Chapter 8
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Emmon and two friends had tracked the Forsworn to an old, crumbling fort unimaginatively called "Broken Tower" by the locals and which sat on a road that had once been a major trade route. He and his friends were ready to go there with them and fight, but Tariq only accepted the guidance part. They were miners with basic animal hunting skills, not experienced combatants.
Nevertheless, Emmon had already done the preliminary area scouting. The fortress was built against the slope of a plateau. The plateau above them was also dangerous Forsworn territory with many small camps and other old, abandoned forts the Forsworn had taken over. He and his friends had done this by dressing as Forsworn while keeping their distance from the camps.
Rather than a trying to go by the front entrance, he and his friends had been planning to drop from the top of the plateau, and enter the fort from the top. They had likewise planned to use the same route to escape. The only thing that had been delaying Emmon and his friends from this plan was that they knew they didn't have the combat skills to handle Forsworn once they were discovered inside the fort. They had been waiting for Ainethach to bring back experienced sellswords.
A change of plans, though. Tariq in his Dwemer armor would not be able to cross the high land unnoticed, much less climbing like that, so he and Argis would have to go in through the front door. If they were lucky, there wouldn't be more inside the fort that Emmon and his friends had seen. No one knew where the child was being held and Tariq though it better to just start at ground level and work their way up. Hopefully, that fort didn't come with underground dungeon levels. A rooftop escape would be a last resort.
"You're really going through the front door," Ainethach repeated flatly, "in full armor. Both of you. Could you be any more Nord than that?" he muttered.
"Yokudan," Tariq reminded him.
"Nord," Argis admitted cheerfully.
Ainethach sighed and scratched the back of his neck. "Fine, fine. Emmon and Braylin will be at the top of the cliff by now to help man the pulleys if you do need a rooftop escape. I'll hide out here and keep your horses safe. Yes," he said before Tariq could remind him, "I remember, never touch Cairo. If I need get the horses away, just take Nimat's lead and Cairo will follow Nimat.
"Now, don't leave yet. I need to set a charm and I'll need your help. Just wait there, please."
The Reachman broke a skinny branch off a nearby juniper tree and took a knife to the broken end and whittled it to a point. He appeared to be chanting something. He then started to inscribe a wide circle around the camp. Once that was done, he broke off twigs from the branch. One he tucked behind on ear, then he began tucking twigs into the harness of his horse and Nimat's. "I'll let you put this on Cairo."
"What's this charm?" asked Tariq as he tucked the twig in Cairo's braided mane.
"Oh, an old trick in the Reach. It's not an invisibility spell, more a misdirection. As long as we're in the circle and we stay near the tree I took the twigs from, we're just not worth noticing. It doesn't guarantee non-detection; if someone's actively looking for us, we'll be seen. But anyone just passing by will be encouraged to overlook us. They'll just vaguely remembering seeing the tree."
"Damn, that explains a lot," muttered Argis, rubbing the patch over his missing eye.
Tariq and Argis began marching up the road towards Broken Tower. Tariq glanced back to Ainethach and the horses. This was full daylight. He saw only rocks and juniper trees. He looked forward. "You know there's a man and horses there," he sternly told himself then glanced back again. Now he saw Ainethach leaning against the tree, reading a book, and the three horses eating grass in the tree's shadow.
As soon as the outside sentry saw them, he began bellowing a warning and was answered by warcries from the sentries patrolling the upper levels of the fort. Arrows began raining down.
The sentry ducked into the fort to rouse the forces within.
All right. Maybe a midnight drop from the cliffs would have been quieter, but what were the chances that they'd put their captive in one of the two easily accessible towers?
They made good progress. Argis was a solid, strong fighter. He knew his pace and would not be baited no many how many run-and-slash attacks the enemy made. He had to have been a hell of a fighter before losing that eye. He made predictable compensations for the loss of depth perception and an entire field of vision, a lot of extra head and shield movements and slightly off strikes. Yet there was no hesitation, no loss of confidence.
The fort's layout appeared to be in their favor in that there were no stairs to a lower level. So, the only path was upward then as they cleared the floor. By the numbers they encountered so far, this did not appear to be a major station for the Forsworn. However, the number of Forsworn they encountered was lesser than the beds and sleeping pads they saw in the resting areas, which meant most of their numbers were out and about, and no telling when they'd return.
