Chapter 12
Mull isn't sure how long it's been – hours at least – before they finally reach another section of the crypt free of draugr. After progressing through a circular antechamber and killing two heavily-armored draugr, they find themselves standing in a long, broad hallway with a vaulted ceiling and intricately decorated walls. At a glance, the walls seem to be completely covered in a dense mass of etchings from floor to ceiling, over practically every free inch. It's mindboggling how much detail there is to everything, even across the entirety of this forty-yards-long corridor.
Shield girl does a quick headcount while Torgen and another man use a defeated draugr's greatsword to bar the entrance behind them. A quick scan informs Mull that all five of the clansmen are here. Somehow, through everything that has happened, only Arvel's two lackeys were lost to the undead horde. Gods be damned, we're unbelievably lucky. I can't believe I'm still alive. He stifles a laugh, deciding this probably isn't the time or place to be venting his fear and relief.
While the bandits are getting themselves reorganized and tending to their wounds, he takes a moment to study some of the engravings out of idle curiosity. There are entire rows of images spanning dozens of feet, all depicting various scenes involving people and animals. I'm guessing this must be the Hall of Stories from Arvel's notes. Doesn't look like there's any treasure here though.
Some of the illustrations are mundane, portraying scenes of everyday life and the natural world – men crafting banal objects with hammers and chisels, women weaving on looms, and images of all manner of wildlife. Among them are mammoths, foxes, bears, horkers, fluttering eclipses of moths, and even… Flying whales? He chuckles under his breath as he moves closer to examine that particular iconograph.
He wasn't mistaken. It's an engraving of a whale floating among a bank of clouds, wingless and somehow suspended under its own power. Flocks of diminutive birds soar around its gargantuan ovaloid form and roost atop its back. That's a new one. Can't say I've ever heard of those before.
However, the most prominent panels are reserved for distinct figures larger than the rest, each represented in the same general pose – standing straight-backed and facing the viewer, with hands held outwards on either side of their body.
He holds his torch aloft and peers at a randomly selected panel in greater detail. Most of it is an amalgamation of jumbled shapes, coiling serpents and gnarled branches laden heavy with birds and beasts of the treetops, but there's one carving in particular that he's able to interpret a little better. It shows a woman clad in a feathered shawl with palms outstretched, presided over by an identical pair of four-pointed stars and attended by a group of hooded priests, three on the right and three on the left, each facing inwards with arms raised in reverence. Furrows radiate out from behind the central woman, like an aura of light. On another carving directly above, the visage of a hawk or an eagle stares back at him with wings outstretched and beak opened as if diving in pursuit of concealed prey.
He runs his gloved fingers across the undulating surface, brushing away a thick layer of dust. It feels as though this image bears some significance hidden just beyond his sight.
He's never had any great interest in the particulars of religion or mythic knowledge, so he doesn't know what exactly these carvings are supposed to represent. They clearly bear some manner of importance due to their size and prominent position on the wall. Anything more than that, he couldn't say.
He tears his eyes away and moves on to the next panel.
As with the first, this one also has a central figure with another six arranged around them, similar but slightly different. The central figure is a man wreathed in flames, wearing an unusual coif-like headdress, and with twin sickle-bladed daggers wielded in either hand. A priest maybe, though garbed unlike any he's ever seen.
The six acolytes are holding aloft prone men lying atop pallets, balancing them on their shoulders like servants carrying decedent monarchs – but these monarchs have their arms crossed over their chests in the unmistakable posture of death. Crowns adorn their foreheads and long beards trail down to their abdomens. Swords are nestled atop their chests in final repose.
The six acolytes clutch staves and scepters with smaller baubles hanging from strings. Dogs and other domestic animals slink between their legs. Less easily recognizable shapes are interspaced between them – burning torches, gleaming stars, and brilliant pillars of light.
The intricacy of this panel is astounding to him. To think it's being sitting down here for hundreds or thousands of years, unseen and utterly unknown to anyone in the world outside. How many hands labored over these images? For how long did ancient craftsmen dedicate themselves to their creation?
He moves on to yet another, his fingers trailing across line-jagged stone.
This next bas-relief is too stylized to make much sense of it, but a few features are unmistakable to him. A pair of twisting horns, like those of a monstrous dremora. Glaring eyes, serpentine and far more intense than he would've ever expected from a lifeless carving. Someone else might not recognize this as an image of a dragon, but he certainly can. The eyes and the horns form an exact likeness of the dragon at Helgen, even as it gazed down at him from atop that shattered Imperial tower. This carving feels much more lifelike than should be possible for something inanimate.
He shudders and turns away, shuffling a few feet further down the hall. He doesn't want those eyes to be able to see him any longer.
"Hey kid. What are you looking at?" Torgen wanders over and squints curiously at the carving.
He glares shortly at the bandit. He seems much more relaxed than previously, though that isn't saying much considering what they just endured. Still, his dark blue eyes aren't quite as stormy as before and his wrinkles aren't as pronounced. No longer being in mortal danger will do that, he supposes.
"I'm not really sure," he lies. "You have any insight to offer?"
"Why would I?"
"You're a Nord. And you also said you've dealt with draugr before."
"Hmm." Torgen leans in and stares more attentively at the engraving. He doesn't seem unnerved in the slightest by the dragon's malevolent gaze.
After a few seconds, he pulls away with a shake of his head.
"I've got nothing. I've tangled with some draugr in my days, but that doesn't mean I understand these old carvings better than anyone else. Why the sudden interest?"
