Skyrim Audio-Adventure
Chapter 13
"The Baron of the Boneyard"
As the two climbed higher and the trees began to thin so, mercifully, did the fog. They had spent the last few hours creeping through the gloom dodging the dancing blue lights, wisp or otherwise. They thought better not to risk another encounter. Stepping out of the tree line onto a windswept ridge the hunter felt that he could actually breath for the first time since that morning. He would normally have felt skittish and exposed when leaving the comforting cover of the woods; but back there, there was no comfort to be found, and up ahead there was the sky, azure and majestic, high clouds shifting to gold just slightly as the sun began its long decent.
Looking back at the sickly forest the hunter blinked and rubbed his eyes with confusion. The unnatural cloud that had been their bane since they'd made it to the falls was gone, as if the muggy particulates of water had simply folded themselves back into the fabric of the air. Brown foliage, blackened pustulant bark and deep in the shadow of those bows, jerking spindly movement.
"Come on Hound" the hunter said placing a hand on Bracknel's shoulder, "we mustn't linger."
"A moment boy, a moment." Bracknel insisted casting his eyes around the surrounding cliffs and bluffs "I taste a fell oder on the breeze."
The hunter drew deeply of the air, "I smell it too, like old bones left in the sun."
"We draw closer still," The Nord muttered and crept up the rocky slope away from the macabre labyrinth of trees. Up they went following they're noses until the way ahead seemed to grow tame, a trail. The rocks were worn and the dirt was well trodden; by what, the hunter couldn't say for certain but what was apparent was the winding line of worn earth stretching ahead of them. At this exposed altitude the wind did much to mask what had once been clear. A few tracks seemed to be of men, booted and otherwise; but the gate was off, they were irregular, stumbling, limbs were being dragged and obscuring the tracks behind them. There were a few animal tracks, but none that followed the trail for long. Old blackened blood stained the stone in droplets and streaks, long crusted and dried. He crouched and inspected the ground, something was here. A pattern. The pronged print of a hoof barely visible under all the others. Hooves were not uncommon but this thing was massive, as big as any moose track he'd ever come across and around the outside of the shape, a few lines of grasping points dragging through the dirt. What in the world did this mean? Deer were growing claws? He would have dismissed this track off hand had he not noticed several iterations off it separated by a matter about 8 yards.
"Bracknel tell me I'm not crazy?"
Bracknel rubbed his eyes as if to clear them, "For the time being it seems you're not, but I've got money on that changing."
The hunter would have offered him a good natured back-hand if he wasn't approximately level with his companions Ash-yams. He pointed up ahead of them, "More blood."
"We should get off this trail."
"My thoughts exactly." said the hunter peering back the way they came, "This is the hollow ones' highway."
The pair did there best to keep a low profile as they slipped off the trail and continued their assent. Footprints became few and far between. Soon the soil and short grasses beneath their boots had given way to hard granite stone. This was no longer a hike, this was a climb. They took every section slowly and quietly, they ducked into crags when they could, and they stayed below any ridge-lines so as not to set silhouettes against the sky.
Their increasingly trying assent paused when they scrambled up a false peak and found themselves panting thin air on the edge of a plateau bathed in the chill of the mountain's shade. The ground was cold and the hunter expected this rocky step frosted over even on the mild nights of summer. He knelt sucking at the air while Bracknel leaned a heavy hand on his shoulder.
The old man peered up at the spires above them. "I recon I know where we are. About 6 miles south of here is where those trolls used to live."
"Fascinating." The hunter stood up stiffly like a horse rearing back and picked up the scanning. "Does the putrefaction reach all the way over there I wonder?"
Bracknel took a quick drink and shrugged "It's rather hard to tell this high, to barren."
"True, can't corrupt life when theirs no life to corrupt."
"Still I doubt it, it hasn't reached Riverwood after all."
"Its gotten pretty close though. Just not in such acute forms."
"Won't matter after today." Bracknel muttered. "Come on that trail would have set us up just a hair south of here."
The pair made their way across the plateau, stepping lightly on the rock as it rolled gently from crest to troth. The world was remarkably quiet up this high little broke the silence save the screech of hawk riding the updrafts and the skittering of dust across rock as it was whipped up by the cold alpine gusts. The sun had retreated behind the summits and afternoon was well upon them when the hunter held out a hand and they both froze.
"Hold." he said.
"What?"
The hunter was eyeing the ridge ahead of them, "I... I think we're here. I heard something up ahead. Slowly now."
As they approached the next ridge the two bowmen dropped onto their bellies like they were hunting. The hunter passively noticed that he shared a lot of little mannerisms with his friend. It was like watching two kids who had grown up in the same neighborhood, only the neighborhood in question was the wilds themselves. Like lizards they crawled silently up the cool rock face to the edge and tentatively looked over the top.
Rather than more rocky bluffs, the pair saw that they had crept to the lip of a wide basin, it resembled a crater complete the gnarls, slots and crags at the edges. Enclaves that had been cut into the rock by what the hunter had to guess was a long dead volcano. The drop into the cauldron was just high and steep enough to give him pause. In this rocky grotto were several shabby wooden structures: a raised cabin, a rudimentary forge and neighboring storage shack. Various alters and effigies also littered the area but by far the most conspicuous feature inside this crater was a curious mound nearly 40 feet long and 6 feet tall. As the hunter squinted at the protracted pile a shiver ran down his spine, it was a pile of bodies. Men and women, some in rough armor, some in cloths, some in hunter's furs like himself, all were in various stages of decay. Some were practically skeletons, some were still festering nurseries for flies, some looked like they might still be warm.