They made sure to stay within shouting range of each other. The Forsworn were fast, but their lighter bone and teeth weapons mostly shattered against heavy armor. But numbers were on their side.
The worst were the Forsworn shamans. Argis took the lead with the frost attacks, Nord advantage and all that. Tariq's Dwemer armor and shield were better suited for the flame and lightning attacks.
What Tariq found difficult about this battle was not the skill or ferocity of these Forsworn, but their age. From 12 to 16. He was forced to repeat in his mind Ainethach's caution that whatever child came out of the Forsworn redoubts had been trained to kill and were blindly obedient to their elders. The shamans were adults, the commanders for these child soldiers. By unspoken agreement, the two warriors tried to knock out the youths when they could, but more than half didn't give them that chance.
Little savages. Not big enough or skilled enough for patrols, outside guards, or raids. They were here to do cooking, to repair armor and weapons, keep the place clean for the adults.
They made it to the rooftop, emerging out of one tower. Go figure. The cell they must be keeping the Nord girl, Fjotra, was in an exposed tower.
He looked up, scanning the cliff top.
"We need to make this fast," said Argis, slapping Tariq's shoulder to get his attention, then pointing west. "Reinforcements." Indeed. Tariq counted fifteen adult warriors jogging to the fort, and more further back.
Argis looked up to the cliff top. "Ho!" he bellowed. Three heads appeared, one waved. Argis held up his hands, palms up. "Wait."
He looked at the final tower then at Tariq. "I'm ready."
"Then let's go," said Tariq.
Tariq chose to ease the door open. A shrine room with a golden idol he recently came to recognize as Mer/Imperial cult goddess Dibella. She had the highest temple in Markarth. Flowers and wine for the goddess of fertility. Newly stripped bones were in her offering bowl and the wine splashing her figure and her alter was blood. A child's soft, frightened cries came from behind the bars of an unlit cell against the back wall.
Calcelmo's lecture echoed in his ears. "The Hagravens practice a peculiar, old magic. On the face of it, they seem to worship a mix of Daedra and Aedra, but it's a mask. Their own gods have other names and what exactly they are has no official record … They say 'Hircine,' but they call an older, a darker spirit of the hunt. They say, 'Dibella,' but really name their own fertility spirit who only superficially seems related to the goddess. You will see this in old shrines they have taken over. The statue may be there, but the things they put on the altar are things not normally associated. Magic of blood and bones, the oldest, very visceral form of ancestral magic."
If the goddess was wearing little Fjotra's blood, then she had very little left. The fresh bones, at least, were far too large to be hers.
He pushed the door open a little further. It squeaked. The briarheart spun around, mage staff leveled to release a massive fireball.
"I'll take him. Go for the girl!" Tariq snapped.
"Rune trap on the floor directly in front of you!" Argis snapped before he bolted to sidle along the wall, always facing the briarheart, shield between them.
Tariq glanced down. He didn't recognize the form but it was red so he figured it was a flame burst or some sort.
The briarheart saw his hesitation and, obviously thinking Tariq wouldn't cross the rune, turned his staff to Argis.
Tariq lunged forward over the trap. It was fire, and it exploded with a force that lifted him off the ground. His forward momentum, with the assist of the explosion, flew him to his target. The briarheart screamed as a mass of hot Dwemer armor landed on top of him, crushing him against the altar, breaking his back against the edge. Tariq sliced his neck open just to make sure.
He grimaced with distaste. One of his hands had landed in the sacrificial bowl and the smell of sizzling blood filled the area. He shook his hand, bewildered at why there were scraps of cloth in the bowl. He scraped the drying rags off his gauntlet as he walked over to join Argis who was using his secondary weapon, an axe, to break the lock on the cage.
The naked girl whimpered and tried to curl into a protective ball.
"I saw the bedroom on the side. Try and grab something," he ordered Argis.
That explained the blood-soaked rags. She'd been here a week. The Forsworn hadn't wasted any time practicing their "fertility" rites.
He dropped to one knee beside her while digging into one of his belt pouches for a small potion of healing.