"…No reason," he lies again, less convincing this time even to his own ears. "Some of these look strange to me." Like the one with a dragon, for instance. "Makes me wonder why the ancient Nords would put so much effort into these engravings. It seems like a lot of trouble for a place that'll never see the light of day."
"Arvel called this the Hall of Stories in his scribblings. Maybe these are the ancestors' stories. The tales of all the dead interred in this barrow."
"Could be." Although that doesn't explain the image of the dragon, or the excruciatingly meticulous detail of its hateful slit-pupiled eyes, as if the person who chiseled them had somehow seen those eyes for themselves. "Or they could be old legends and myths, things that aren't real. Those kinds of stories." Oh, how he wishes for that to be true, and yet knows it isn't.
Torgen grunts noncommittally. They stand in silence for a while, enjoying the peacefulness of this mildew-ridden tunnel while they have the chance.
Something prompts Mull to say what he's been thinking for a while now. "…I didn't think draugr were actually real, you know. I heard plenty of stories about barrow-walkers as a child, but that's all they ever were. Just stories."
The older man huffs with bleak amusement. "What do you think now?"
"Do you really have to ask?"
"Mm. Guess not."
"What's with the wolves anyways?" he continues. "Dead men I can understand, but it seems odd for wolves to be down in a place like this."
"We call them bonewolves. 'Undead creatures bound beyond death to guard the ancient tombs of their masters,'" Torgen informs him, as if reciting something he'd once heard. "Or something like that," he finishes. "Damned nuisances is more like it, if you ask me."
"…You knew about the draugr, didn't you?" Mull accuses. He turns to fully face the bandit with a scowl. He's distinctly aware that the man is easily a head taller than himself but finds that he doesn't particularly care at the moment. "It's obvious that you did. Why in Oblivion didn't you say anything? If there was even a possibility, then shouldn't you have told Arvel?"
"And then what?" Torgen retorts. "That idiot wouldn't have cared. We'd have come down here all the same, except he, you, and those other men from Riverwood would've been scared half to death jumping at shadows, looking for draugr around every corner. We weren't sure if there would be any of those blasted undead down here at all."
He gestures at shield girl standing with the others at the far end of the hall.
"Me and Soling made that decision and we'll stand by it. Besides, if Arvel had learned about the draugr beforehand then only Talos knows what other stupidity he could've decided to do. He was a cunning bastard. I guarantee he would've run off with the claw and never looked back. Which he did when the spider showed up, and that proves my point."
"It would've been better if we were afraid!" Mull's outburst draws a few curious looks. He lowers his voice. "If we'd known that and it made us afraid, then we would've been more alert. Fear isn't always a bad thing. Sometimes it keeps you alive."
"Working with a bunch of panicking amateurs would've been worse. I didn't want to keep you in the dark, but like I said, I made my decision and I stand by it. I'm not going to apologize," he gruffly states. "We did what we thought was best while knowing what we knew at the time. Sometimes that's all there is to it."
He pauses. His eyes flicker towards the floor.
"But… I know what you're feeling. Trust me. I've been in your shoes before, kid. I wasn't born inside a barrow. I had my first time down in one of these places too. So I'm not going to apologize, but I understand why you're mad. You aren't in the wrong. I would be too."
Mull blinks, not having expected that kind of sincerity from the rugged man. He's still angry and that won't be changed by a few pretty words, but it's enough to throw him off his game.
Before he can muster a response, their discussion is mercifully brought to an end by shield girl. "Hey morons! We're wrapping up, so quit your yammering and get over here!" She waves from where she stands with the others on the opposite side of the hall.
"Alright. We're coming!" Torgen calls back.
He hesitates for a moment, still fuming over the bandit's unrepentant reticence, before trudging after him. As he goes, he steals one final glance at the carving on the wall and considers just how closely it resembles the black dragon. He doesn't like the implications of that, whatever they might be. He tries to avoid giving too much thought to the issue. First dragons and now draugr, he thinks morosely. How much worse can it get?
He and Torgen rejoin the others at the end of the Hall of Stories, where the way forward is blocked off by a circular door spanning the entire width and height of the chamber. It's constructed of three massive concentric stone rings.
We haven't seen anything like this door so far. Hopefully that means this is the end of the barrow. We can finally get our loot, I'll find my Dragonstone, and we can be done with this gods-forsaken place. I'll never have to deal with draugr ever again.
The door isn't especially difficult to open, though it does take them a few tries. In the middle of the centermost ring is a triangle of three indentions that are a perfect match for the claws on Arvel's golden dragon claw. When Torgen inserts the dragon claw, something clicks but the door still refuses to budge.
Upon closer examination, they realize that each of the concentric rings on the door display specific gold=plated carvings, one of a bear, one of a moth, and one of an owl. With a little help from Arvel's notes, Torgen takes a good look at the claw and discovers a set of three images engraved on the underside. Under his direction they rotate the concentric rings to match the order of the images on the claw.
It's an arduous process, as the stone rings are extremely heavy and don't want to budge at first, but they eventually manage to push everything into place with only a minimum of sweat and tears. Torgen inserts the claw once more, a series of loud clacks emanate from beneath the floor as unseen mechanisms shift into place, and the door sluggishly begins to grind open.
As the slab of rounded stone slowly sinks into the floor, the group collectively check their equipment and supplies one last time. The blade of Mull's Imperial short sword became severely blunted and badly chipped over the course of their previous escapades, forcing him to discard it and scavenge a new one from the draugr, a ring-sword with a somewhat longer blade and crossguard. The balance is good enough and there's no rust, so he isn't too worried about it failing him in the middle of a fight.