Who? How? When? All these questions flooded his mind as he choked down a silent sob. One question floated to the top like a pinecone in a pond. Why? He couldn't begin to fathom why this had been done, what need could justify such slaughter, what pain could rationalize it? Perhaps if he were the king of worms he would understand. He wiped his face trying to recompose himself and looked to his companion. Bracknel's steely blues were unperturbed, his face was set, his breaths even.
About thirty figures milled around the space below all moving with jerking inconsistent steps. Some looked as if they were fighting their own flesh, others just walked like they had spears up their rears. Several were cloaked in black cowls, more wore tattered armor, and a unfortunate few were shambling about in the filthy rotting buck. Regardless of state all had something to do be it as passive as keeping watch or as active as clumsily fashioning crude weapons at the smoking forge. This was it, it had to be. The lair of the necromancer. Now all they had to do was pick him out of the crowd.
The hunter focused, parceling the decrepit lot into smaller gaggles of ghouls and sifting threw them in search of... what? He wasn't sure. Someone who looked less dead perhaps; a warmer complexion, a steadier gate, something with a measure of authority or dexterity. He soon ruled out the naked figures as all showed clear signs of being less than alive, be it a lack of skin, protruding entrails or simply being walking skeletons. Those in armor he couldn't be sure about but he doubted one who summoned the dead to do their bidding would be wearing full metal armor in the middle of the day. That left those in cloaks, he could pick out almost nothing of their features, and started search their behavior for some tell. However they were all shambling about the crater with the some vague hint of unenthusiastic purpose. He could tell nothing between them.
Bracknel eventually tapped his shoulder and the two slithered back away from the ledge.
"Did you see him?" the hunter hissed.
"I saw nothing I could hang my hat on."
"You don't wear a hat."
"No but I think I should I'm beginning to thin out up top."
"Oh yeah? That's a decent idea. Think Helga will like it?
"More worried about the coin honestly."
"Fair, fair. Anyway what the fuck are we going to do about this."
Bracknel quirked his mouth in the hint of a smile. "Well we'll have to lure them out and I think we've established which of us is the better bait."
The hunter's sidelong glare could have felled a tree. "I though you said were weren't going fishing."
"But it went so well last time."
"Yeah but the slaugterfish aren't swinging swords."
"How else do you propose we do it?"
"We can keep watch, wait or the bastard to show himself."
"And what about when it gets dark?"
"Then we wait till day break."
"Passivity will not avail us boy. Not here."
"I call it patience."
"Don't you lecture me, I invented patience."
The hunter rubbed his hands down his face. "The night at least gives me cover to sneak in there."
"I suppose that's fair but what if it goes wrong?"
"Then we can run back down mountain."
"You can run back down the mountain, at best I can saunter. Whats more, do you really favor your chances scrambling up this wall in the dark with a bunch of dead heads on your tail?"
"Well I know these things are coming and going so there must be an entrance of sorts."
The hunter crawled back up to the edge and surveyed the perimeter. To his left he spotted a slot like crevasse that had a gate sloppily mounted into it. He returned to Bracknel, "There a gate over that way. I can just bail out there if everything goes to hell."
"Then you're running into a bottle neck in the dark. In the light you'd at least have a chance of fighting them off."
"Fighting them off, did you see how many there were?"
"You trained with the companions did you not?"
"Yes but swarms of the undead were never covered."
"All the more reason to coax the bastard out so we don't have to deal with them."
"But I'm still stuck as bait in that scenario."
"True."
"Wait a moment, what if we could draw him out? Throw a stone so to speak."
"Do you want to just throw an actual stone."
"No no, but the gate was sitting open what if it mysteriously closed. That might..." the hunter's words caught as he looked passed his friend to a nearby boulder, dropped on the plateau by an ancient glacier long ago. "Movement, get down." he hissed as something shuffled out from behind the huge rock.
Blue lights danced once more. A corpse, face still hanging in tattered strings to his chin was darting for them with graceless hast. Bracknel didn't miss a moment. He shot towards it drawing an arrow from his quiver, caught the things raised hand axe and like he was thrusting a spear, drove the arrow through things glowing undead eye.
As it halted from the blow he raised a boot and kicked it away, wrenching his barbed arrow out of its head, pulling rotting brain and sinew with it. The corpse crumpled to the ground, an inert jumble of flesh once more. The hunter was impressed, it was the fastest he'd ever seen the old man move. He would have said so but the stink of this undead minion choked any praise his could muster in his throat.
"I don't know that I like that plan either, there's no guarantee that it well get anyone's attention."
"True," the hunter choked "but based on what just happened I retract my earlier proposition of waiting."
"Too right."
"We gotta try something, you get to a good shooting spot, I'm heading for the gate."
"Be sharp boy," the old Nord said "No hesitating from here on out. If the time comes to fight you fight, if the time comes to kill you kill."
The hunter nodded, "Got it."
"And drop your pack. I'll look after it."
He did so eyes watering from the stench and slunk off to the left crouching along the lip of necromancer's the camp.
The further the hunter got the more unsure his footing. Pebbles scattered and skipped under his steps causing his heartbeat to thrum in his ear from the shear anxiety. Would he be heard? Would he be seen? He hugged the rock trying to duck out of view from those in the caldera and under the gaze of any that walked the perimeter. Spiders and mountain goats all around would have been jealous had they seen how he clung to that stone. Below, he could see the path they had deviated from winding up towards the gate. The wall of the basin split at the low end, a trench where eons before lava flowed out across the land. The hunter was creeping on his stomach when he eventually came to the edge of the gap and peered in precarious balanced between a foot hold and a hand hold he didn't entirely trust.