"Peace, Fjotra, peace," he said as soothingly as he could as he slipped a hand under her head and firmly forced her onto her back. She weakly resisted, whimpering in fear. Her hair was golden and her skin fair. Her bone structure, even young as she was, was distinctly different than the locals. She'd be taller, probably a lean build. "Ainethach hired us to rescue you. You're safe, you're safe. Here, this is a healing potion. Open your mouth, child, drink. That's it. No … A little bit more." But she moaned in pain, hands fluttering over her stomach. He was trying to coax her to take another sip when Argis returned with an over-sized fur-lined cloak.
"Sorry, child, but we have to move quickly." While Tariq tightly wrapped her in the sheet Argis ran outside to signal for climbing ropes to be dropped. As he exited the tower he saw Emmon rapidly descending the cliffside. Tariq had seen nothing like it. The man just jumped away from the cliffside and dropped. Above, they let the rope play out in 10 to 12-foot lengths.
Emmon landed on the fort. He let drop two harnesses and lines he'd been holding in one hand and gestured to them with the other. As Tariq got near, Emmon came and caressed Fjotra's face. His lips stretched tight in a toothy snarl of rage as he smelled blood and sex, but he didn't waste time with questions. He could see by the way she failed to respond that her condition was serious.
"Move your legs so I can get this harness on you," he ordered Tariq then crouched down, holding the harness for Tariq to step into. He swore as he tugged the leather belt tightly around the heavy armor so that he could re-hook the line. "At least one hand on the rope at all times to steady yourself and to support your best, especially since you're carrying her. They'll pull at a steady, but fast rate. Keep you feet under you. Walk the cliff. Don't jump like you saw me do as I was coming down, that puts strain on the rope, especially since you're damn heavier with your armor. You could snap the rope or break the pulleys." Tariq nodded. He could see the ropes for himself and for Argis were twice the thickness of the one Emmon used.
Argis argued with Emmon as Emmon was trying to get him to set into the harness. "No, you go up next," Argis was saying. "They're already in the fort. They'll be coming up here any moment now. You climb. Once you're up there, you can help pull us up faster. I'm suited to hold off the Forsworn, man. What could you do with your little knife and that little bird bow? You'll be dead the moment they come through the door."
Emmon sensibly gave in and was able to ascend the cliff at twice Tariq's speed. Tariq was halfway up when the Forsworn did come to the rooftop. Argis was outnumbered, but since he wasn't actively trying to kill anyone, just fend them off, he was able to hold his ground.
Emmon got to the top. He dropped his light bow and unwrapped from around his waist a shepherd's blow, a sling, and began pelting the Forsworn below with rocks.
Tariq finally got to the top. The two men pulling him unwound their slings and joined Emmon at flinging rocks.
A moment came and Argis was able to sling his shield on his back and stepped into his harness. One of Emmon's friends, the best slinger of the three, kept on throwing rocks. Tariq helped to haul Argis up. Argis lost his footing a couple times and Tariq could feel when the rope snapped hard against the pulley wheels, heard the wheels grinding against their bars.
Forsworn arrows bounced off of Argis's steel shield. It could've gone much worse but for the slingstones hitting them, and at least twice at deadly accuracy.
"You can't travel overland from here," said Emmon, "not with your armor. And my daughter obviously needs immediate care. She needs to get to Markarth. You'll have to get out of the area by the river," he said, pointing down.
They hauled the ropes to another set of pulleys and while the ropes were being threaded in this new set, Emmon began pointing to places below.
"We have a boat waiting under the bridge. We can lower you to the river banks. It's a longer ways down and our rope can only get you partway. We'll land you on there on that slope. It's steep, but you should be able to slide down to the river. Brenner will handle the boat. The best landing he'll get you to is actually just downhill from home. Ainethach will meet you there. Tell him you have to take Fjotra to the Temple of Dibella in Markarth. Fjotra's injuries are too serious for Jonas. He's good with broken bones and other mining injuries, but not this."
"You've got this all planned," said Tariq.
"It was our original plan. Ainethach had us ready to carry it out in case you didn't make it. We thought we might be able to search while the Forsworn were killing you."
Brutally honest, and so was Tariq.
"A fair plan, but you wouldn't have made it past the briarheart," he told Emmon.
