peak looked much like another, if going by a map. Even memory wasn't enough for Mjoll to be sure, but she thought this was the right place. She remembered it being only a little more than a day's ride from Stonehills, north and east, but little else.
She was in doubt until she saw the gate. She'd seen more than half a dozen Dwemer ruins, in Morrowind and here in Skyrim. None had had a gate like Mzinchaleft. Gates was the better description, really. A series of entry ports, under alternating domes and spires breaking up two huge outer walls that closed off a semicircle of high hills, led into the outer courtyard of Mzinchaleft. The second wall was higher than the first, and the three towers in the courtyard were taller still, so that each could be seen from before the first gate. It was an impressive entrance to one of the most bizarre places Mjoll had ever been.
She could see from here that the place was occupied. A man in heavy furs, carrying a longbow, was sitting in front of the only working entrance through the front rampart. Mjoll dismounted Mista, her dapple warhorse, and led her down. She hoped there would be no need to fight here. The man at the gate looked a proper bandit, but he had seen her by now, and he hadn't drawn his bow, only set an arrow.
She raised a hand as she drew close. "Hail!" she called. "Is there a camp here in Mzinchaleft, now?" A bandit camp, she really wanted to know, but she left the word out.
"Aye," the fur-clad man returned, surly and dry. "You want to join up, you talk with Maluril. You want anything else…" he smiled grimly and patted his bow.
Join up? Of course. Someone had hired these men to clear out the ruin. It had been tried before, hiring large parties to clear Dwemer ruins, with hopes of riches and ancient knowledge. It seldom worked. Whatever defenses the Dwemer left behind to guard their secrets in their absence, there was one universal truth to every ruin: the more people who went in, the more automatons were released. She'd seen a hundred men break against the defenses of a Dwemer ruin in Morrowind. She supposed it had been done successfully before. It was said that Markarth was built by the Dwemer, but she was not certain that city wasn't built for the Nords. There was a Dwemer city beneath Markarth, one that few in the city proper really knew about. It was her theory that there had been an attempt at peace between Nord and Dwemer there; a living together of two people that had a thousand years ago ended in blood.
"Sure, that sounds good. Where can I find this Maluril?"
The man gave her a suspicious look, then. She supposed she did not look the type. "Leave your weapons and your horse out here. I'll watch them. Go in through the gates, and ask the elf at the door where you can find our patron. Don't be surprised if he turns you down, though. There's not been so much fortune here as we were promised."
She could not help the feeling that this would be walking into a spider's nest, but she would not back away now. Through the outer gate, she noticed her first clear sign that she should leave. No one was guarding the inner gate. If the bandits were spread so thin as to leave such an obvious flaw in their exterior defense, in what shape could their inner defenses be?
The towers in the courtyard held archers but there was no one else. She hesitated, looking up at the massive stone structure before her. There was no turning back, once she went on.
.
Maluril Ferano turned out to be a very skittish little Dunmer scholar who looked askance at any of the bandits who came near him. He had made a room for himself, one to which he had found a key, in an inner chamber of the underground city. He sat now at what must have always been a writing desk, even a thousand years ago, dry-washing his hands over a journal as he spoke hurriedly.
"You can't just get me out of here?" he asked, eyes darting about to be sure no one was listening in. "I've found some interesting things here, but mostly not the things these bandits are after. They want loot, not knowledge. I think they're going to kill me, soon. And if they don't…"
It seemed the Dark Elf was on the run. From what, he wouldn't say, but Mjoll got the impression he'd been on the run for a while. He was frightened, but in a way that he seemed almost comfortable with. He was fraying around the edges, though, and getting desperate. He had offered her the largest share of treasure, and his permission to search as deep as she needed, in exchange for her promise to protect him should the bandits' impatience for gold turn violent. She had been reluctant, but then he had also promised that she would not be under the command of Eilif, the bandit leader. She had realized her mistake as soon as she agreed. There were nearly twenty bandits still in this ruin, and all of them wanted Maluril dead.
"Is there some reason you can't find a buyer for what you have found?" she asked him. "That might hold them off for a while."
"I don't know anyone in Skyrim," Maluril said defensively. "If we were in Cyrodiil, I'd know ten artifact dealers who would salivate over this stuff; but I've only been in Skyrim a few months."
"Well then, maybe there's still hope. The Dwemer defenses shrink their numbers every day, and maybe one will kill Eilif. With him gone, I think I can get you out. The rest aren't so smart."
Maluril's smile was sinister. "That's good. Very good. When can you get it done?"
"I didn't say I'd kill the man, myself. I've told you, I'm no assassin."
"You've killed before, or I'm a fool. And killed less evil men, I'm sure. Eilif deserves to die. The man killed my friend, and he would have killed me if I hadn't convinced him this place was full of things only I could find. Except it's not." The Dunmer looked sullen, now.
Mjoll sighed. "I'll keep my eyes open. Maybe you can convince them to drive deeper into the ruin. If they run into the Falmer, they'll leave or die."
"Hopefully the latter," the little elf said.
Hopefully, I can keep you alive long enough for either.
Erik felt it was like unraveling a puzzle, trying to know Aleron. The man had spent an entire day brooding indoors, never leaving the Moorside Inn. He only came out of their room for food. When they did speak, the Breton reminded him to stay out of trouble, and complained that he needed to get back to his forge.
Erik supposed it was best that Aleron did stay inside. Otherwise, the Breton might have noticed that Erik was getting into some trouble - or what Aleron would think of as trouble, anyway. Erik had been popular with women as long as he could remember. When he was a boy, all the women and older girls of Rorikstead would tell him that one day he would break hearts. Once he grew old enough to really notice the older girls, he got quite the education in what the fairer sex did and did not like to hear from him. By the time he was sixteen, he was bedding girls nearly twice his age and learning a good deal about other things women liked. These days, few pretty women under forty came through Rorikstead without at least a little cuddling with him.