There he saw the gate, sizable if a touch rickety. The exposed skull of a hollow one flashed white as the bloody thing shambled out of the caldera and down the slopes. The hunter took in the make of the gate. The wood was rough and thick but not held together very well. The hinges were made to swing both ways and the locking mechanism seemed to be little more than a slot for a crossbar. If the hunter had a rod or if he could climb down far enough maybe he could close it, but then he'd be too close to the diversion to benefit. That is when the hunter spotted something more than rock tucked into the sides above the trench. Hidden in the crags above the gate he saw a pile of moderate sized logs suspended by a closed ramp, ready and waiting to be dropped on to the heads of any unwelcome guest to enter the camp.
That was the key, that would make for a perfect lure. The question was how to trigger it? The hunter climbed further into the crevasse scouring the ground for trip line or pressure trigger. Then he realized that as long as there was traffic in and out the main trip mechanism would probably be deactivated. That meant he'd have to trigger it manually or find the anchor which posed some problems, not the least of which was the fact that his grip was starting slip. He traversed along the inner wall of the slot looking down at the pile of logs. The crevasse was just wide enough to make chimneying untenable. He spotted the reinforced ring and rope keeping these felled sentinels from careening down and crushing anything unfortunate enough to be using the gate. It would be a trip wire then, someone triggers the wire which somehow loosens the rope which lowers the ramp and releases the logs. The device was about a full body length below his severely occupied feet; again he wished that he had a rod or at least a hardy branch that he might reach down, unleash chaos and scrabble away like a mischievous rock gremlin. Even better, if he got to a place where his hands were free he could probably trigger this with an arrow. He traced the rope looking for the tie off. The anchor looked like it would be just inside the gate.
It was at that moment when he heard a low guttural grunt. He looked down and saw that a pair of hollow one's were staring up at him with their ghostly blue orbs. Yellow and brown teeth bared, mean weapons gripped in their hands. He flinched, it wasn't much of a flinch but it was enough, so tenuous was his grip on the rock. His weight wobbled, his hands slipped and then his boots. Gravity took him like it had been waiting for the chance and he fell clawing at the wall for any form a purchase as he did.
Now once he had entered free fall the hunter had half a second to do anything about his situation and an eighth of that time to ponder it. In that brief moment, looking down at the doom rushing up to him he eyed a landing spot that might be a little less catastrophic. He would have thought himself crazy to attempt this on purpose, but as Bracknel had said, the time for hesitation had passed. Pushing away from the rushing stone at the last moment the hunter's boots landed hard on the top of one of the gate doors. The wood buckled and cracked beneath him, the impact must have broken one of the hinges. He balanced atop the teetering door for a moment before leaping down into the caldera. He rolled as he hit the dirt and spun to see the large door topple forward, splintering the bottom hinge and crushing both off his hapless onlookers.
The slam and crunch echoed off the walls, the hunter winched like a child who'd just broken a jar. Tremulously, he peered around. Sure enough he was the center of attention in the middle of the necromancer's camp; every ethereal eye, every empty socket, every slack maggot-crusted face was pointed at him.
He was up and moving before he'd even had the time to explain to himself where he was going. He drew his short-sword and skirted around the perimeter, trying to keep as many deadheads in front of him as he could. As the horde surged forward he saw that two of them would not so easily be outmaneuvered. The first was woman in a faded yellow dress, her jaw was missing and one bosom was hanging out. In her grey hand she held little more than a sharpened steak. He ducked her flailing attack and separated her head from her shoulders with a swift pirouette. The second was a large Orkish bandit who was missing most of his entrails, he came at the hunter with a huge two handed war hammer. The hunter leapt on him before he could swing and nailed his head to the earth with his blade. The hammer looked ideal for crushing head, but when he picked it up, he found it to heavy for his wiry frame to wield. Holding it by the end he spun twice and flung it into the oncoming crowd, flooring a wide swath of his pursuers. I was about that point in the skirmish he stopped seeing the differences between them. He stopped looking for the people they used to be. Some of them were skeletons, some of them were more. Some had weapons he might be able to use, some didn't. He pulled his sword from the Ork's head and continued to strafe.
He was doing his best to keep the hollow ones in the center so he could move freely around them, but it was getting harder. They all seemed sluggish at first but when the winds of war blew and the bodies started falling they seemed to awake to there sinister purpose. They got faster, they got fiercer and most troubling of all they got smarter. He ran one through with a borrowed poll arm and whirled to see that he was being boxed in. He spotted a raised stone platform and leapt up onto it. The decrepit mob surrounded him, pressing in. Something crunched beneath his feet and the hunter looked down to see fragments of bone and scattered human teeth. Panicked he spun training his sword on each of the oncoming throng in turn. Then they stopped.
A breathless moment snuck passed and the hunter came back to himself. He was panting through gritted teeth, he bled from a cut on his arm, and his boots were black with rotting viscera. The slack faces around him stared as if waiting for a performance to start. He passed like a wounded anxious animal probing for a weakness. The throng was too deep to hurdle, too armed to dive into and too dense to barrel through. After several nervous seconds the crowd parted, creating a path. thinking it was a weakness the hunter darted for the gap, but froze when he saw what waited.
Stepping forward was a figure taller than the rest, shrouded in a cloak and hood. The hunter couldn't make out the face in the shadow. Its arms were folded into its sleeves and its feet were covered by the hem of the robe. When it walked it swayed side to side like it was hobbled. The hunter backed up blade ready as the strange figure approached. It stopped at the foot of the platform, then to the hunter's shock, a voice came rattling out of it like sickly bubbles popping in a cauldron.