Most of the others also lost or broke their weaponry back in the crypts and had to do the same. Torgen grabbed something that looks a lot like a heavy-bladed spear – he called it an atgeir, whatever that means – while shield girl supplemented her dagger with a handaxe.
(AN: An atgeir is a type of polearm, likely similar to a bill or a glaive, that appears in Old Norse sagas.)
We're an eclectic-looking bunch with this old gear, that's for sure. It's incredible how well these ancient blades have retained their edges considering they've been rotting down here for a millennia or two. It doesn't take much to ruin a blade, especially in a damp environment like this. I guess those ancient Nord blacksmiths knew what they were doing. Speaking of which, I wish we could've grabbed a few of those enchanted weapons back in the crypt. They would've been worth some good money.
When everyone is ready and the door has fully withdrawn into the floor, they arrange themselves into a semblance of an organized formation and cautiously proceed.
A staircase rises before them, steep but no more than twenty steps. Faint light emanates from beyond, not bright enough to be the rays of the sun, but a tantalizing glimmer of freedom nonetheless. They scale the stairs with poorly-restrained enthusiasm in their eagerness to see what lies ahead.
They find themselves entering a natural cavern for the second time, though this one is substantially larger than the last. If Dragonsreach was turned on its side, the entire building would likely fit inside with little difficulty.
Multiple beams of watery light descend from holes in the ceiling, vents that presumably open onto the mountainside somewhere high above – the sources of their previous hope, now dashed. The vents are far too high to hold any hope of a means to escape.
A layer of forest-green moss has grown across the floor like a massive blanket, indicative of moisture welling up from somewhere. Flocks of bats flutter overhead, their shrill cries echoing off of virgin bedrock. Overall, this cave seems much more naturalistic than any other section of the barrow so far.
However, the cavern's most noteworthy feature is a staired platform erected against the middle of the far wall. Atop the platform, an imposing freestanding wall looms over the rest of the cave, an artificial black mass in this otherwise green and grey environment. It's impossible to make out any details from this distance, but whatever it is, it looks unquestionably important. If I had a Dragonstone, that's where I think I'd put it.
This space feels hallowed somehow. Mull's blood calls out to him in a way he can't describe, like a strange sense of déjà vu. It's almost as if he's standing in the exact same spot that the fathers of his father once stood so long ago, in the years when Nords first arrived in Skyrim from the frozen shores of old Atmora.
He feels silly for thinking something so grandiose and ridiculous, but that self-consciousness evaporates as he glances sidelong at the others. If their awed expressions are anything to guess by, then they must be experiencing a similar sensation. It makes him feel very small, an insignificant footnote in the vast expanse of history, unlikely to be remembered by successive generations. He finds that he doesn't like the feeling very much.
He hitches his rucksack over his shoulder and steps forward with an impatient exhale. He didn't come here to stand around and gawk at nothing. He's got a job to do, and he's willing to bet that the Dragonstone is stashed away here somewhere. It'd better be after this mess. If not…
The other bandits are spurred into motion as he starts across the cave. He'd like to get this over with as soon as possible – though he also grudgingly recognizes that venturing into the unknown alone probably isn't a good idea, and is thankful to have the others backing him up. Had he gone off by himself at any point so far in this disaster of an expedition, he'd almost certainly be dead now.
He grumbles under his breath as he pauses to wait for the others to confer among themselves, tapping his foot in a rapid staccato and glaring impatiently at the platform with the big wall.
From what he overhears, most of the bandits decide to examine the rest of the cave – there are several small structures that might be mausoleums scattered throughout the cavern, which they apparently want to investigate – while only Torgen breaks off to join him in the shadow of the raised platform. The older man nods wordlessly as he halts beside him, and together they gaze ahead at the structure.
"Looks important," the bandit comments.
"That's what I was thinking."
Torgen glances over his shoulder at his comrades, who have already separated into ones and twos as they spread across the cave in their hunt for anything valuable. "Since you're standing here in front of it, I'm guessing you want to go up and check it out?"
"Aye, I think we should. Arvel said there's supposedly an ancient treasure hoard down here somewhere and I haven't seen anything fitting that description so far. If there really is a mound of gold waiting for us, it'll most likely be up there. Those mausoleums scattered around don't look big enough for something like that."
"The treasure could be deeper in."
"Maybe, but this is the first part of the barrow we've seen that looks promising. And besides, he did say it would be somewhere beyond the Hall of Stories." He raises his hands to encompass the cavern. "Here we are."
"Here we are," the bandit agrees. "Alright, I hear what you're saying. Let's go see what the ancestors have left behind for us."
Without further ado, they set off for the far end of the cavern. A shallow gully cuts across their path, but a steeply-arched stone bridge conveniently spans across it. They cross to the other side and slowly ascend a series of uneven steps leading to the top of the raised area, taking care not to lose their footing on the edges of the stairs worn smooth by countless years of water dripping from the ceiling.
As the two men reach the summit of the staircase, they find themselves walking out onto the top a flat terrace. Other than the freestanding wall they saw from afar, the platform is empty except for a handful of iron braziers, which look like they haven't been lit in an extremely long time, and a rectangular sarcophagus resting on the left side near the edge.
Their attention immediately zeroes in on the latter, the strange wall going utterly forgotten for the time being. Torgen mumbles something unpleasant at the sight of the sealed coffin. "I don't like the look of that."