Almost from the moment he walked into Morthal, he had known that there was one woman here who he would spend whatever time he had free trying to bed. He'd had noble women before, even foreign noblewomen; but he'd never had a Jarl's daughter. Idgrod the Younger was not younger than him, but she was young enough, and quite lovely, with smooth features, a healthy bosom, and hair not quite so dark as her mother's. He spent the first full day in Morthal regaling her with stories of his fights with draugr, bandits, and Thalmor, making out that the few stories he told her were just a sample of many. He made passing comments on her beauty, listened sympathetically as she told of her brother's illness, and casually brushed at her hair whenever a strand fell out of place. She giggled at his smiles and laughed at his jokes, and he was certain that she would be in his bed before he had to go south.
.
What surprised him was that he seemed to really like the woman. She had something of her mother's reputed wisdom, if in a more humble manner. She saw through to the truth quickly, knowing right away that he had not been adventuring long, and, oddly, that he had not known his mother. That about his mother seemed to sadden her, but a soothing word from him that he'd had plenty of female attention growing up made her laugh knowingly. She was not as forward as the other nobles he'd known; and for some reason he liked that. She was not put off by him; he could tell that. She smiled when he brushed back her hair, and leaned toward him to touch his arm when she laughed. She was interested. She was just not desperate.
She smiled at him now, from behind her mother's throne, as Aleron spoke with the Jarl about Hroggar's burned-down house. For some reason, the Breton was fixated on the house. He'd been grumbling about it in the morning, before Erik went out, and now he was asking the Jarl if she needed any help finding proof of the rumors that Hroggar had set the fire himself. The Jarl watched Aleron with anticipatory eyes, but the Jarl's steward, her husband Aslfur, had eyes only for Erik. Uncomfortably cold eyes.
"Lust will make a man do terrible things," he heard the Jarl say, as he jerked his gaze away from Aslfur. "The ashes of his wife and daughter were still warm when Hroggar pledged himself to Alva. But I'll not have a man hanged on rumor and gossip."
"I could find out more," Aleron offered. "I have another day here, at least."
"There's not much we can find out in a day," Erik broke in. Was the man always like this? For someone who talked so much recently about not getting into trouble, Aleron seemed to attract it like flies in a midden. "We may have to leave in the morning. For Stendarr's sake, Aleron, if we do leave in the morning, we'll need to have had a good night's sleep. You and I both know that promise for an escort was just a promise to let us tag along with whatever Duilis was already going to send south without us. They won't wait if we lag behind, you can bet on it."
Aleron seemed not to be listening. He was staring uncertainly at something behind Erik.
Finally, he said, "We're not leaving tomorrow morning. Duilis is waiting on more scouting reports, from the look of him." Erik turned his head around to see Legate Duilis in his lighter armor sitting on a bench, chatting with a bald man in a black scaled leather jerkin and a heavy fur cloak with drooping blond mustaches going gray. The Imperial appeared to be paying their audience no mind, but the bald Nord shot a glance to the group before the Jarl that made him look as though he were waiting for something.
"If I have your permission," Aleron told the Jarl, "I'd like to look into the fire while I'm here."
Jarl Idgrod thought about that a moment before intoning to her court. "I'll not presume to know why this young man seeks to assist us in this matter. He's an outsider - a Breton, by the look of him, though with a name older than Ysgramor - and some of you may not be inclined to trust him. Know that I have trusted him with this task, so long as he is willing to take it. Let no one in Morthal impede him in finding the truth Hroggar's house fire."
Aleron nodded thanks, then turned and stalked out of the hall without looking at anyone. Erik gave a parting smile to Idgrod the Younger, which brought an icy glare from both Aslfur and the Jarl, before following Aleron out of Highmoon Hall.
.
The thick Breton was rushing across town, almost jogging. His shoulders set forward, his steps wider than any Nord's, it was obvious he knew where he planned to start his investigation; and wherever that was, he meant to get there quickly. The dog trotted along at his heals, looking up at his new master as only a dog could. They passed the healer's shop and many houses on stilts rising over the delta, before finally coming to the wooden walkway that led to Hroggar's burned house.
The place was a charred husk. It looked as though everything in it had been made of wood or straw, as nothing of it besides the floors remained. The soot was not as bad Erik had expected, but Aleron seemed to think that had something to do with the morning fog.
The Breton looked around the main room frantically, seeming to have some notion of what he was looking for, but not where to find it. There wasn't much to toss about, really; but he managed to make a show of tossing what he could. Suddenly, as he walked into the small room to the left, he froze.
"Find something?" Erik asked him.
A hand out to stop him was all he received. Erik grabbed the dog, before it could follow Aleron into the room. He liked dogs well enough, but this one had an annoying tendency to bark at nothing.
And then Erik heard a voice - a little girl's voice - from inside the other room. "Hello."
What in the nine holds is going on? Erik moved no closer, but he slid to the side a bit to see into the room. There was nothing there.
"Are you a stranger? Papa says I'm not to talk to strangers."
Aleron stepped into the room, toward a dark corner, his hands out as if calming a nervous horse. "I'm a friend," he said soothingly. "What happened to your house? What happened to you?"
The voice of the girl - who Aleron seemed to be able to see - sounded apprehensive. "I'm not supposed to talk about that. Do you want to play a game?"
Erik was sure he understood, now. This was Helgi, Hroggar's daughter. It was her ghost anyway. She stepped out of the shadow, and a small girl made of blue-gray lights said, "If you play with me, I'll tell you about the fire."
"Alright," Aleron replied.
"I'll hide," the ghost girl said, "you have to come find me."
Suddenly, Helgi disappeared, leaving a strange blue smokiness behind to dissipate in moments.
"Great," Erik said. "How are we supposed to find her? She's a ghost; she can hide wherever she wants."
Aleron twitched that almost smile. "She's up on the hill."
"How could you possibly know that?"
"I don't know. But she's up there. Come on, we can get up there easier from the back of the house."
Aleron didn't know how, but he could have pointed to Helgi from down at the house. Climbing the hill, he knew she was just over the rise. He wished he could understand any of this. Since the moment he saw the house, he'd known something was wrong. By this morning, he'd known a little girl had died there. He'd not known her name, or anything else about her, except that she had been murdered in that fire. And something about that man in the black scaled armor bothered him - well, bothered him was not the right word; the bald Nord plucked at something in him.
