Chapter Three

The path to freedom is often soaked with blood. In your case, however, more so than usual. Yorik's father had said that to him often. As he entered the stone walled chamber set aside for the Imperial Inquisition, he was confronted with a grizzly scene that would validate his father's words yet again. The wall directly opposite the way he had come in was lined with thick, rusty, iron barred cages. The occupants of those cages that were in use were still, silent, and in all likelihood already dead. On the floor in front of those cages lay three fresh corpses spread out in a pool of fresh blood.

"Wonderful," Yorik muttered.

This sort of thing happened far too often in his experience. Most of the time a pile of dead bodies was an occupational hazard with his line of work. In most cases it meant trouble. He heard a coarse breathing coming from further inside the chamber. Yorik readied the butter knife in his right hand and slowly eased himself into the room as quietly as he could.

"What do you think you are going to with that?" came a voice from inside. "Make toast? By all means, I've worked up quite a hunger." He really had no talent for stealth. He never had. The voice came from an old man seated at a table near a support beam. He was located just in front of a passage that led deeper into the complex. Out of the small table next to him rose a bloody dagger stuck into it hilt up. His right arm was a bloody mess with a few cuts and scratches sliced throughout it. Most of the blood wasn't his it seemed. He wore a standard Imperial soldier's uniform, but his head was hooded which meant that Yorik could not see the man's eyes. That hood meant he was an Imperial torturer.

From his wrinkled and shriveling body Yorik guessed that the old man had honed his skills maintaining his employment with the Imperial Inquisition on those unfortunate enough to be asked 'the question.' From Yorik's perspective, the only way out of Helgen was likely through the hallway on the other side, with the only obstacle between he and it being the bloody old man on the rickety wooden chair. He hoped the disguise he wore would be enough. He didn't enjoy killing old men. It wasn't that they were too weak to fight back. In fact he would prefer an opponent who was too weak to fight back, though many would call him a coward for it. There was far too much riding on his death after all. The truth was that he had a soft spot for survivors, as he was also one himself, and old age was as much a sign of survival as one could get in this world. He cleared his throat and tried to sound lowly and deferential despite his large size and rough demeanor.

"By the gods!" Yorik asked in mock surprise. "What happened here?"

"Respect, Nord." the inquisitor commanded, irritation tinged his voice. He continued, "A few escaped prisoners found their way down here," the old man replied as if nothing was out of the ordinary. "They seemed a bit upset by how I've been entertaining their comrades. They killed my assistant."

"I see," Yorik replied, "Are you hurt sir?"

"I'm fine," the old man said curtly. "This is my house. No one does anything in my house without my permission. Doubly so for those wishing to leave without any of my parting gifts." That last part he muttered quietly to himself.

Yorik approached the bodies and knelt down to get a better look at them. The dead deserved a witness. There were two men garbed in the uniform of the Stormcloak rebels. They were young men. Too young. They were likely in their late teens. One had his skull smashed in on one side with chunks of his brain spilling out while the other was riddled with stab wounds and burn marks. The assistant had been carrying a spiked cudgel which meant that the second Stormcloak was likely killed by the torturer. That explained the bloody knife. Judging by those burn marks Yorik guessed that the man was something of a magic user. Good to know, he thought. These burns were nothing special, which indicated that he was likely either something of a novice or that he was only proficient in one or two spells. It was probably a simple lightning spell if Yorik had to guess. You could do so many painful things with electricity without killing your victim if you needed him or her alive. Stupid kids, he thought to himself. They'd likely sought out honor and glory by taking up a sword to fight in the Stormcloak army. Now they were dead.

The last body lying in the middle of the floor was that of the assistant. He was an older man, with the kind of creases that come with middle age on his face. He was probably in his late thirties or early forties. He was also bald on the top of his head with long streaks of greasy dark hair clumped together on the sides. I bet you weren't very popular with the ladies, he thought. His face was frozen in a cross of both pain and horror. Yorik supposed it had to do with the steel short sword sticking out of the old boy's gut. The majority of the blood pooling on the floor was likely his. Most people who had never seen a corpse before would likely sick up and vomit at a grizzly scene like this, but to Yorik it was all too familiar.

Yorik looked up from the bodies and stood back up before speaking again. "My apologies, sir. I was not swift enough," Yorik said. He tried to sound sympathetic and ashamed. Dirt rained from the ceiling in trickles again. A muffled sound came from far above. The dragon was still out there wreaking havoc on the world above.

The old man was breathing slow but heavily. He must have just sat down on that rickety wooden chair when Yorik arrived. "I should think not. That one was… promising." The old man glanced at his fallen assistant. There was an awkward pause in the conversation, then the inquisitor looked directly into Yorik's eyes and asked suddenly as if just noticing something suspicious, "I don't remember you. Who is your commanding officer?"

The question surprised him, but only a little so Yorik recovered quickly. He had anticipated questions like this. He hoped the Inquisitor didn't notice his brief look of surprise however, otherwise he would have no choice but to kill him. Yorik rolled his eyes and made a harassed face while trying to sound frustrated. "Sir my name is Ulric, there is a dragon attacking the keep, we need to get everyone to safety. I have orders from the top to make sure that there aren't any stragglers left behind in the fortress."

"A dragon? Please. Don't make up nonsense," the Inquisitor said condescendingly. Then as if reconsidering his thoughts he turned his head and continued, "Although, come to think of it, I did hear some odd noises coming from over there." He did not indicate where.