Mull delicately unsheathes his sword, taking care to make as little sound as possible. "Me neither," he says softly. "I've seen enough of those to last me a lifetime." Many of these sarcophagi were dispersed throughout the tunnels where they were pursued by the draugr. The undead emerged from within the shadowy coffins more than once to attack them, often inexplicably sensing their presences even when they were trying to move in stealth. It was unfailingly terrifying to hear the sharp crack of a stone lid hitting the floor and seeing one of their undead hunters rising from seemingly nowhere.
That fortunately doesn't appear to be the case here. The two men watch the coffin with rapt attention for any sign that its denizen might awaken, but they see nothing out of the ordinary even after minutes have passed. It's as still and silent as the grave.
Torgen dares to inch forward. Mull bites back a sharp curse and glowers at the man, irritated by his risky move, but the older bandit simply shakes his head and continues to cautiously close the distance.
Only when he's standing directly in front of the sarcophagus does Mull accept that it appears to be safe for now. He lowers his sword, wipes the sweat from his brow, and moves to Torgen's side.
Upon closer inspection, they find the sarcophagus to be inscribed with hundreds of runes and depictions of miniature animals in what Mull admits is truly extraordinary detail, even in comparison to the Hall of Stories. But despite its impressive workmanship and apparent harmlessness, it emanates a vague sense of foreboding that puts him even more on edge than before.
Something about it feels… perilous, for lack of a better word, and not only because it's obviously a possible source of danger. Standing right next to it, he can't shake the feeling that there's some sort of sinister will at work in this place, an intangible oppression that bears down on his shoulders and fills him with dread. Even more so than when they first entered the cavern, he's ready to loot this place for all it's worth and get the hell out while they still can.
"This looks like a shrine of some kind," Torgen suggests. The man's words echo worryingly despite keeping his voice low.
Mull glances quizzically at him.
The bandit shrugs. "Maybe. I dunno." He waves expansively. "But with the way this is all set up, it makes me think it was built for the benefit of whoever's lying in that coffin. To give them a nice view for the rest of eternity, or something like that."
As he turns his gaze beyond the edge of the terrace, Mull realizes they currently have an overhead view of the entire cavern, including the circular entrance from the Hall of Stories. It's a pretty vista, especially with the rays of ambient light filtering through from above. The ancient Nords presumably wouldn't have entombed a nameless nobody in a place like this. "You could be right. So whoever's in there, I'm willing to bet we don't want to meet them."
"No, we probably don't." Torgen turns to examine the rest of the terrace. "Let's try to avoid overstaying our welcome. Doesn't look like there's much up here anyways."
There nothing that resembles an ancient treasure horde atop or anywhere around the terrace. Its only features are the sarcophagus, a few groupings of terracotta vases and pewter jugs, and that indistinct freestanding black wall at the very back. This is looking more like a total bust with each passing second.
Torgen goes to the edge and waves to catch the attention of the couple of the others. He raises his arms in a gesture that asks "Find anything?"
The only responses he receives are disappointed shaking heads.
The two men linger atop the platform for a while longer, not wanting to give up and return to their companions without having something to show for all of their trials and tribulations. They continue to inspect the exterior of the sarcophagus, being extremely careful not to touch it and maintaining unceasing awareness for any movement or noise that might indicate its inhabitant – assuming there is one – is about to wake up.
Without preamble, something murmurs behind Mull's ear, interrupting his inspection of an empty clay urn. The unfamiliar noise reverberates quietly, an invisible presence demanding his attention in gentle tones, so unobtrusively that he barely notices. Breathy whispers speak to him from some unknown source, a chorus of rhythmic chanting in the far corners of his mind. He isn't sure when exactly they began.
'Dovahkiin. Dovahkiin. Dovahkiin,' the voices mumble from afar. The way they writhe and coil around one another is unlike anything he's ever heard, equal parts hypnotic and unsettling. He couldn't begin to guess at the number of individual speakers, so entangled are their words.
He turns and casually scans the area, searching for any signs that they might not be alone. He examines each section of the cave in a grid, peering through the gloom as he hunts for incongruous details that might indicate someone – or something – is hidden nearby.
From what he can tell even after assessing the entire cavern, there isn't anything that seems out of the ordinary. And yet the voices still remain.
He holds his breath to better listen, making sure they aren't some figment of his fevered imagination. They aren't. Even as his heartbeat slows and silence descends upon his body, the whispering doesn't stop.
He surreptitiously raises his hands to cover his ears, but still nothing changes. The words do not falter, and nor does their volume lessen.
Now thoroughly alarmed, he abruptly turns to his oblivious companion. "Do you hear that? It sounds like there's someone talking, but I don't think it's any of us."
Torgen obligingly cocks his head and listens intently. His brows furrow, he frowns, and he gives Mull a thoroughly confused look. "Uh… no. I don't hear anything. Just water trickling and those bats flying around."
He scowls. "Are you sure?" There's no doubt in his mind that the voices are there, still speaking to him and repeating that strange word ad nauseum. It isn't his imagination.
'Dovahkiin. Dovahkiin.'
"There's nobody else here, kid. Just you and me." The older man takes one last look around and shakes his head. "This place is getting to all of us. You're probably just hearing things. Once we get out of here, we'll make sure to find ourselves some good food and get ourselves some good rest. You can look forward to tha-"
Before he finishes his sentence, the top of the sarcophagus suddenly flies off with a resounding crash, sailing over the side of the platform to its explosive destruction upon a cluster of jagged rocks below. Dust billows from within, disturbed for what might be the first time in countless centuries. The two men cry out in bewilderment as they stumble away.