Mounting the rise, it was too dark to see clearly, but Aleron thought he'd found what he was looking for. A recently placed grave had been dug up, the tiny coffin pulled mostly out of the ground. The size of the coffin named it Helgi's. How many small children could have died in Morthal in the last few days? Aleron could feel the girl hiding in it - not just the body, but the ghost, as well. He was about to call out to the girl, let her know that she had been found, when he heard a low growl from Meeko, and then a woman's voice behind him.
"You shouldn't be here." The voice was cold, quiet, almost as if the woman didn't care if she was heard.
Aleron spun and saw a woman dressed in black and red, with a hood that shadowed her face. Except for her eyes. Her eyes were glowing from within that shadow, a deep blood red. She slid along the permafrost ground, circling the girl's grave, trying perhaps to put it between her and the others. Aleron's hand went to the axe at his belt, and she stepped back hissing. He patted Meeko, keeping him calm. It was doubtful the dog would attack her unless she attacked first, but he couldn't be sure until he had had some time with him.
"You will not have her!" the woman spat. "She's mine!"
Erik stepped between Aleron and the woman, nearly standing on the coffin. "I know what you are, bloodsucker! I know what you are, and I won't let you hurt another soul. You'll end here, vampire!" Erik charged the woman, leaping over Helgi's grave, axe held high. The tall Nord's battleaxe slashed down, but the vampire was too quick. She dodged, cut a gash in Erik's arm. She was quick, but her speed was awkward. If she were a fighter, she would have killed Erik there. Instead, she laughed.
Aleron stepped around the grave. The vampire's back was too him, and all her attention was on the other man. His axe slid from its loop, and he stepped up to take a swing at her unprotected neck. He'd read about vampires. Silver worked best, or certain enchanted blades. But even for steel, cutting off the head or destroying the heart worked just fine. He swung, and felt a twinge of guilt as she didn't even notice until the axe bit into her. Her head was gone, and then so was the rest of her, turning to ash in the wind atop the hill.
"Oh, gods!" a man's voice came from the path leading down toward Morthal. "My Laelette. She was… she was a vampire!"
A thick Nord man ran to the pile of ash that had collected where Laelette had stood. On his knees, he reached out his hands as if to run them through the ashes, but instead he let them hover. "How could this happen?" he muttered as stared coldly at the ashes.
Aleron put a hand on his shoulder, but the man recoiled. He kept silent for a time, as Aleron waited. "I thought she had left to join the Stormcloaks," he said finally. "I was angry with her, for that. I don't know what to think, now. Our son will have to grow up without a mother. What kind of life is that?"
Aleron scrubbed a tear out of his eye and stared at it. He hadn't had time to feel sadness; it was just a reaction. Really, he had to stop this. He kept his face hard, and asked the man his first question.
"How long has she been gone?"
He didn't answer. Erik moved toward the man, a determined look on his face. Aleron stopped him with a gesture.
"Laelette tried to burn mommy and me," Helgi's voice said from the coffin. "But she didn't want to. She kissed me on the neck, and I got so cold the fire didn't hurt anymore. Laelette thought she could keep me forever, but she couldn't. I'm all burned up. I think I'm going to sleep for a while now."
The vampire's husband stood, reminding Aleron somehow of a tree stump. It seemed that most of him had been taken, and all that was left was pitiful.
"She's been gone for more than a week," he said finally.
A week. What could that tell him? She could not have always been a vampire. It seemed unlikely that she could have kept it from her husband at all. From what he had read, the rumors that vampires would die in sunlight were untrue; but many of the others were real, including the drinking of blood. It was likely she'd been turned in the last few weeks, then."Did you notice anything strange about her behavior just before she left?"
The man thought a moment. "She started spending a lot of time with Alva. I only mention it because they used to hate each other. In fact, I think she was supposed to meet Alva the day she left. You don't think… No. I won't believe Alva's a vampire. It's just too awful."
"I think it's a possibility we can't ignore."
"But how do you plan to find any proof?"
.
It was a chore to keep Meeko from following him to Alva's house. The hound liked Erik well enough, but it seemed he didn't like being away from Aleron at all. Fortunately, Meeko took quickly to the Jarl's daughter, and Erik had lit up at the prospect of keeping her around to distract the dog; Aleron would have to keep an eye on that. She seemed as pleased with the arrangement, and for the same reason, really. But it would be just like him to be hanged if Erik managed to displease the woman. For now, though, he had to keep his mind on what he was doing.
None of the guards were around, which was good. He thought he wouldn't be jailed, as long as he had a chance to explain everything to the Jarl, but he would certainly never have a chance to get into Alva's house again if he was caught breaking in. It was still dark, two hours at least before dawn. The fog was thick enough here over the marsh that he doubted anyone would be able to see him from ten paces away. He worked the lockpick into place. There was a delicate science to this work, the opening of locks with pieces of pointy metal. He had not told Hadvar the whole truth, all that time ago under Helgen. He had started to learn of picking locks when he was asked to make some lock pieces for the captain of the Chorrol guard. He'd had no trouble fitting the locks together, fascinated as he was by the puzzle-like quality of the work. Since then, he'd made many locks, including the ones used in Weynon Priory. The Brothers rarely locked any of the doors, but there was a secret room in Brother Julius' study that he could not help but try to enter. He'd spent weeks at the lock, stealing chances when everyone was in the chapel, but with no results. All the effort that went into failing helped him get a feel for the tools, though, which was usually enough with lesser locks.
Alva's front door opened, and Aleron ducked in. The place looked normal, no blood wells or masticated bodies; but perhaps if she was the vampire she did her killing elsewhere. Perhaps there was something in the door to opposite the bed, but he would check this space first. It was clear a man was living here with her, now - probably Hroggar, from what he had heard. A man's clothes lay on the bed in a pile, and no woman would leave her house in such a state of dust and clutter. Aside from that, there was nothing remarkable about the small house. It was all one room, kitchen and bed and living space combined. The furniture was all wooden, which made sense so close to a great forest. Wall sconces were of simple horn or iron, with not a hint of gilt or silver. After looking around a bit, Aleron decided it was time to check the other door, which clearly had to lead down to a basement.