The ropes were put on a new set of pulleys. "You saw how I descended? Walk if you can. Small jumps only to get over obstacles. I'll be watching, and I'll waive my hand when you should jump. Small jumps, just enough to get clear of the obstruction like projecting rocks or some of the small scrubs."
Events went as planned. They scrambled down the steep slope after getting off the ropes. The boatman picked them up and ferried them past the steep cliffs to gentle bank just down a ways from the road to Markarth. Ainethach was there with the horses.
His men had signaled the secondary plan was in action by using a polished silver plate to reflect flashes of sunlight to him. Tariq got the directions to the Temple of Dibella from him. Ainethach warned him that the Sybil of the temple had recently died and the Sisters were in mourning and the Temple closed, but they were the best healers in the city, especially for these types of trauma. He would follow them to the city in a couple days after he was certain the Forsworn would not attempt an immediate reprisal.
Tariq ordered Argis to stay at Karthwasten and work with them on their defense even after Ainethach left for Markarth.
Horses weren't allowed inside Markarth so he borrowed the enchanted rings of speed and endurance from Cairo's mane for his run through the city and up the many flights of stairs to get to the Temple of Dibella.
He hated that about Markarth — too many steep stairs fit only for mountain goats. Easy to imagine the floors of the temple covered by the bodies of exhausted worshipers gazing upward at the bountiful curves of their goddess's golden, semi-nude body. And that was even before the worship service started.
"The Temple is closed at this time. Leave," ordered the priestess who stood guard at the doors leading deeper into the temple.
"A thousand pardons, O Light of Dibella. I bring this girl. She was badly used by the Forsworn and is dying from her injuries. You must help her." Tariq brought her close, crowding the priestess against the door she guarded, but then he stepped back and knelt. "She is Fjotra, a child of Karthwasten. I realize your temple is in mourning for the death of one of your members, but —"
"Wait here. Do not follow or it is death for both of you," the priestess said curtly. She unlocked the doors and slipped inside.
Tariq carried the child to the pool in the center of the chamber and sat on its rim. The water looked and smelled clean. He dipped a scrap of cloth into the pool and gently wiped the child's face. He saw a tray nearby with a jug and some chalices. He set her down and fetched a cup, dipped it into the pool, sampled the water just to make sure, and tried to get her to drink some. He frowned, worried. It had been a rough journey — climbing, boat, galloping horse — the furred cloak under her bottom was damp with blood. This wasn't good. Her pupils were too large, her skin had gone cold and colorless, her breath too fast and so was her pulse.
The priestess returned with two others. The two newcomers did not acknowledge him as they scooped Fjotra up and carried her away. The doorkeeper told him, "Leave. You may return tomorrow noon for news." She did not look willing to say more so Tariq bowed deeply, sweeping his arms wide, and left. Cairo needed tending to and then he would try to see Faleen to report the event and get her opinion on Karthwasten's options for safety.
…
"It's good to hear the Forsworn did not return for revenge," said Tariq.
"Aye," said Ainethach, walking beside him. Walking behind them were Emmon and Mena, his wife. "We've kept Argis hidden so that if there were any scouts looking us over for you two, they wouldn't see him. We put on a funeral service and buried what looked to be a child's wrapped body."
"And came here." Tariq glanced back at the parents. Mena wore a crown of dead flowers and ashes smeared her cheeks. Emmon was likewise adorned. Parents in mourning. A continued show for any Forsworn spies within the city.
"An offering to Dibella for the child's soul." Ainethach looked upward at the temple and sighed. "I hope they were able to save her." He glanced at Tariq. "You tried visiting them yesterday?"
"Aye, and was told to go away. They had no news for me, which I took to mean that they weren't announcing her death yet."
Today, it was apparently good news by the way the priestess at the door greeted them with a wide smile. "Wait here. Mother Hamal will speak to you."
"She was smiling; is it good news?" murmured Emmon hopefully.
"It has to be," said Mera. "They would not be so cruel to be so cheerful if she had died. Our daughter is going to live!"
"I'm sure it must be so," said Ainethach, but he was frowning. "But why is the Mother bothering to speak with us? Fjotra is only a commoner, and the Mother has more important concerns since the Sybil has died."
Mother Hamal entered with most of the priestesses following her. They were all beaming.
If this was about Fjotra, his part was done. Tariq stepped back and apart.