"Shit!"
"Godsdamn it!"
From the coffin emerges what is unmistakably a draugr, fully armored in black steel, clutching a wicked greataxe with unnatural frost coating the blade, and eyes glowing a ghostly malignant blue.
As the draugr clambers out of its resting place and into the world of the living, Mull is immediately aware that this one is different from all the others they've previously encountered. Its appearance is much more ornate, whereas nearly all of the other draugr had been outfitted with comparatively utilitarian armor and weaponry. This one is wearing an enclosed nasal helm adorned with an impractically tall pair of horns, spiraling in clear emulation of the horns belonging to the dragon at Helgen. Black-steel pauldrons flare outwards into sharp points from the draugr's shoulders in a cumbersome but undeniably menacing manner. Its torso is protected by a breastplate embossed with elaborate swirling patterns, akin to those decorating the sarcophagus. As the draugr takes a single ominous step forward, it carries itself with an aura of raw power in a way that the lesser draugr did not.
This is a draugr-lord. Mull isn't sure where that thought comes from, but he finds the title grimly fitting for the terrible being standing before them.
The two men are frozen in place by the unexpectedness of the draugr's arrival. Suffering from no such inhibitions, the undead warrior glares at them and shouts a single word, rasping and ferocious. "FUS!"
For a split second the entire cavern trembles at the sound of that throaty exclamation. A wave of blue magic slams into Mull, throwing him backward several yards. He tumbles harshly to the ground and slides a few more feet for good measure, his body already aching from the force of whatever had struck him. He feels like he just ran into a wall at full sprint… except in this case, it was more like the wall running into him.
The eerie hymn echoing inside his mind redoubles in volume. 'Dovahkiin. Dovahkiin.' Their cadence quickens to match his racing pulse.
"We've got trouble!" Torgen bellows to the others, having avoided the worst of the draugr-lord's magic.
With that, their final chance to call for help or indulge in other distractions has passed. Their enemy falls upon them without giving any further time to prepare.
Torgen parries the draugr-lord's axe with the steel haft of his atgeir, his heavily-muscled arms trembling under the strain. The impact sends a shower of flashing sparks into the air. After several seconds of gritted teeth and desperate effort, he disengages and narrowly ducks beneath a devastating follow-up swing.
Mull scrambles to his feet and wipes his bloodied mouth with the back of his glove. Did it wait to reveal itself until we were distracted? We were idiots for lingering so long. We should've left while we still could.
He sneers with frustration. But I've already come this far, and I'm not leaving here emptyhanded. One more of these things is nothing! If we play this right, I know we can bring it down.
In his younger days he might've charged this enemy straightaway with reckless abandon, seeking to inflict critical injuries as soon as possible. However, as he's grown older and survived more than his fair share of battles – quite a few by sheer dumb luck – he's learned from experience that such a strategy is rarely successful. He still bears the scars to prove it.
He's known many warriors who approached battle with thoughtless aggression as he himself once did. He's known others who preferred a very cerebral strategy, carefully analyzing their opponents and predicting their next moves as well as the best ways to counter them. At present, his standard approach falls somewhere in between those two extremes.
The worst possible outcome in a battle is to be injured or killed. That must be avoided at all costs. Every other consideration is ultimately secondary.
He isn't much of a thinker, but he likes to imagine he isn't an idiot either. Only idiots engage in a fight without giving any thought to it at all. On the flip side, only geniuses are able to fight with perfection and accurate foresight. He's many things, but a genius certainly isn't one of them.
He advances with sure steps, keeping his sword positioned centrally to better deflect attacks directed at his head and torso. He falls into line next to Torgen, still struggling to survive the draugr-lord's onslaught, and vigilantly parries several swipes of the greataxe as he searches for an opening. The draugr's armor is comprehensive, protecting all vital areas save for the cheeks and jaw left exposed by its open-faced helm, but that isn't enough to deter him. No enemy is invulnerable, not even a giant.
He finds his opening.
He stomps forward with a sharp cry and thrusts his blade at a narrow gap in the draugr's armor as it raises its left arm, aiming to end this fight here and now by skewering their opponent through the heart – assuming it has one. If any single blow could be fatal against a mummified wight raised from death by unknown means, then surely this will be it.
Perhaps it's overconfidence, or perhaps his mortal body is simply too slow. But whatever the reason, he fails to react in time as the undead warrior spins its axe around its body with a single hand to deflect his attack, moving with astonishing dexterity considering the size of its weapon. The maneuver leaves him hopelessly overextended and utterly open to retaliation. Just like that, all of his careful planning is rendered pointless. Such is the way of the battlefield.
Just before his head is cleaved from his shoulders, Torgen manages to bat the draugr's axe aside. He feels the wind of its passage as it tickles his ear, the only physical indicator of his narrowly-avoided decapitation.
Torgen slams his atgeir's long leaf-shaped blade into the undead's armored midsection. He struggles doggedly to bury his weapon deeper into their enemy's brittle flesh. "Be careful, kid!" he barks. "Look at that axe! The blade is enchanted!"
As Mull focuses on the draugr-lord's weapon, he notices that the curved edge of the axehead is shimmering with a faint blue light, a tell-tale sign of a magical enchantment. He's right. For all we know, a single cut from that could be enough to kill.
The draugr stands languidly for a moment, coolly regarding the bandit and seeming unaffected by his efforts, before backhanding him across the face with its gauntleted fist faster than the eye can follow. Torgen goes sprawling even as the rest of their group finally arrives, swiftly moving to surround their opponent.