Taking a lantern from its hanging beside the door, Aleron headed down a steep set of stairs. At the bottom, the stone basement was almost empty. Aside from a large box in the center of the room, stone walls were all that was visible. He set the lamp on a hook by the entrance, then went to the box. It was a coffin, he could see now, just large enough for a Nord woman to fit inside. It would admit no light, and he could not see how it would let in any air, either. Inside, there was no Alva, but there was a red leather-bound book.
It was a journal, Aleron realized after peeking inside. He started to read a page here and there; at the beginning, it was clear Alva was just a normal townswoman, consumed with the normal goings-on of her town. Then, finally, Aleron found what he had been looking for:
Now I understand the true colors of the night. Movarth has shown me the true black of night and the true red of blood. He has promised me a feast of blood if I do his bidding in Morthal.
Movarth? From the story? It can't be. Movarth, in Immortal Blood, was once a famous vampire hunter, before he himself was turned by one of the villains masquerading as a priest. A couple of pages later:
Hroggar was easy to seduce. Movarth said I should find a protector first, someone to watch over my coffin during the day. Hroggar is perfect.
And in the next few pages:
Laelette came to visit me tonight. She slaked my thirst. I've hidden her away to let her rise as my handmaiden. I've spread the rumor in town that she left to join the war. Fools.
Movarth has confided his grand plan to me. I am to seduce the guardsmen one at a time and make them my slaves. Then he and the others from the coven can descend upon Morthal and take the entire town. We won't kill them. They will become cattle for our thirst. An endless supply of blood and an entire town to protect us from the cursed sun.
Hroggar's family is becoming inconvenient. I've told Laelette to kill them all, but make it look like an accident. Hroggar must be seen as innocent if he is going to be my protector.
That little fool! Laelette burned Hroggar's family alive. I asked for an accident and she gave me a scandal. To make matters worse, she tried to turn his little girl, Helgi. Except Laelette couldn't even get that right. She killed the child and left the body to burn.
That bit about the sun confused Aleron. He'd read from a seemingly reliable source that the sun did not kill vampires; and it was unlikely Alva could get by in the city never coming out during the day. Perhaps the sun was just painful for them. Or perhaps different vampires had different traits. Immortal Blood certainly described many different traits for different clans.
"You shouldn't be here," a woman's voice said, full of a sultry seduction. She was tall, willowy, wearing a thin dress that showed off a pert bosom.
"Is that phrase in the vampire handbook, or something?" Aleron was not wearing his armor. He had thought he might look suspicious walking around before dawn wrapped in thick iron. His heavy cloak was his only protection, small as it would be. He did have his axe, though.
Alva flashed a thin-lipped smile. "So you killed my handmaiden. A shame, that. You're a handsome enough man; I might have let you replace Hroggar as my protector. Would you like that, Breton? Do you want to share my bed?" She slipped the thin dress from her shoulders, revealing the total lack of smallclothes beneath.
She was attractive enough, Aleron supposed; but she was trying the wrong tactic with him. He didn't believe himself invulnerable to much - but simple manipulation was not something that would affect him; he had been subject to a much more adept practitioner, and even Brother Gregory rarely got through without Aleron seeing it first.
"Your breasts had better fire arrows, vampire. Otherwise, that was a useless gesture."
Alva's smile dropped only a little. "You prefer men, perhaps? Well, perhaps Ungar will take you. He likes boys, really, not men so… formidable. And his boys all have light hair, not your delicious chocolate. But perhaps your pretty face will convince him you're worth it. Either way, I cannot let you leave here alive."
Aleron pulled his axe from its loop, and Alva backed against the door. Clearly, she had thought he would take her offer. "You can live forever, Breton. Forever, with power beyond any mortal."
Aleron slashed at her, and she moved aside. He swung with his free hand to keep her at bay as he spun back around to face her.
"An angry one," Alva mused at him. "Are you sure you won't be my lover? I do so love forceful men." She caressed herself in a distracting way, her nude body still her preferred weapon.
He swung his axe again, cursing as she dodged and climbed up on his back. He swung his axe at her again, as she settled herself, but he only succeeded in losing the weapon as she slapped away his hand.
"Mmm," she hummed as she clung to his back, one arm around his neck and the other in his armpit. "Strong shoulders. And this chest!"
Her head went back, and Aleron heard her take a deep, hungry breath. He reached back to punch her before her teeth could come down on his neck. She stopped, stunned, and he grabbed her by the hair. She was not strong enough to give much resistance as he yanked her over his shoulder into one of the stone walls. He slammed a fist into her head as he held her by the hair. He felt bones seem to bend, but nothing broke. She tried feebly to scratch him with nails longer and sharper than natural, but he swatted her hand away and punched again. This time the head went soft, and brains and blood oozed out of Alva's nose and ears.
He spat at the vampire as he stood, watching her slowly turn to ash on the ground and then wondered why that bothered him. He'd killed the woman; she had tried to kill him, or turn him into a vampire. Why would being rude to her ashes matter? For the hundredth time, he questioned whether he was not going mad.
.
"Laelette set the fire, Jarl, but Alva put her up to it," Aleron said, standing again before the throne in Highmoon Hall.
"Alva!" the Jarl exclaimed. "Hmph. Didn't think she had it in her. Can I assume Hroggar was also accomplice to this business?" She stared doom at the burly man standing in restraints behind Aleron.
"Yes and no, Jarl." This was going to be a risk, siding with Hroggar. The man had been involved, but now he was clearly grieving for his lost family. "Hroggar was under some sort of seductive vampire spell. Alva was a vampire."
"A vampire, eh? I assume you have proof."
He stepped up to hand the Jarl Alva's journal, and noticed that the big blond housecarl behind her did not so much as reach for his sword. Seemed protective enough before. Maybe that wasn't concern in that look before? Maybe it was considering?
Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone searched through the journal, and then stopped dead on one of the final pages. "Movarth," she hissed. To Aleron and the hall, she intoned, "The vampire Movarth is not dead, it seems. He has gathered more of his vile kind in his cave to the north. Aleron, if you will, this monster must be destroyed. The guards will remain here, to protect Morthal, but others will be found to go with you. The cave is only a day's walk through the marsh to the north. If Legate Duilis cannot wait for your return, I will send an escort with you south when the time comes."
Duilis shouted from the back of the hall, "I'll not be sending my men until noon tomorrow. If he's back by then, he can accompany them."
The Jarl smiled patronizingly to the Imperial. "There's a good boy. Now, Aleron, will you go?"
Aleron sighed, knowing he could not refuse, now. Meeko burst in as Erik opened the great entry doors. The dog bounded to Aleron, lapping at his hand and dancing about. Behind Erik, the bald Nord in the black-scaled leather armor entered and strode quickly to the Jarl.
After whispering for a few moments with the man, the Jarl gave Erik a violent look, then ignored him. "Will you go, Aleron?" The black-armored Nord left the hall in a hurry. Erik had a look of shame.
"We'll go within the hour."
"It's only been two days," Maluril said, lounging in a chair by the fire in what they were calling the meeting hall, as he had for the last two hours. "There's not too many bandits left, and you were right about the Falmer. Just give me another couple of days, and after that I should be able to move on. Then you can go anywhere you like, down to Blackreach for all I care."
What in Talos' name is Blackreach? Mjoll thought. "I don't think you understand. If the Falmer know we're here, if they think we're a threat, we'll have an army of them hunting us through this ruin."
In two days Mjoll had grown to hate Maluril Ferano nearly as much as she did Eilif. Surely, the big Nord was more likely to try and kill her; but this little Dunmer was a foolish as any person she'd ever met. He knew that these bandits wanted him dead, that he had only lived this long by convincing them he could sell their plundered Dwemer artifacts for them; and yet, he treated them as servants at best. He was quarrelsome with Eilif, who could crush him without trying, and he baited the others. He relied completely on Mjoll's promise of protection; he expected her to step in even if he started a fight he couldn't finish!
Fortunately, the bandits had more pressing matters. Last night, a party of seven had finally fought their way through the Dwemer constructs into the depths of Mzinchaleft. There, they encountered a dozen or so Falmer. Only one escaped to tell. Now, the remaining six bandits were readying for a foolish attempt at revenge.
"These bandits will all be dead by tomorrow," she told him. "But that may be too late. Eilif will be gone tonight. I can get you out, man!"
"I'll leave when I'm ready," Maluril said acidly. "Now do what you're paid to do!"
Mjoll turned her back to the elf in frustration. There had to be some way out of this. He was going to get her killed! She walked to the southern entrance of the huge room. Around her, the orange-lit brass machinery vibrated and hissed. She had mostly gotten used to it by now, but occasionally the noise and the claustrophobic low ceilings grated the edges of her nerves. She'd stayed by the elf's side all day, while he read in his rooms or stalked about reminding everyone that he was to be the first made aware of any newcomers to the camp. Around noon, he'd started taunting the bandits about their lost comrades. Eilif had needed Mjoll's reminder that he could not hope to get through her to Maluril without losing a few men. One bloody nose had done a good enough job, but it was a frustrating encounter. Finally, she had convinced Maluril to stay in his rooms for a time; but after an hour he was insisting on reading in the meeting hall. He said his rooms were too stuffy, as if he weren't the only one in the entire camp with a room to himself.
I should just leave the bastard here, is what I should do, Mjoll mused as the elf started humming to himself. I've been here two days and I'm no closer to Grimsever. And now these bandits have riled up the Falmer.
She had never had trouble getting past the Falmer. There blindness was not the weakness it should have been, but their fear of fire more than made up for that. One person was not likely thought to be worth bothering over, aside from as a food source, unless she made herself a nuisance. Mostly they would leave her alone so long as she stayed out of their main camps and made it clear she would use her torch as a weapon. One or two might come at her, usually the starving or dishonored members of the tribe. Very rarely did she face any of the armored soldiers or staff-wielding shamans. But any group of people would be descended upon like wolves on an injured elk. Even as many as three were likely to bring a small army of Falmer, from wherever they all seemed to come from. That sparked a memory in her. Blackreach. That was a name she had heard a long time ago, described to her as the last home of the Snow Elves, the Falmer. Was it under Mzinchaleft? Was that why there were so many Falmer here?
She turned to ask Maluril about this Blackreach, and saw Eilif, striding through the far door. Stepping over a ruined railing from the walkway above, the big Nord bandit walked straight to her.
"We're going in after these Falmer!" he spat, violence barely contained. "If you're anything like a real Nord you'll come with us, rather than stay here to babysit the elf." He nodded in disgust at Maluril. "I'll not send anyone to kill that fetcher till I get back."
"How very reassuring," Mjoll said dryly.
"I'm giving you a chance, woman! If you stay, you'll die, by my hand or these Falmer. If you fight with me, maybe we'll have a chance."
Mjoll smiled at him, her most innocent look. "You could just pack up and leave, you know. Plenty of room for banditry on actual roads, where people travel. There's no need to throw your life away to avenge your lost men."
"You just be here when I get back, bitch!"
Mjoll laughed as Eilif joined his other companions at the door leading further into the ruin. Neither of those things was likely to happen.
As soon as Eilif and his men were out of earshot, Mjoll quickly strode over to Maluril and hauled him up by the collar of his robe.
"Come on," she ordered him. "We're leaving."
She was done with this catastrophe. She had come here for Grimsever and found a hornets' nest. She would come back, as soon as her duty to this man was through. She had promised that she would keep him alive until he left this ruin; so she was going to make sure he left.
"I'm not going anywhere!" the little Dark Elf growled at her as he struggled against her grip. "I told you, I've things to settle here!"
"Horse shit!" she spat at him. She shook him by the shoulders. "You're afraid. Of what, I don't know; but I do know that Eilif means to kill you if he returns. I won't explain again what it will mean for us if he doesn't return. Now, if you've got to be afraid, be afraid of that."