Yorik interjected, "I speak the truth, sir. My orders come from General Tullius himself." That ought to do it, he thought to himself. Maybe he'll let me pass without asking any more questions. Say one thing about Yorik, he was clever. All he had to do now was play his cards right. He put his knife back in his belt to show that he was nonthreatening. Little gestures like that worked wonders on the subconscious of other men.

"You didn't answer my question earlier," the torturer asked again, "Who is your commanding officer?"

Yorik was beginning to get annoyed. He probably should have just killed the old man now and been on his way. It was the smart thing to do, and it most likely wouldn't have raised any questions. He held back his impatience and didn't kill him, though. Instead he pressed the mock urgency of his orders: "I'm sorry, sir. Matters outside are unprecedented and are genuinely out of control. Our forces are in disarray and I am currently without a commanding officer. He was killed... Just a little while ago. Please, I have to make sure that everyone inside escapes as quickly as possible before this fortress collapses on top of us and our men fighting outside are nothing but char."

"Do not waste my time with your pleas and your apologies," the old man coughed. He pulled the bloody knife out of the table wiping it on a cloth he pulled from a pocket Yorik couldn't see. The old man looked at it in his hands in the torchlight. Yorik still couldn't see the man's eyes under his hood. "I get enough of that from my guests. You have my permission to leave. Now get out of here, and send someone to help me clean up this mess, will you?"

Yorik put his fist to his chest and bowed his head in salute. "Yes sir," he said. Without another word he walked towards the hallway on the far side of the room. As he moved passed the old Inquisitor, something gleamed in the dim light and caught Yorik's eye. It was too late, however, and he felt cold steel sink into his shoulder. It was the dagger the inquisitor had been fidgeting with earlier. Before the pain set in, Yorik's instincts took over and he reached for the knife at his belt with his good hand. As his fingers closed around the hilt he felt a tingling sensation near the center of his lower back. The hair in that spot was standing on end under his shirt. Yorik gritted his teeth and closed his eyes as he awaited what he knew was about to happen.

In the next instant, the room flashed white and Yorik was thrown howling face first into the wall. A hot searing pain was arcing through his whole body. Yet even as he crumpled to the ground he realized that the butter knife he had reached for was still clenched in his hand. The lightning spell that had struck him must have tightened his grip on the dull blade as it sent electricity through his body. His collision with the wall must have caused him to rip it free from his belt. He lay on the stone floor, smoking in places, nose broken, and gasping for air. His nostrils filled with the pleasant smell of cooked meat and he tasted iron leaking back into his throat. It was his bleeding nose. He was horrified as he realized that he was smelling and tasting himself. On another day he might laugh at that kind of innuendo. Right now his whole body felt as though it was on fire, and to make matters worse, he could feel the arm beneath the stab wound losing its warmth and feeling. He was losing a lot of blood very quickly. Too quickly. Yorik groaned, his vision blurry from the collision and the broken nose. He could only hear the sounds of footsteps approaching slowly and cautiously. In his experience you were at your most vulnerable in a fight when you were either on the ground or in the air. The only way to level the playing field against an opponent when you were on the floor was to put your opponent on the floor as well.

"I have a very good memory," came the satisfied voice of the inquisitor. He had the air of a wolf who had cornered it's prey. Yorik vomited as another flash lit the room and another wave of sharp pain arced through his body. "I remember the face of every man who has ever passed through these walls. You are not among them. You are not a Legion soldier and I doubt Ulric is your real name. You are either a spy, or another escaped prisoner. It doesn't really matter though. You are in my house now. Allow me to show you the very best of my hospitality."

Yorik heard the crackling sound of lightning coming from the inquisitor once again. With what strength he could muster Yorik rolled over as fast and as suddenly as he could and plunged his butter knife into the torturer's boot. A small amount of dark red blood bubbled out of it. This time it was his turn to howl.

Everything seemed to slow down for a moment. As the torturer toppled over backwards clutching at the knife in his foot, Yorik flung himself on top of his opponent pinning him to the ground. With his good arm, he held the hand the torturer had used to stab himself. If the torturer tried to cast any spells this close he would do more harm to himself than to Yorik. The best he could do with the arm attached to his injured shoulder was to put all of his weight on his elbow as he crushed the old man's windpipe beneath it. He couldn't do anything about the man's other hand so he thanked the divines that torturer was an old and feeble bastard. This maneuver would likely not have worked otherwise. Yorik's vision was a lot less blurry now and he could feel the struggling mass beneath him thrashing violently. The thrashing was not nearly violently enough however, and as the seconds ticked away, Yorik could feel the struggling begin to lessen until the old bastard stopped moving entirely. The inquisitor dropped the iron dagger in his hand and Yorik took it from him. He slowly moved his hand to the old man's neck to feel his pulse. There was none. He was dead. In the dim light Yorik could finally see the eyes beneath the hood staring back at him. They were a milky shade of green, and now they were empty and lifeless. The dead deserved a witness.

Yorik rolled off of the newest edition to the pile of dead bodies on the floor and clutched at the wound on his shoulder. It was throbbing pretty badly now. He felt cold. A loud boom came from above and he heard something crash back the way he came. Sounds like the ceiling's collapsed, he thought trying to ignore the pain all over his body. "This place is falling apart, I'm bleeding to death, and the only wine I've touched today is on the floor in a puddle upstairs. Dagon must be enjoying this, Boethiah too. Hells, I bet they're all watching this together from up on their pedestals." Yorik closed his eyes. They had finally gotten him. Years of fighting and clawing for survival and they had still gotten him. He was about to laugh, curse, or perhaps both when heard something stir over by the iron cages in the corner of the room.

In the still quiet that only death can bring a voice whispered to him from within the darkness: "I can fix that."