It occurs to Mull that in some ways, this situation is comparable to their battle against the Frostbite spider. That isn't a good thing.
The undead warrior wrenches Torgen's weapon from its torso and contemptuously throws it aside. As if taking that for an invitation, shield girl screams a fearsome battle-cry as she charges with wild ferocity. Mull and the two other male bandits follow in her wake.
A flurry of blows are exchanged, interspaced with piercing arrows fired by the archer girl from a safe distance.
Mull tries to keep himself restricted to short bursts of violence before returning to a defensive posture, keenly aware of his own fragility after his previous brush with death. He aims a vicious slash at the draugr's glowing eyes, but his blade is deflected by the helm's protruding cheekguard. Undeterred by his failure, he withdraws with practiced dexterity to make space for one of the other male bandits to engage.
When the man whirls away with a new wound bleeding along the length of his arm, Mull again steps in and strikes with a sweeping uppercut. The draugr-lord easily blocks his blade using the haft of its axe and instantly retaliates with a swift chop towards his head, forcing him to hastily duck and skip backwards.
Two of the bandits edge closer to their opponent, one from either side, and attack with deft precision in an attempt to break its guard. The undead warrior counters them step for step and swing for swing.
This back and forth continues unabated, with the vast majority of their attacks being brushed aside with infuriating ease. But not all however, as shield girl manages to sneak in a few good hits and so too does Torgen once he reenters the fray with his retrieved atgeir.
Their opponent gives as good as it gets, and most of them receive some form of injury in return.
Mull is wounded twice by the enchanted axe, once across his right forearm and once along the outside of his left hip. Neither laceration is deep enough to merit much concern, but both wounds burn agonizingly in a way that definitely isn't normal. It must be the enchantment. Damn, that really hurts! It feels like a jagged knife being dug around inside the wounds, refusing to grant him reprieve from the bitter pain.
At an unspoken signal, they disengage and give archer girl a window to fire an arrow into the draugr's throat, which would certainly be a killing blow in any other situation.
Without so much as a flinch, the long-dead warrior reaches up, easily plucks the arrow from its flesh, drops it to the ground, and grinds it to splinters beneath his steel-plated boot. Mull and the others shuffle uneasily at the display.
Upon seeing this, the draugr-lord lifts its head and laughs at them, a sound that chills Mull down to the marrow of his bones. It's like a sharp blade grating across a rock. He gets the impression that the undead warrior isn't even taking them seriously. We're outclassed. This thing is toying with us.
After its mirth subsides, the draugr squares its stance and shouts again. "FUS RO DAH!" Its voice booms across the cavern, causing Mull's ears to buzz painfully.
Something hisses in his mind and he dives to the side on sheer instinct. In the same instant, a wave of concussive force slams into the man standing next to him. He's sent flying through the air and straight over the edge of the shine.
One of the women shrieks. "Bjorn!" They watch helplessly as he plummets to the ground and his body ragdolls across the unforgiving stones. Shield girl furiously whirls on the draugr-lord and battle is rejoined.
Less than a minute has passed since the beginning of this confrontation, but to Mull it feels endless. In every instant he's only one small mistake away from a swift and violent death. Never before has he fought an opponent like this, one who plagues him with such sheer hopelessness. The knowledge that there's nothing more he can do to turn this duel in their favor is infuriating. He has no clever tricks, nowhere to run. Nothing.
Torgen's remaining male counterpart – Harknir, he recalls – is slain when the draugr sidesteps one of his strikes and delivers a devastating downwards slash through his torso, practically bifurcating the man. The greataxe's frost enchantment quickly puts him out of his misery as the affected flesh visibly withers from sheer cold.
Shield girl is put out of commission as well, though not killed outright. The draugr-lord uses its shouting magic to send them all scrambling for cover, creating an opening in their formation, and singles her out. It's clearly grown annoyed by the glancing hits she keeps landing with her scavenged handaxe. When the woman next attacks, the draugr grabs her weapon mid-swing to throw her off balance and brings around its enormous weapon, shattering her shield in a single blow. The weapon continues into her shoulder, deeply rending her flesh and muscle.
She doesn't even have the chance to scream before being seized by the throat, lifted bodily from the ground, and thrown into archer girl as an unwilling projectile. The younger girl yelps in surprise and they're both tangled in a bloody heap of limbs and weaponry.
Mull nervously approaches the draugr-lord, seeking to divert its attention from his vulnerable comrades – if they die, then his own likelihood of also dying will become that much higher. Their superior numbers are the only reason they haven't already been wiped out. Next to him, Torgen growls with unrestrained fury.
The draugr laughs evilly again, and Mull perceives the ridicule and disdain with which this creatures views them, little more than buzzing gnats. However, he also notices their opponent is slowing down, its movements becoming jerky and its gait uneven. The blows they've landed so far, ineffectual though they've been, have cumulatively dealt at least a little damage.
Both he and Torgen are completely spent, but they still have a chance to win this. They share a dark look. If we can't defeat it now, then we'll all die here.
They charge together. Fueled by a second wind born from desperation, they strafe to either side and flank the draugr-lord, cornering it against the stone sarcophagus as they deliver frenzied slashes and thrusts with all the speed they can still muster. The draugr-lord effortlessly parries most of their attacks, but not all. Chunks of mummified flesh are chipped away by each strike that slips past its guard. Mull focuses on its arms and legs in an attempt to immobilize it, whittling away the strength of its limbs with each landed hit, and grins with fierce satisfaction as its movements continue to grow sluggish.