"He should be afraid," a cold voice said from behind her. Her hand going to her axe over her shoulder, she spun. A tall Redguard in black and red leather armor, hooded but not cloaked, stood in the doorway that led to the exit of the ruin. She gasped despite herself when she saw the blade in his hand. It must be a fake, she thought. He had that thing made to look that the Razor. She'd seen an artist's drawing once, of Mehrunes' Razor. The curved, pointed hilt, the jagged pommel, the barbed blade; this man's dagger fit the description perfectly. But it had to be a fake.
The Redguard noticed her staring. "It's real," he all but whispered, as if reading her mind. "I've no contract for you. But if you get in my way, I will kill you. The Night Mother demands that this one die."
Behind Mjoll, Maluril tried to break away, gibbering to himself. Suddenly, a bolt of flame to size of a cabbage shot out of the Dunmer's hand toward the assassin. The man rolled and dodged it easily; he smiled as he got back to his feet. Mjoll had let Maluril go in the shock, and he was running, now. Toward where Eilif and his men had gone.
"The Falmer are awakened here, I assume." The Redguard arched an eyebrow at her. "My name is Jabari. I mean it when I say I will not kill you unless you stand in my way. He's dead anyway. I just need to beat the Falmer to it, or find his body."
Mjoll's axe felt heavy in her hands. She thought herself a good judge of people, and she knew this man was not lying. She could also tell that this man was as dangerous as any she'd ever seen. She decided she believed what he said about the Razor. And yet, she had made a promise.
"I promised him I'd keep him alive. I keep my word."
The assassin sighed, then pulled another wicked looking dagger from his belt. "So be it," he said.
He did not try to dance with her, as Orini Dral had. He did not even ready his weapons. He simply strolled toward her with the blades at his sides, looking passive. His muscles were not tense; his face was mild. He was a wolf toying with a rabbit.
She swung her battleaxe, trying to show him she was no rabbit. She was a lioness. She swung, and he dodged. She kept the axe moving; she kept herself moving. Like a lioness, she struck and recoiled, waiting for the right moment to pounce. She knew after four swings of her axe that that moment would never come. Dral had been quick. This man was made of water. Dral had been a snake. No snake ever moved like this Jabari. He did not writhe around her strikes; he flowed. It was like trying to catch air.
His strike came so fast, out of such an awkward stance, that she saw it too late to do anything but watch. Her body burned as the blade - not the Razor, thank Mara - bit into her flesh just below the elbow. The cut seemed to draw the wind out of her. Her muscles were sore; her breath came ragged. The other blade must have been enchanted in some way, too. Her arms wanted to drop; her hands could barely hold the axe.
He kicked the battleaxe from her hands, and she stumbled down to one knee. She saw the Redguard, but her mind was fogged. She saw him raise the blade - the Razor - and let out a last breath. To your halls, Shor, I commit my spirit.
Movarth Piquine, if this coven truly was led by the same vampire from the story, was ancient. He had been known as a vampire during the 3rd Era Simulacrum, when Imperial Battlemage Jagar Tharn had impersonated Emperor Uriel Septim to control the Empire, over two hundred years ago. From what Aleron knew of vampires, that age meant he was dangerous beyond the usual undead. Vampires that old were said to gain talents, like turning into great beasts, controlling minds, or even flight. They were horror stories to frighten seasoned warriors.
And here he was, with three other men and a dog, going willingly into the lair of a centuries-old vampire of unknown strength. Aleron was beginning to hate himself as much as he hated the rest of the world.
The other men were Erik, of course, Valdimar, the big, bald, amber-eyed Nord in black scaled armor who had been watching the burned house days ago, and Thonnir, the husband of Laelette. Meeko kept to the rear of the party, clearly uncomfortable in the dark cave.
They'd made it to Movarth's lair in less than a day, and with a party of twenty men and women who had all seemed eager to root evil out of their hold. Outside the cave, though, with the lonely marsh stretching all around, and the stench of death and foulness coming from the darkness, the group was overcome by foreboding. They argued, complained that the guards should have been sent, instead, and nearly came to blows when Thonnir called them all cowards. In the end, all but these few had turned back.
Now, inside the cave, they were huddled together in a tunnel, trying to think of a plan. Valdimar, a mage as it turned out, had killed the first vampire with a bar of what looked like light from his fist. Erik had beheaded the second with a quick charge as the beast was stripping the valuables off of some poor dead traveler. But the room before them now held no less than five vampires, and there were likely more in the connecting rooms. Movarth sat at the head of a massive table - or at least Aleron assumed it was Movarth; he looked different from the rest, more feral and inhuman. The spread was grisly; a human heart lay plated with what looked like intestines at the head of the table, while body parts of other sorts littered the rest of the table.
Perhaps, Aleron thought, this was a great dinner party, and all the residents would be here. He doubted it, though. At best, he hoped for most.
Their prospects were not good, regardless. This room would be enough, unless they got lucky. There was a walkway above them where an archer could do some damage, but Erik had not thought his bow would be useful inside a cave. Any frontal assault on the room would leave them bottled up, two at a time, trying to face a larger force of vampires. There was little chance of surprise, and little chance of success without it. But there a chance.
"Alright," he whispered, bringing the others out of their thoughts. "I can only see one way to get out alive. Valdimar, you and Thonnir get up on that walkway. Once you're there, start hurling that sunfire at them. Thonnir, you try to keep them off him if they get close. They'll try to reach the walkway from the ramp behind us. Erik and I will charge out as soon as they get close. As soon as this room is clear, we'll regroup and search the rest of the cave together."
"A solid plan," Valdimar admitted. "I can only send the sunfire three, maybe four times before I need to rest."
The Nord battlemage had an odd way about him. He reminded Aleron of Alvor, with his calm manner and easy smiles coupled with the soberness of experience. He was at home in the fight, and was resigned to death whenever it came.
"Make them count," he told Valdimar.
.