"Greetings and blessings, Mother, sisters," intoned Ainethach, bowing. "We've come to inquire after Fjotra. These are Fjotra's parents, Emmon and Mera, and I am Ainethach, the primary landholder of Karthwasten village."
"Blessings on you all," replied Mother Hamal. "Blessings of the Goddess upon you and yours for she has chosen your child as her new vessel. Fjotra is to be the living incarnation of our beloved goddess!"
Tariq sidled a bit further away. He was happy for the child, he supposed, if it meant the little girl would be fully healed from the mental horror and the trauma to her body. He glanced at Fjotra's parents, clearly torn between pride and the sorrow; pride, for she was worthy to be the vessel of the Queen of Heaven. And sorrow, for they'd still lost their child; Fjotra would not be returning to them because she had a new family and destiny.
He studied one of the giant, blatantly sensual goddess of the Mer and Imperial Cult, comparing her to Tall Papa's favorite of his wives, lusty Morwha, with her four arms sneaking a grab at any male that catches her roving eyes. Tall Papa was sanguine about that; there weren't that many gods on their level for her to choose from, and variety was the spice of life.
So, Dibella was a "queen" with no king or consort in sight. Nothing wrong with that as compared to the goddess Mara, more associated with fidelity love, and who was traded between pantheons; the Mer held her as the wife of Auriel, while Man reduced her to Shor's concubine and put her second to Kyne "Shor's wife."
That told him a lot about Nord mindset. War over love, and reducing the chief wife of a Mer god to a war prize concubine. "All's fair in love and war." Hah.
One of the priestesses intruded upon his musings. She touched his arm and directed his attention back to Mother Hamal. He was startled to see everyone staring at him.
"As I was saying," said Mother Hamal, "it is only right that your valor in this should be recognized.
He hadn't asked to be paid for his work, but he was intrigued to see what the priestesses would consider a reward, so he wordlessly bowed, inviting her words.
"A paltry sum of gold," another priestess came forward with a sack of coins as big as her head, "and we grant you the title of Champion of Dibella and the opportunity to drink from her fountain and receive her blessing." And yet another priestess came forward with a golden chalice, scooped it full from the central pool, and offered it to him after Mother Hamal said a blessing over it.
Well, the water was sweet and pure, as he had sampled earlier, so he didn't hesitate to take the cup and drain it.
Something was different. As the water filled his belly and coursed through his guts, there spread a warmth and tingling like the best wine; the world was brighter, the sounds louder and sharper. It was Passion. His gaze was drawn to the flower Dibella held, and he understood now how the delicate, temporal thing could find the tiniest spaces, the smallest cracks, and take root to make a its place in the seemingly impenetrable material of time and space.
He was minded of that god-awful poem that mercenary/bard Yngvar, Faleen's friend, had sold to Calcelmo, who had been desperately looking for more poetry to woo her with. Calcelmo had shown it to him, asking for his opinion since the elf had no idea if humans thought this was good poetry. Tariq had given it a pass, reasoning that Yngvar would probably have a better idea of Faleen's nature. The poem compared a woman to hard rocks and his love to water that seeped into the cracks. Ugh. It had been a hit with Faleen. Double-ugh.
So, this was the blessing of Dibella, that extra edge of perception of the opposite element. In his case, women.
Like that Amulet of Arkay, a nice token, but redundant.
He again bowed to Mother Hamal. "A great honor and blessing bestowed upon this unworthy head. But, perhaps, I accepted too readily. I am, first and foremost, dedicated to my calling, which is to become a Sword-Singer of the highest rank, and so I cannot be expected to be at the beck and call of the Holy Goddess. A thousand upon thousand apologies. Yes, what may I do to honor this gift?"
"The Blessing was not offered without due consideration of your nature, Champion. You follow the sword, so be it. Consider the Blessing the water or oil for the sharpening stones. Honor only the duty to realize that creation is also two-edged, and accept that as you master your destiny, you shape yourself. We have seen the road you are heading on and wish only to give you yet another useful tool for your travel kit."
He bowed again, accepting their riddle. All he thought important to understand was that he would get to keep the gift so long as he kept doing what he was doing.
Yet … She had invoked the constant riddle in the Book of Circles, that as one learned to master a sword, that sword also shapes the swordsman.