Becoming noticeably frustrated, the undead warrior suddenly and unexpectedly switches tactics. It ducks beneath a thrust of Torgen's polearm and shoves Mull back with a shoulder charge in the same motion. He staggers as he nearly topples over the edge of the terrace and wastes valuable seconds regaining his balance, cursing savagely all the while.
The draugr-lord turns to face Torgen, now alone, and opens its rotted mouth to use a shout-spell once more. Mull watches impotently, preparing himself to witness the older man be blown backwards with bone-shattering force. Torgen is standing in the middle of the platform, completely exposed and unable to avoid the impending spell.
A bowstring twangs and a well-timed arrow strikes the back of the draugr's chestplate, piercing into the black steel with a discordant screech. Archer girl has gotten back on her feet, panting heavily and holding her bow aloft as a trickle of blood streams down her face. Her arrow doesn't seem to harm the undead warrior at all, but it does cause it to hesitate for one decisive moment. A moment that Mull doesn't let go to waste.
He dashes forward and feints at the draugr's midsection. Glancing back at him, his opponent brandishes its axe to block his strike, but falters again when Torgen sprints in with his weapon raised for an overhead slash.
While the draugr is distracted, Mull redirects his swing upwards with all of his might, so abruptly and forcefully that his shoulders scream in protest as his arms strain against their sockets. This is it! I've got him!
Yet again, his confidence is proven premature as one of the draugr-lord's arms suddenly snakes forward to intercept his blow. His sword burrows deeply into a black-steel gauntlet and shriveled tissue beneath, embedding halfway through the limb but failing to damage anything significant. At the same time, the creature uses its greataxe to deflect Torgen's blow without even bothering to look at him. It's attention is reserved solely for Mull.
He strains to yank his blade free, but the draugr-lord merely matches him for each step, not allowing him to gain any leverage. The undead's posture changes minutely and he realizes it's bringing the axe around for a full-body swing.
He drops to his knees, releasing his grip on his weapon, and curses as the blade soars above his scalp with inches to spare. The draugr-lord snarls as it readies itself for another swing, grasping the weapon with both hands as would an executioner. "Bolog aaz, mal lir!"
Mull gets the odd feeling that he should know what that spoken phrase means, but given his current state of panic, all he gets is the impression that it's intended to be insulting. With that, he rips his dagger from its sheath for all the good it'll do against the enchanted axe – which is none – and otherwise readies himself to die.
The shaft of an arrow sprouts from the side of the draugr-lord's helm, causing it to stagger and fall to one knee. He blinks owlishly, not having expected to be saved so abruptly. But he doesn't allow the opportunity to go to waste, and the draugr doesn't recover quite fast enough to avoid his next attack.
His body acts of its own accord as he surges forward with dagger raised for a finishing blow. He buries the stubby blade up to the hilt in the draugr-lord's chest, down through its unprotected jugular notch and behind the sternal plates of black steel.
The draugr stares into his eyes with twin orbs of unforgiving blue, cavernous pools radiating unmistakable hatred and desire for vengeance, promising death without the need for spoken words.
The stare-off ends when Torgen rends the draugr-lord's head from its shoulders, his atgeir shearing through desiccated flesh and bone with a dry crunch. Its helmeted head drops like a stone to the floor, closely followed by the rest of its armored body. The ghostly blue eyes finally, blessedly wink out of existence.
The trio stare at the draugr-lord's decapitated corpse for an indeterminate amount of time, silent save for their labored breathing. Shield girl is still lying on the ground, unconscious and wounded with blood pooling across her chest and around her shoulder. Mull would assume her to be dead if it weren't for the lethargic rise and fall of her chest.
When he's sure the draugr-lord is truly defeated, only then does he allow himself to fall onto his back with a strained groan, his sword slipping from his grasp to clatter against the ground next to him. A single thought reverberates through the fog of his mental exhaustion. That was terrifying. I shouldn't be alive – gods above, I got so lucky. I'm never, ever doing this again.
He lies bonelessly for a while, indulging his body as it begs him for rest, until the pain of his wounds eventually overtakes the fatigue. He reluctantly rouses himself just enough to clumsily shrug his rucksack out from beneath his torso, reaches inside, and withdraws two of his three remaining healing potions. By some miracle they survived the battle intact.
With a muttered curse, he pours them onto the wounds he received on his arm and hip. Now that he looks at them, the area around each injury has been partially frostbitten by the enchantment on the greataxe. The sensation of his skin knitting itself back together is deeply unpleasant on its own, but that of his necrotized flesh being regenerated inside-out is even worse.
Despite his intense discomfort, he endures the self-treatment without complaint. These aren't unfamiliar sensations. He learned through laborious trial and error that it's always wise to have a few spare potions on hand, no matter how expensive or difficult to acquire they might be. He obtained these from one of Farengar's business contacts just prior to his departure from Whiterun, though he'd hoped there wouldn't be any use for them. Now that there is, he's glad to have had the foresight to bring them along.
Ignoring his own injuries for the moment, Torgen heads off to confirm the fates of his two male comrades. Archer girl is busy frantically tending to shield girl, whose wound is already badly blackened from the frost-axe's magic. She seems to have enough potions and sufficient expertise to handle it on her own, so Mull leaves her be.
A few minutes later, Torgen returns with grim news. "Both of 'em are dead, even Bjorn. His head was split open by a rock."
A sharp sound of grief escapes from archer girl. She dashes her sleeve against her eyes and resolutely continues tending to the still-unconscious shield girl.