"The winds have spoke of your coming. Rude, wouldn't you say. To break down one's door and start slaying they're servants. Who are you then, interloper?"
The hunter's brow knitted and kept his sword pointed at the figure. "Rude, wouldn't you, say to ask a name without giving one."
"Ahahaha, foolish but I will abide. I am the Baron of the Boneyard. Now please, a name."
The hunter's adrenaline was causing his toes to tingle "You are the necromancer."
"And you are... the thief?" the hunter felt suddenly naked, he glanced down to see a deep purple glow snaking across the platform he stood upon. Its crawled alone an branched forming a complex series of runes. "No, not the thief, not the brigand, you are the hunter..." the hunter felt like he was being searched, stripped bare by the ghostly eyes around him. "The hunter yes... but not quite, the archer, the warrior, the wanderer, the ranger... the warden, you say haha that is rich."
The hunter swallowed. Where the heck was Bracknel? Wasn't it apparent what was happening even from afar. All he could do now was play for time. "Baron." he said, dropping to one knee and laying down his sword. Every part of him that touched the stone tingled like the blood was rushing out of it. "I am a student of the arcane, have come to learn at your side, won't you have me as an apprentice."
There was a heavy pause before a cold chuckle began crackling out from the hood. "Apprentice? No no you are no mage, that much is plain to see."
"Please I can show you, just allow me a demonstration."
The laughing grew louder but the hooded figure stepped back several passes and glowing runes faded away. "Very well ssssstudent, an opportunity you shall have. Please, show us your magical aptitude."
The hunter waited breathless for a moment, still no sign of Bracknel. With shaking hands the hunter surreptitiously grabbed 6 human teeth from the ground and stood wiping the sweat off his face. "B-behold!" He cried, holding is palm out. "3 human teeth. Now observe as I send them on a journey through my body!" He imagined the necromancer quirking an eyebrow but of course he couldn't see. He drew a knife from his belt and brought it to his palm. "All I need is some blood, and of course magic." the hunter pressed blade into his flesh, not deep enough to do real damage but deep enough to draw a convincing amount of blood. He winced at the pain but tried to hide it. The hunter then pushed the three teeth into the slit on is hand, straining theatrically each time. Once all the teeth had disappeared into his wound, he help of the empty hand. Suddenly he began to gasp and convulse his arm violently. It started in his wrist, then his forearm, elbow and finally his shoulder. As the spasms reached his chest the hunter made like something was rising up his throat and dramatically spat three teeth out onto the dirt at the baron's feet.
A pregnant silence followed. The hunter wanted to check the ridges around him but didn't want to give his friend away. He wanted to spit the taste of old dead teeth out of his mouth but didn't want to break his facade. Then the Baron of the boneyard spoke.
"Thank so very much for that charming display. It makes this so much easier." They began to step slowly towards platform. "You see, to steal and subjugate a soul one must call it buy its name and you never gave me yours, smart." The hunter stepped back slightly feeling for is bow as the hooded voice continued. "However there is a work around you see, it requires me to identify your truth down in the very mote of your being. The place where who and what become the same." Jerking steps carried the baron up a short stair until he stood on the platform with the hunter, who could only raised his bow feebly in defense as he was dwarfed. "Isn't it good to be properly introduced... URCHIN."
It was like every cell in his body had just been tied to a stone and dropped into a lake, he slammed onto his hands and knees the weight of the mountain descending on his bones. The ruins in the circle roared to life with purple fury and he felt like his mind was being split. Memories and faces, regrets, joys and places. He saw all as a tapestry of mundane moments woven together to make a fractal star. Its was bending and spiraling. His essence was being rent and rung, pain like he'd never known existed rang a sharp static in his rupturing mind. He screamed, he waled like a banshee. The baron raised a hand, a purple glow coalescing in his palm, his fingers were unnatural long and spider-like. "I welcome you to the horde."
THWIP! The pain stopped as an arrow came clattering down onto the stone next to the hunter's hand. It was lightly slickened with a dark liquid. His mouth was dry and his throat ached as he took in tried rasping breathes, trying to make sense of what his eyes were seeing. The baron gave a choked sigh pitched forward onto its knees clutching a wound right where its heart would be, hurt but not dead. The hunter numb body knew exactly what to do with that information. He clumsily selected and notched an arrow; rearing back onto his knees he saw something else that didn't make sense. The baron was gathering itself to stand again one hand pressing off the stone, the other clutching its chest. He saw the empty shadow of that hood and fixed his aim onto it. He drew to his anchor and sent the arrow right where he imagined the things eye would be.
A moment later the black fletching hung awkwardly still before him. He blinked confused. At first he'd thought it had gotten jammed as it passed through the necromancer's skull but then he saw it. Those long spindly fingers were gripping the shaft of the arrow. Somehow the baron had caught an arrow fired nearly point blank at its face. It stood towering over the shocked hunter once again. Vale of blacks set against the blue sky. In those heavens the hunter's eye caught a faint glint over the barons shoulder. With a sudden ripple of cloth a pale arm shot out behind the baron and snatched Bracknel's second shot out of the air. The hood hadn't even turned to look. The hunter was reaching for another arrow when, for what felt like the ninth time that minute, his brain caught up to the abnormality before him. One of the barons arms was at its chest wound, one was holding the hunter's arrow and a third was holding Bracknel's.