Recognizing that riddle also made him pause and consider Dibella's Gift. On the surface, in the shallow, it was a tool against the opposite sex. After all, was it not a near-universal joke that the sexes were forever at war? Again, Yngvar's poem again came to mind. The imagery was crude and to the point. Water and rocks. Water seeping into the rocks, crumbling the stone facade from within, forcing the rock to expand to demands.
Expand, perhaps, one's understanding of opposition, not just sex, but to other aspects. A piece of art could be good in of itself, but may not its beauty add to its placement, and equally, may not its environment give extra meaning to the piece's presence? Dibella was also a patron of art and poetry, and she required passion in creation.
Book of Circles: "The sword carves itself upon its master."
"You are learning to appreciate Art," said Mother Hamal suddenly. She smiled, a softening of her stern features, and he also suddenly found appreciation in beauty that had been weathered by time and life. "You have the Gift, Champion, continue its practice." Her smiled widened. "In fact, we would be delighted to share some techniques."
A trio of lovely sisters stepped forward to take his arms and escort him to the inner sanctum.
"Um, just me?" he asked them.
"Oh, no. I'm sure Ainethach will join us after he and Mother are finished with formalities," said one.
"Miners and stoneworkers, mm, such nice, chiseled bodies, and he knows how to appreciate a proper dressing," purred another.
"Don't you mean how well he digs deep?"
Tariq rolled his eyes. "Ladies, I do pride myself on my skill with a sword, an instrument that requires more deft and precision than merely swinging a pickaxe," he pointed out. A thought occurred. "Fjotra's parents …"
"Don't think we'll neglect our Sybil's parents. We can see they're hurting. They'll be taken to visit their daughter and be welcome to stay with us until her investiture. Any questions they have will then be answered by our Goddess herself."
"Good, good."
"Yes. Now, relax, Champion, we require your fullest attention."
…
More Forsworn, another briarheart, and a haul of gold as gratitude from the mine foreman of Kolskeggr mine. While Tariq didn't like doing favors for the Silver-Bloods, who legally owned the mine, he couldn't turn down a plea for help from these miners. The Silver-Blood's strutting mercenaries had fled the job and Silver-Blood was punishing the workers contracted to do the mining for failing to meet production deadlines.
With the gold from Kolskeggr and the silver from Karthwasten, he decided to purchase Vlindrel Hall even though he had no intention of settling in there at any time in the near future. He would give Faleen the key to hold onto and made an agreement with her that if he had things to store, he would send them to her and she would see them locked up in his home. And if she wanted to use the place for anything, she had his permission.
As for the "Thane" title that came with it, the understanding was as Faleen had said; it was an honorary title only, and he was not required to stay in Markarth or given any duties other than to support the Jarl when summoned for battle.
What Hold next to explore? The wide Reach was bordered on the east by Haafingar, Hjaalmarch, Whiterun, and Falkreath. Haafingar was too cold for his taste, he had no interest in swampy Morthal, the planes of Whiterun was promising, but the warmer, wetter climate of Falkreath and its dense forests looked to be a more interesting place to hunt. Its city of Helgen was also the primary entry point through the Jerall Mountains. As he understood it, there was another further east through the Hold of Riften, but for trade purposes between western Skyrim and the Empire, Helgen was the preferred route. The Riften trade route had been developed more for the benefit of the old Ebonhart Pact during the Banner Wars when the Old Kingdom of Skyrim, Morrowind, and Black Marsh were briefly allied.
Besides, he was interested to see what was left of the Falkreath. In the Third Era, it was once part the Colovia Estates, separatist kingdoms of Colovia. Falkreath then came under the rule of King Cuhlecain. King Cuhlecain's prize general was a young Hjalti Early-Beard, a lad from the island of Alcaire in the Ilia Bay of High Rock. Young Hjalti was a tactical genius and possessed an ancient power the Nords called the Thu'um, the Shout, that blew away the mighty gates of Ahrol-Dan or H'rolden, breaking the great games of a mighty city of Reachmen that had held its ground since the First Era.
And the Graybeards called his name.
Or so the legend goes. If nothing else, he was promised excellent hunting would be had there. He looked forward to it.
And on the way, they'd stop at the Old Hrolden Inn, the last, sad token to a once great city.
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