Torgen finishes draping a cloak over Harknir's mangled corpse and stares at archer girl for a long moment. He opens and closes his mouth several times, as if unsure what to say to her. Finally, he releases a heavy breath and stumbles over to Mull, collapsing heavily next to him without fanfare.
Following a period of intense internal deliberation, Mull holds out his final healing potion to the older bandit. He insists to himself that there's a difference between sharing resources for mutual gain and indulging in generosity fueled by pity. Regardless of his intentions, the potion is wordlessly accepted.
After they've spent a little too long stewing in a stillness broken only by the occasional muffled sob from archer girl, Mull eventually speaks. "Now you owe me twice over," he says to Torgen. "For the potion and for not telling me about the draugr from the beginning."
Torgen's lips quirk, the only sign of amusement in his haggard expression. "I saved your miserable life, you pathetic snowback. That's gotta count for one of them at least. And if it weren't for her fine shooting…" He jabs a thumb at archer girl. "…then you'd be a dead man. That's two. The way I see it, nobody owes anyone anything, least of all me. Don't push your luck."
Unwilling to press his assertion, he nods and turns away. "Aye, you're right. We're even then." He hates to admit it, but the man's words are inarguably the truth. He'd be a disfigured corpse if it weren't for them. He also wouldn't have gotten into this situation in the first place if he'd known were draugr down here, but it is what it is.
Leaving the bandit to make use of the healing potion however he sees fit, he painfully struggles to his feet and takes a look around for anything that might resemble Farengar's Dragonstone. He didn't see it during their initial investigation, but perhaps he missed something. If it isn't here after all that… he's really going to be pissed.
Luckily, the tablet is remarkably easy to find. Although anything would seem easy after that fight. Following a brief examination, he discovers the Dragonstone laying inside the draugr-lord's sarcophagus, as if the damnable corpse had been guarding his objective even in undeath.
The tablet is a rectangular block of dark-tinted granite with rounded corners, engraved with faded letters and images that are difficult to interpret in the watery light. It's also rather large, so he figures he'll need to strap it to his back in order to transport it. Wounded and weary as he is, he doesn't look forward to that at all.
As he stoops to remove the tablet from the sarcophagus, he notices an inscription of some kind chiseled into the side facing upwards. He tilts the tablet onto its side to better view the engraving in the dimness of their subterranean environment. To his consternation, the arrangement of the letters is nearly identical to Farengar's dragon-runes, and in the same manner, he's able to decipher them without conscious thought or effort.
HET NOK UN MAHLaaN DROGGE ERei SULeyK SE ALDUIN VOKRii.
'Here rest our fallen lords until the power of Alduin revives.'
Upon reading the line of runes, he's accosted by an alien sensation in the depths of his skull. The disembodied voices from just before the battle – he'd forgotten about them during the chaos of his dance with death – now make their unheralded return, murmuring to him in a language he doesn't recognize and yet which is also intimately familiar, or seems as if it should be.
'Dovahkiin. Dovahkiin.'
He follows the voices as they direct him through intent more than words to turn around and approach the freestanding wall sequestered at the rear of the terrace, the existence of which he'd completely neglected until now. It hadn't seemed important to him before, but now he's drawn to it for reasons he doesn't know himself.
The wall is a towering affair, angular and asymmetrical as if fashioned from an extant natural formation, curved in a shallow arc to follow the edges of the platform. The base of the wall is festooned with cubbies and small indentions that he assumes might've once been used to house candles or offerings. The material used in the wall's construction is as black as the darkest night imaginable. The coloration closely reminds Mull of the draugr-lord's armor. In the center of the wall and about three-quarters of the way to the top, a blocky carving that resembles a bearded face gazes out over the cavern, the visage of a king presiding over his subterranean domain.
As for the rest of the wall, every spare inch is covered in runes and engravings of various kinds, from blocks of text to images of animals and obscure figures, just like those in the Hall of Stories. They're so tightly packed and convoluted that he doesn't think he could decipher them even if given hours to do so.
Yet still he stumbles closer, dragged inexorably forward by the uncountable voices, heedless when Torgen calls out to him. He examines the wall in greater detail, lightly brushing his gloved fingers across the surface and finding it both incredibly smooth and unusually warm to the touch, like the flesh of a living thing. Among the countless inscriptions and illustrations, his eyes are inescapably drawn to a particular grouping of symbols arranged in long rows which – unsurprisingly at this point – appear to be more dragon-runes.
Logic dictates he shouldn't be able to read these carvings, but just as before, he somehow simplyknows what they say. It's like the words are reciting themselves inside his head, a guttural tongue he couldn't hope to master in a thousand years but which now seems as easy to understand as unconsciously drawing breath.
HET NOK FaaL VahLOK DeiNMaaR DO DOVahGOLZ ahRK aaN FUS DO UNSLaaD RahGOL ahRK VULOM.
'Here lies the Guardian, keeper of the Dragonstone, and a Force of eternal Rage and Darkness.'
The jagged runes begin to glow with the same ethereal blue that he saw in the draugr-lord's pitiless gaze, and he finds himself completely entranced by their pulsating light. They burn brightly with a life of their own, possessing a foundation far deeper than what could be defined through mere verbal expression, indicative of some enigmatic secret lying just beneath the surface. Many things are revealed to him, though he knows not their significance in the present. He lacks the ability to comprehend the words, but… the words comprehend him, somehow.
'Vahlok… Fus… Rahgol… Vulom…'
…
…
'Al-du-in.'
The world spins around and around, a swirl of innumerable colors and flowing water, rushing ever onwards…