The hunter stood, stumbling back away from the thing as a fourth arm emerged and pulled the black cloak away. What stood before the him was not a man, but rather a affront, a twisted wretched abhorrence of the state of humanity. The skin was grey and ill fitting like a poorly wrapped parcel. The flesh was gnarled with bizarre scaring all throughout the abdomen from were its legs had been turned out so the toes faced sideways to where several extra ribs had been added to where the two extra arms protruded from under its proper shoulders. The hunter was not unfamiliar with the odious and ghoulish at this point so these nightmarish augmentations did little to shake him. But the things face chilled him to his core. The mouth that had been speaking with him moments before, he now saw hanging open, cheeks split so the jaw hung unnaturally wide, a wicker framework was set into the mouth forcing it agape and making articulation impossible. The tongue was no where to be seen. In all this the thing the hunter expected would haunt him till his death was the eyes. They were not the blue glowing orbs of the hollow ones around him. The whites were pale, the iris was dark, the lids were gone but these eyes were moist; moist and all too alive for the face that surrounded them. Two lines traced down the baron's checks from where tears had worn away at the flesh like a river wheres away at stone. The hunter shot his second arrow and the baron ducked, dropping onto all sixes like a massive insect and skittered towards him, screeching.
He would have screamed but he didn't feel he had any voice, so he moved. For some reason his body didn't feel like his, it was like he was calling to it from a great distance. The direction and manner in which he moved was more than his mind could handle, all he could do was push and let his body figure out the rest. And so, surrounded by the dead and with this nightmarish necromancer baring down, he felt for the earth beneath his boots and pushed with all his might.
A long fingered hand reached for him. He took up his blade and met it as it came, stabbing through the palm and gouging up as he ducked underneath. A scream ribbed into his head. The things momentum carried it over and past him. A tug at his hip told him that one of the baron's other hands had snagged his quiver. His movement faltered for only a moment, then he slid his sword through the belt and his quiver fell away.
The gap in the crowd that had heralded the barons approach had not yet closed and now it was the hunter's best bet to get out of this circle. He sprinted for the gap short sword in one hand, bow in the other. An axe was swung at him, he parried it; a poll-arm was thrust at him, he rolled under it; at the last moment a brave bastard of a skeleton stepped into his path with no armaments whatsoever, he put all his momentum into a swinging haymaker with the wing of his bow and smashed straight through the center of it. Bones scattered all across the yard as the hunter stumbled and tumbled free of the crowd. He spun to see the horde slowly taking notice and hobbling after him and the sickly visage of the baron wheeling to follow suit. He reached for an arrow... oh right. The hunter scanned the camp for anything he could use.
Suddenly, he slipped. It was not a slip of the hand or a slip of the feet. It was slip of the self, again he felt very far away, only now he saw it. He saw the camp he saw the rocky crags of the caldera, he saw the gently smoking forge and he saw himself as if from the outside, his heaving shoulders, he sweat slicked mop of hair, the undead rushing towards him. A nearby minion was floored as an arrow was sent through its skull. A couple seconds later another one dropped. The hunter blinked and violently snapped back into himself just in time to see the baron rush him again. Another arrow was sent its way but it swatted the projectile aside like a clerk swatting away an irritating fly. All the same Bracknel's assist had given him the time he needed to choose his next battleground. He slung his bow over his back and sprinted for the forge.
Simple, it was a roofed smoldering pit of coals with a bellow and a blackened volcanic stone that seemed to function as an anvil. The hunter could feel fingertips of the baron brush his ankle as he made for it. He could hear Bracknel shouting something but couldn't make out the words and there was no chance he was about to stop and ask for him to repeat.
The baron was hot on his heals as the hunter reached the forge, he leapt over the fire-pit and swung on the rope for the bellow. He heard the whoosh of air, felt the rush of searing heat, and heard the inhuman scream of the baron. He squinted back at the roaring forge and saw the baron reeling away an angry blackened mark on the arm that he was sure had just been reaching for him. The wall of the shack next to him was covered in strange crude weapons, barely sharp, but heavy enough that it wouldn't matter when they were swung with undead strength. He grabbed 4 two in each hand and plunged them into the fire. He pulled the bellow once more and stepped around the forge to face the baron.
"Pain eh?" The hunter called taking a knife in one hand and gripping his short sword in the other. "Do they all feel that, or is it just you?" Rage burned in the barons lidless eyes and it screamed back at him. "Seems like an interesting inconvenience to tolerate given your position."
Just then another dart arched through the air and the baron was again struck by one of Bracknel's arrows. This one landed in the shoulder-blade and got stuck. The hunter grimaced, remembering how that felt, but it only seemed to make the baron more angry. The eldritch thing spun around snatched up four undead minions, one in each hand. The long fingers seemed to have too many joints as they encircled the torsos of the corpses. With a heave and a throw like the cracking of a whip, the baron sent the minions flying, armor and all up onto the ledge where Bracknel stood. The landed in heaps but soon began to stir. The hunter heard Bracknel's string of curses and saw him disappear from the ledge to deal with the company.
His eyes returned to the baron only to seem him winding up again. Four more undead were violently ushered in his direction, the most on target greeting him with an enthusiastic flying swing of a great sword. The hunter almost dropped to the ground as he avoided it and stood just as his new guests were righting themselves. He quickly closed the distance with one and jammed his short hunting knife into the bass of its skull. It seemed to do the trick and he moved on. The second came at him with a narrow sword using something that was once upon a time technique, but the fencing skill had withered with undeath and the hunter easily countered with a parry and repost, running the ghoul through with his sword then slashing its throat with his knife. The last two came at him at once, one unarmed one with a familiar greatsword. He ducked another enthusiastic swing and slashed at the unarmed minions legs just how Athis had shown him. As it dropped he rushed into the one wielding the greatsword catching its raised arms with his sword and stabbing it as many times as he could in the head and chest. Unable to complete its down swing the thing moaned and tried barreling into him. He would he shifted his weight and stepped out of the way but suddenly he couldn't. His foot was held in a grip cold as death. The unarmed ghoul was getting its revenge. Hopped on one leg for a second trying to find balance as the berserker pressed into him. He never found it, but he did find the lip of the forge as his foot brushed against a the cobble wall. Allowing himself to fall he wrapped the knife arm around the berserker and levered it, flinging it down into the fire pit. He thought the heat might scorch his face and rolled away frantically kicking at the ghoul still grabbing at him. Eventually he managed to stomp its face enough times to loosen its grip. He came up to a knee and stabbed it through the neck.