A flash of blinding light started the battle, and the vampires were frenzied. With the first blast of sunfire, a vampire in red robes and leather exploded into ash. Aleron was glad Valdimar had not tried to go for Movarth first; the head of the table was further away, and from that distance the ball of magical vampire-destroying light might have been dodged. He waited with Erik as four vampires headed toward them, toward the tunnel that led up to the walkway. A second flash of light caught two of the vampires, just before they reached the tunnel. One caught most of the damage, turning to ash as she flew backward across the cavern; the other was blown aside, but not destroyed. The other two reached the tunnel, and noticed too late the axe blades rushing toward them in the darkness. Aleron's swing sliced through the neck of what had once been a Nord, while Erik's stroke clove through the skull and brain of what had been a vampire Imperial.
They stepped out into the cavern to face the ancient vampire leader.
Movarth raged from across the cavern, and Aleron heard fighting from up on the walkway. Three more men, not vampires, rushed from a back room to charge Aleron and Erik. They were fighting men, one Aleron was sure had been an Imperial soldier, and the fight was bloody. Erik took a cut to his shoulder that made him howl, before he took off the Imperial's arm. Aleron faced the other two, trying to keep his shield between himself and the man to his left, while slashing wildly at the man to his right. Finally, he brought the shield around, spinning away from one to smash the steel-and-oak disk into the face of the other. Teeth shattered, and then Aleron buried his axe in the man's face as he brought the shield back around to block the downward cut of the other. Kicking the final man in the knee, feeling the satisfying crunch and snap of bones dislocating, Aleron slashed through his face as he dropped.
And then Movarth was among them.
One moment, the ancient vampire was across the room; the next, he was there, slashing at them with two shortswords. Erik was cut shallowly across the stomach, and fell. Aleron rushed the vampire, trying to get between Movarth and his companion. He bashed at the creature with his shield, slashed with his axe at a face that only superficially looked that of a Breton. The teeth were sharp, the skin dry, pallid, and wrinkled.
"You wish to end my curse?" Movarth hissed at him while stabbing wildly. "Your life is a curse! Your blood calls to me, begging for release! I will survive, when all the world is ruin. Harkon can have his grand plans. I will endure, like the spider in its lair."
The light flashed again as Valdimar loosed the last of his sunfire atop the walkway. Movarth screamed as he was blinded, and Aleron took the opportunity to open the beast's throat. He'd meant to cut off the head, but Movarth dodged just in time. Black blood oozed from the wound, thick and coagulated.
Movarth snarled at him, a hacking, gurgling sound mixed in. Aleron brought up his shield and stalked forward. Movarth slashed from the shoulder, and Aleron batted the shortsword away with his shield, following the block with a jab of his axe. The blade bit through the opened throat and through the back of the neck, glancing off the spinal stem. With only a corner of his neck holding on, Movarth's head lolled to the left. The beast swung the shortswords again, but without much obvious direction. Aleron blocked, and finished taking the head off of Movarth Piquine.
Mjoll was surprised to wake. Surprised to wake anywhere but Sovngarde, anyway. She rolled over from her stomach, to sit up straight. Her head rung and the cut on her arm smarted, but otherwise she was fine. Clearly, the Redguard assassin had let her live. But why? The answer hurt far worse than her arm. Because I wasn't a threat, anymore. She stood shakily to her feet, willing herself to move. Maybe she hadn't been out too long. She found her axe on the floor. Maybe she could stop him, if she could find Maluril first.
She stumbled through the halls of Mzinchaleft. Large rooms where Dwemer constructs would normally storm intruders were quiet. Step-by-step, she found her footing more surely. Two rooms in, she no longer dragged her axe, but slung it over her shoulder. Eventually, she came into a massive open cavern. Stone walkways were suspended over a dark underground lake. She found her first bodies here. Two Falmer lay dead on a cross-section of the walkway. Both were dead by wounds taken from a greatsword. Eilif.
These Falmer were hideous creatures. More than a millennium ago, the Snow Elves had been a prosperous race, ruling Skyrim alongside the Dwemer. But when came the Atmorans, the sires of all men, there was war. And when all seemed lost for the Snow Elves, they turned to the Dwemer for safety. Clearly that was not what they found. Now the Snow Elves, the Falmer, were primitive creatures, weak-souled blind creatures who hated the surface, and all surface dwellers. Their deep skin was beyond pale; it was so light as to be nearly translucent. Hands were claws, with fingernails thick and sharp. Their teeth were sharp, bestial. The nose was pushed up, more so even than an Orc's. Where there should have been eyes, there was wrinkled white skin.
"Kyaah!" a harsh voice cried behind her.
She spun and dropped, taking the Falmer in the groin with her battleaxe, and the pain in its eyes translated beyond any language barrier. As she freed her axe, the Falmer fell over the edge of the bridge; seconds later, she heard the splash only dimly. Welcome back, Mjoll. She moved on, toward the huge doors further into the ruin.
The next room looked to be some kind of lecture hall. Rows of stone benches filled the near side of the room, looking up to a raised platform with a podium and a work desk at the other end. She found two of the bandits' bodies here, riddled with arrows. Falmer bodies lay behind the podium. To the left of the room a tunnel broke off. In the tunnel she found the carcass of a chaurus, its face smeared with human blood. She was following one terrific dungeon crawl. Maluril had made it pretty far. There was no sign of him, or of Jabari.
From out of the tunnel, she found a Falmer outpost. At a raised position, crude tents stood sentinel over the entrance. Three bandit bodies were here; only one Falmer. Also, there was no sign of Maluril or Eilif. The little elf was brave enough, to have gotten so far; and Eilif was clearly more formidable than she originally thought.
The next area was the greatest cavern she'd yet seen. The darkness of the ruin was made pale green-blue light by the glowing plants growing from the ceiling a hundred feet above. A towering gate stood opened, and on the steps leading to the gate she found Maluril. He lay on his face, in a pool of his own blood. She turned the Dark Elf over, and grimaced as she saw his chest. His heart had been removed. And from the look of horror on that gray face, he had been alive as it was cut out.
Poor stupid elf. "You were an annoying little fetcher," she said aloud, "but I doubt you deserved this."
"You have no idea what that man has done to deserve this and more."