Over the several seconds in which this chaotic fumbling drama played itself out, part of the hunter's mind had been wondering what on Nirn the baron was up to. Once got to his feet and saw he understood. The ghouls had been a diversion. The baron was standing all four massive hands cupping the air before it. In that space a was a raging ball of gathered energy sparking and arcing as the what must have started as a glow grew to a blinding light. The hunter had never seen magic take on such a destructive form. It was as though the baron held lightening, and it was about to strike.
The hunter dropped his weapon and turned back to the forge, snatching up one of the rough blades he'd stuck into the fire. Its heat warmed his hand when he would have imagined it stinging, but all the same he spun and threw it arching end over end at the baron. The orange hot end of the blackened hunk of iron flickered as it spun through the air, but he only saw it for a moment before the brightness in the barons hands blinded him to all else. He turned his back brought his hand up around his head and dropped to the ground. He knew would die now and just for a moment he was back in that dark room huddling under the covers with a young girl. Her grey eyes were sleepy, her figure frail, her breath soft. He though he might have heard the baron scream in pain but it was drowned out by the blast. Thunder rocked the caldera and the hunter felt a power like he'd never felt rushed by like the dragons of old. Wood splintered and battered his arms, like arrows levied fruitlessly against a closed gate. Wind howled like a hurricane in the mountain hollow and his left side burst into pins and needles.
He saw himself again. Curled in the fetal position amid the mad tempest of wroth and fire. Then it was done and the hunter was still breathing. When the roaring chaos faded to a hollow clattering and the hiss of dust in the wind the hunter poked his head up out of his arms, a ferret peeking out of its den. All about him was furling smoke tinted red by the flames. The shack was practically gone. Its top half and been shorn off in a clean diagonal cut. Red and orange embers glowed against burned black, the cut wood smoldered like a cauterized wound. Flames rose up from within those devastated walls were the rest of the shack must have collapsed.
Trembling he came to his feet grey eyes still snapping in his mind. He gritted his teeth against the memory and let fury drive the fear from his bones. He strode to the forge and took a scorching weapon in each hand. Like so many things the pain in his palms was too far away to reach him. Why worry about pain when this body was only temporary. Pain had no place here. The smoke tried to choke him but his lungs knew no difference between the sting of blistered air and the ache of his soul so rent and hewn. The glowing points heralded his approach as he stepped out of the smoke. The Baron had his back to him and was skittering towards the ledge where Bracknel had disappeared.
"Turn!" he shouted voice horse but thick with anger. "Turn and meet your end!" The baron froze and looked back, those pitiful eyes meeting his again. "Mercy that it be."
The thing howled and spun on him once more. It charged but there was something different this time. Its movements were slower, jerky and subtly laborious. They seem closer now to the undead around them. "Spent already?" the hunter called and charged. It was just how he and Aela had started wrestling matches, by flying at each other like a couple of mad things. He knew what he was doing.
As they came together the baron reared and cocked all its arms back, palms facing him as though it would squish him like a bug. He fainted in and dodged to the left just and the arms came down tossing up dirt as they hit. Setting his feet he thrust both orange hot points into the gnarled shoulder joints of the baron. There was an inhuman screech and it recoiled seeming less steady than ever. "You shouldn't have missed," the hunter called advancing, "now you've just pissed me off!"
His emotions burned with all the fury of the fire at his back, it his internal world felt sharper, brighter, raw like new skin, while his physical world stretched and pulled as he continued to fight. The Baron swiped at him desperately as it continued to give ground. Anything that came near him he prodded away the scolding points of his unrefined swords. It flailed one of it's left arm at him slamming it down. In one smooth motion he sidestepped and nailed it to the ground with a blade. The baron tried to pull away but couldn't. The hunter stomped the straightened elbow earning a sickly snap and prodded the screeching thing in the chest. The broken arm came straight again the hunter spun severing it from it's host.
Black ichor splattered across the ground as the baron crumpled away from him. He roared after it, a ferret turned sabre cat if only for a moment. The sound pushed fear into a being that should not be capable of such a thing. It scrambled away into the sea of silhouettes. The hunter breathed in the smokey air as sweat cooled on his brow, his palms were moist with it. The rage trickled out of him as he saw the orange points of his weapons dulling to a dim red. He wouldn't be able to press this advantage much further. Letting the baron retreat he backed toward the forge fading back into smoke.
He shoved the two blades back into the pit, and looked at his hands. The skin was black from soot and iron. He couldn't see any blisters but experience told him they were on their way. His nerves should have been the ones to relay the message but it seemed they were asleep. He found the knife and short-sword he'd dropped, sheathed them and took quick inventory. Sword, dagger, knife, bow, check. Quiver? No such luck. He blinked and saw himself from afar, be blinked again and he was back in his head. Clicking his tongue in annoyance he drew the last of the fiery blades and stepped off in search of the Baron and an end to this whole ordeal.
The Baron greeted him just as he cleared the haze and the two dove back into their gory festival as though they'd agreed upon it. Three abhorrent arms against one hot hunk of metal. The hunter didn't have the same advantage as when he had two but he still managed to dictate the pace of the engagement. Knowing the baron would flinch and twitch at every jab or feint let him move the monstrous necromancer into vulnerable positions and out of aggressive ones. It was a mad image, he knew because in brief moments he saw it. The lean hunter facing down the towering insectine baron.
Finally after almost a minute the hunter had set up his next strike. A slash to the wrist on the extra right arm. The hunter jabbed to the chest, prodded away the follow up swing, offered a swipe of his own to hold the other arms at bay then darting in, slashed down at the vulnerable wrist. Suddenly he faltered and the strike whiffed. The blade had come loose in his hands, slipping and moving erratically. He glanced down at it and saw with horror that in all the heat and effort his sweat had caused his false finger to slip off his stump. He didn't have any time to worry about it though, a moment later he was flying through the air. The baron had taken his second of hesitation to land a haymaker, separating him from his scolding sword and sending him hurtling away limbs flailing.
He landed in a heap and slid. He was dazed but the pain was being mercifully dulled by this thing the hunter didn't understand. A hollow one stepped up to his prone from and raised a long spear to impale him. The hunter's body again saved him as he caught the spear in his armpit and kicked the ghoul away. Rolling to his feet he brandished the spear around him his prosthesis sitting awkwardly between his fingers.
"Boy!" came a familiar call. The hunter stabbed the hollow one in the eye with its own spear and spun around looking for the source. He spotted Bracknel standing on the lip opposite to where the hunter had originally seen him. He must have run around while entertaining his own guests. "To me! To me!" he cried practically bouncing, "Its behind you!"
The hunter took off towards the wall of the caldera. He chanced a glance over his shoulder and sure enough, here came the baron, hobbled but not slowed. The hunter deliberately skirted a group of skeletons in hopes they'd slow down his pursuer. The sound of shattering and scattering bones told him that they had been a minor annoyance and little more.
The wall was coming up fast and the hunter knew it would take too long to actually climb, the barons reach was too great. It was then that he recalled a technique he hadn't used since he was climbing through windows as a youth. Coming to the wall he gripped the far end of the shaft and stabbed the spear into the ground before him. His shoulder was yanked violently as foreword momentum shifted upwards. He twirled wildly, displaying just how out of practice he was but sure as grass is green the spear flexed slightly and lifted him up as he vaulted onto the wall.
It was a mad decision but the from where the hunter stood it was the only one, if he was faced with the same scenario a dozen times he'd do it just the same. Well perhaps he would have changed one thing. He would have grabbed a longer spear. As it was the pole only lifted him half way up the wall. He thudded unceremoniously into the rock face and started scrambling up. It was slow, slower than he'd normally be. The flopping unanchored prosthetic was making his right hand an unreliable tool. After a few feet he saw Bracknel peering down from above him. The old man's eyes were wide with adrenaline.
"Look out!" he called.
The hunter found his next foot hold and tried to push himself up before something caught his trailing leg causing him to falter. He looked back to see the barons grey fingertips pinning his foot to the stone. The huge incectine body was rearing back and climbing the wall after him. Simply by standing it had made up most of gap. The monsters two free arms splayed and pinched the stone assisting in its accent. An arrow flitted by him, and the baron's hand swiftly withdrew to avoid being struck. Only momentary deterred, the hand reach up adjacent to the hunter finding purchase on the rock. The hunter's foot was free though it would make little difference. The things grotesque chest would be against his back on with the next move. He was trapped.
Once again the hunter's options were whittled down to death and the mad, and once more he choose the mad. He remembered Aela lay back over the rock. He remembered hanging upside down to slay the boar. Gathering his feet up under him he kicked off of the rock, he flew up and away from the wall, over the barons clawing grasp. He tossed his head back flipping and drawing his sword. Coming down, nothing between him and the ground he gripped the hilt with both hands and drove the blade into his pursuers long back.
Gravity brought him down hard, slowed only slightly as the true steel of the companions carved a gapping valley down the back of the baron spiting them open like an accordion. The hunter's feet hit the ground and gave, he fell onto his rear. Black acrid smelling goop spilled onto him, setting a sickly itch where it touched. Looking up he saw the baron scream skyward, a long mournful howl, silhouetted against the mountain's peak, watching as if a spectator to the drama below. Then the inhuman cry was cut short by and arrow flying into the barons mouth and out the back of its head. For a moment all was still. Then like a cut pine the baron began to teeter back, and fall. The hunter scrambled out of its path but was unable to escape the dust cloud as the wretched thing slammed down. The particles of dirt settled on him clinging to his form wherever he was stained by the thick black ichor.
The hunter tried to stand but his balance failed him and fell reeling and rolling over to the spear he'd used earlier. Clutching it like an old man clutches his staff he fought to his feet. Finally adjusting the straps on his finger he approached the prone mass. There it lay at last, the baron of the boneyard, eyes dried and hollow, torment over. The hunter sighed and retrieved his blade. After wiping it off and stowing it he just stood staring at the bizarre thing.
"We did it!" called Bracknel from above. "By Arkay, we fucking did it!"
No sooner had the hunter registered the words when he jumped back, out of the way of a rabid axe swing. The undead who had attacked him gathered itself and would have come again had the hunter not speared it through the throat. "We did nothing!" he called back up the wall. "That wasn't the necromancer."
"What to you mean that wasn't the necromancer?" Bracknels voice almost cracked seeing the horde still writhing and active baring in on the hunter. "Since when can undead minions preform magic?"