Jabari stepped from the shadows by the stone gate, into the light. Mjoll readied her axe, but the dark man just laughed; the thin braids at his neck wagged as he shook his head. He ran a hand along his cap of gathered rows of hair. It was a strange thing to notice about him, that hair. She'd seen many Redguards wear their hair in that style, but she'd only ever seen Dunmer with that truly black hair. It made his dark skin seem more bronzed and his bright green eyes shine, almost ethereal in the strange underground light.
"If you ever find yourself wanted more out of death than staying alive, look me up in Falkreath. The Night Mother can always use good muscle."
With that, the man was retreating the way she had come, walking unconcernedly, as if on a forest outing of a fine morning. The sight of him, even from behind, sent shivers down her spine. She could try to kill him again, to avenge the honor he'd cost her. But he had let her live; even if she succeeded, it would only lessen her honor.
Beyond the gate, Eilif had clearly made his last stand. Three Falmer bodies surrounded a handsome stone fountain. One was missing an arm, another most of its face. The third had a hole the size and shape of a flattened hand where a greatsword had run it through. A trail of blood led from the three bodies. She followed the sometimes smeared, sometimes dripped blood trail through another towering gate. At the bottom of a set of stairs, Eilif lay entangled with a Dwemer construct. His hand grasped the soul gem that had once given it life. Killed what killed you, eh? Tough bastard.
.
Up the stairs, Mjoll knew what awaited her. Through colossal brass doors, the boilery of Mzinchaleft was guarded by a metal man the size of a giant. This was here redemption. Whatever honor she had lost in allowing Maluril to die, she would gain some back by facing her fear of this thing.
Through the doors, the room turned to a nightmare from memory. The large brass tube that corniced the entrance to the strange room; the balcony stairs to the right; the alcove with the strange machine; it all seemed etched in her brain. She felt like she was seeing double. She made herself look straight forward, at the metal man.
There he was, propped once again into the halo that kept him ready. The head in the shape of a Dwemer helmet, the long bronze arms with the sword and the axe, each bigger than any weapon wielded by man or mer. She was not close enough yet to activate him. She breathed slowly, calming her nerves. She thought of the fight in Avanchnzel, of how she had won. She could give this thing no time. She had to charge it, get to the gem quickly enough that it could not defend itself.
You won't haunt my dreams anymore, you metal abomination! She roused herself, brought her blood to boil. You'll have my honor no more! I will defeat you, and your masters can stay in whatever realm of oblivion they banished themselves. And whatever soul gives you power, it can go with them!
She charged, her battleaxe held out to her side. She would be ready, whatever it did. The halo started to spew steam as it had once so long ago. She ran faster, screaming at it.
"Today is my day! Today I take back my honor!"
She reached the metal man as it was stepping from the halo. It swung its massive sword-arm forward. Mjoll ducked, slid across the marble floor, the iron of her greaves screeching. She slid between the metal monster's legs. Underneath, she lodged the spike of her battleaxe between two pistons in its right leg. Wrenching, she pried one piston loose, and the centurion went to one knee, almost crushing her.
She sprung up from the floor, behind the stumbling machine. As it began to spin toward her, she swung the axe spike into the back of its neck and pulled more pistons loose. The great metal man flailed wildly, but without direction. Carefully, she climbed onto its shoulder. It tried to swat her down, but it had never been designed to reach that spot. With a smile to suit a lioness during a kill, she pried the rest of the head away from the body. She dove from its shoulder as it fell, the thing that contained its processes removed.
She laughed to herself as she searched around the room. She the strange machine was close at hand. She had no idea what it did, but it required a key of some kind. A spherical slot stood in the middle of a round podium, surrounded by strange markings. She walked around the apparatus, but Grimsever was not there. Finally, near where the halo for the centurion stood, she saw a glimmer of green reflected light from under a stone table. Walking to it with a feeling of reverence, she peered under the table.
There it was. Grimsever, her pale green blade, her companion in heroism, her honor. There it was. She held it in her hands, marveling at the ornately worked blade. It was all she could do not to cry. She held it to her heart. My honor.
The ceremony was humble, for something so momentous. Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone called Aleron before her whole court, giving the ancient rites herself. He kneeled before his new liege, and promised to come to the aid of Hjaalmarch with the greatest haste, if ever he should be called. He received the blessings of all the court members, from the Jarl and her family, down to her personal housecarl. He received papers giving him right to land along the northern shore, "a beautiful area looking out over the bay to Solitude." He received the Sword of Hjaalmarch, a ceremonial blade that served as the symbol of his new station.
He could not speak. He croaked the oaths the Jarl asked of him through a throat of sand. He was Aleron, son of Tor. He was hated, spurned as a murderer. He was a blacksmith. He made horseshoes and hoes. This was madness.
"Rise, Aleron, Thane of Hjaalmarch!" A cry rose at Idgrod Ravencrone's words. "As a last honor, I present to you Valdimar as your personal housecarl. May your strength never fail, Aleron, and your axe ever find your enemy's heart."
The Jarl left the throne then, and kissed him on each cheek. She held his face for a moment between her palms, peering into his eyes. "A hero of some great purpose. More than one thing you seek you will find in my hold." And with that she walked away, as if she had said nothing.
Aleron stared after her a moment, before noticing the black-clad figure looming close-by.
"Valdimar," he said, nodding to the man. "Thank you for saving Erik's life. I'm not sure he would have made it here without your healing."
The big Nord wasted no words. "We must be ready soon. The Imperials have half a day on us. We'll need to hurry if we want to catch them before Labyrinthian."
Aleron sighed. He hated to ask anything of anyone, but this man was sworn to serve him, to bear his burdens as his own. "I need you to stay here for now, Valdimar. This land the Jarl has given me. I need someone to acquire supplies, hire builders, set up my home."
Valdimar frowned. "I'm a battlemage, Thane. Your housecarl, not a steward. My place is by your side, protecting you."
"I have no one else, Valdimar. You know this hold, its people. I'm asking you now, Valdimar. Will you be my steward, as well as my housecarl?"
"I will be honored, Thane." He sounded anything but.