"Ok firstly, let not talk like we know anything about necromancy. Secondly how many arrows do you have left?"
"Uh about ten, should I come down there?"
"No," the hunter violently shoulder checked an undead and stomped its head with a hollow crunch. "Stay up there and cover me."
"Are you going to check the cabin?"
"Maybe but first I've got to get my quiver back." His voice sounded horse and dull.
"Don't get cornered again!" Bracknel called but the hunter was already moving kiting the horde and jabbing at them from a safe distance. It felt easier now and he couldn't pin down why that was. Perhaps he had gained some experience, perhaps the hollow ones were slower without their captain, or perhaps there was simply fewer of them. Regardless it wasn't long before he stood at the foot of the platform that had nearly been his end. He approached with a tentative mistrustful step and did his best not actually touch the stone lest is try again to split him it two. All the same his world flickered and flexed. Comically contorting himself he coaxed the quiver closer to him with the spear and snatched it up. He sighed in relief that the arrows hadn't been scattered all over creation.
A hollow one lunged for him and he darted away fiddling with the strap he'd cut. For a moment he felt like a man trying to run while holding up is trousers, repairing straps while holding a spear was no easy feat. When he finished improvising a knot that he thought would suffice he slung the quiver and spun on his enemies who no doubt had made up some distance by now.
However, yet another surprise was waiting for him. The horde had gone eerily still. Several were still reaching for him and brandishing weapons but their forms had frozen as if trapped in ice. Then they quivered, a uncanny little tremble, and dropped. Each and every one of them fell. Skeletons shattered, smoke sprung from under hoods and the figures keeled over, some of the more gruesome corpses seemed to lose their form all together almost melting into a kind of fleshy slush.
The hunter tilted his head in astonishment as the hoard fell at his feet. He could see Bracknel skirting the ridge above. "Is that it?" He called.
"I think that's it. Must have taken a second to set in or som'at."
"That doesn't seem right. Should I still check the cabin?"
"I don't see why not."
The hunter had only taken a couple steps toward the raised abode when a wind picked up at his back and blew past him. His hit him like a punch actually causing him to stumble forward dust kicked up all around the caldera and swirled in the air like a twister. The hunter watched it gripping the spear tightly, instinct telling him to wait and be ready. The twister centered over the massive pile of bones and bodies and just as quickly as it formed dissipated. The world stilled as if drawing a breath, then came the scream.
A horrific high wale, bestial and vicious cut the air, supported buy a deep guttural rumble that shook the ground told of a scale hitherto unknown. The hunter started backing away, knowing before he'd even seen his foe that he was outmatched. Then a whole side of the mound exploded outwards. Bone splintered into a pale rain of festering shards, and globules of blackened red stained a whole half of the boneyard. Bursting forth from the pile was an abomination.
Easily 12 feet tall, its antlered head was the skull of an elk, its long forelimbs ended in vicious, jagged claws, and its many jointed hind-limbs ended in massive moose hooves ringed by the talons of a huge eagle. The abominations midsection was thin almost emaciated and the high crests of vertebrae gave its back a hunched appearance. Between all these wickedly pale boney features, the creature seemed to be held together by a thrumming mass of concentrated darkness. Magic or flesh the hunter couldn't tell and he wasn't eager learn. Again the abomination roared and split the heavens.
The hunter dropped the spear and ran for the entrance. "Run!" He yelled waving a hand wildly at his companion. Bracknel disappeared from the ridge and the hunter was alone sprinting full tilt for the broken gate. Looking over his shoulder he saw the huge thing was galloping for him moving faster than any horse. Was this it then? There was no way for him to outrun this devil.
"Hurry" came the familiar voice of Bracknel, he was there suddenly, up above the entrance, his arrow notched, his aim set on the oncoming storm. He hadn't run he was just repositioning. Damn fool the hunter thought. "The rope!" He shouted pointing frantically to the tie off for the log trap. "Cut the rope!"
Bracknel heard him, adjusted aim, then faltered. He squinted along the rope as if reevaluating his shot. Then, with a decisive huff he, let down the arrow, pulled his axe and winged it down at corner of the ramp. The hunter was just inside the crevice when he heard the thud, rush and rumble as the trap was loosed. He could hear the roar of the antlered abomination just over his ear, he could feel those clawed fingers reaching for him. Shadows grew deeper as the sky tumbled down atop his head.
The hunter dived for the light, he dived for his life, and he made it. Hitting the ground would have knocked the wind out of him if he had any wind left. He rolled as the entrance belched out a cloud of dust. He dodged it as if it too wanted him dead. Gasping ragged breaths he turned over, brown eyes darting all around and looked back into the gaping yawning black of the gateway. He saw nothing stern in that darkness but kept his eyes on it none the less.
Bracknel came sliding feet first down the outside of the caldera, both of their packs in hand. He jogged for the hunter and pulled him up to his feet. "Good call on the rope. Do you think we got it?"
"No." the hunter panted, "not even close."
Bracknel looked at him oddly "Stranger your face..." It was then that a huge skeletal hand, assembled, it seemed with the shin bones of men and mer, jumped out of the shadowed crevasse and dug its claws into the wall. The heinous sound of massive tree trunks being shifted reached their ears.
"What in oblivion is that thing?" Bracknel blanched
"I have no idea just run."
And so hewn, hobbled and haggard the pair ran as best they could back down the mountain. One wondering if he'd be able to keep up, the other wondering if he'd ever be the whole again, both knowing they had only minutes before the abomination would pull itself free and continue its hunt.