Chapter 25

Windswept plains of central Whiterun. The days were shorter, and the nights frosted the tall grasses. Prey animals gathered in larger groups to keep warm and gorge on the grasses. Predators likewise gathered in larger groups to fatten on prey. At the moment, there were only light flurries of snow, but predictions were for a regular winter.

Balgruuf had told him that the great warhorses galloping over the Jeralls and down to Cyrodill's hot plain had been warm-blood hybrids — large, long-legged hot-blood desert mares to the strongest cold-blood sires. He'd seen the gelding that was Balgruuf's favorite ride. It was hands taller than its Atmoran sire, yet still a hand shorter than its desert-bred dam. Strong, intelligent, tough.

It inspired him to buy a third horse. Her original name had been Elf because she wasn't to be trusted to stay in her stall or respect her riders, and she bullied the other horses. He renamed her Malakat Althalj or Malika since she was such a demanding lady.

Malika was one of the cold-blooded, short, and stocky Skyrim horses. She was a thick-coated, red dun-colored, with dark stripes on its legs, and her two-toned mane wasn't long, elegantly flowing locks but stiff, upright bristles of white with black tips. And such thick, double coats these ice-bred horses had. The brushes he used for Cairo and Nimat were useless to her. Looks like her majesty, the queen of snow, required her own personal combs and brushes. She was an expensive mare from one of Balgruuf's prized breeding mares of the ancient bloodline from Atmora. Riding on her compared to Cairo felt like riding a pony. But she plowed through snow and danced along icy mountain ridges with strength and endurance Cairo couldn't match.

He was tracking escaped criminals in The Pale. It was late fall in Whiterun, but up here the snow was high, and any open water was iced. A precursor of what Whiterun would be in another month, except Whiterun locals promised strong winds across the open plain. He hated it. Why had he accepted this hellish job when Vilkas had warned him The Pale was already engulfed in snow? Maybe it was the snide remarks he'd overheard about desert rats needing to scurry to hole up in their warm dens.

Malika was unfazed as she rooted through the snow to the grasses and moss beneath. She'd fattened on good grains and grasses of summer, so the thin winter leftovers didn't bother her. He was definitely going to The Reach after this job.

Malika's head came up, and she turned to face the entrance of the shallow cave they were sheltered in. Tariq laid his hand on his sword lying beside the fire and listened. The wind and the rustling of tree branches masked everything. Malika moved her legs, loosening up, readying herself to kick something. He wondered if there were wolves.

She screamed as an arrow scored her shoulder, tracing a bloody line. Tariq lunged for his shield, which was propped against a wall. His armor protected him; his shield was to protect Malika. He got it up in time to block two arrows. "Settle down, m'lady. This is not the time to kick my ass."

Malika's whinny was tinged with pain. He glanced at the arrows that had bounced off his shield. Not wood or any metal, like splinters of large bones, the sheen of carapace, and the off-white tips were poison-stained. Falmer!

It was good that he still wore his Dwemer armor.

Well, cowering behind his shield and waiting for an arrow storm was as stupid as charging out into the darkness of a raging snowstorm. He wasn't one to sit still.

He struck out at shadows. For all the trees and bushes and rocks he hit, he knew he hit them. He could smell blood. Then they were gone.

He gathered the branches his sword had broken and went back to the little cave to build up the fire. Then he carefully tended Malika's wound. The poison had already inflamed the surrounding flesh and the blood and pus oozing out had a bad smell. He was forced to use all the herbs in his emergency kit to make a compress to draw out the poison.

If he read his map right, Dawnstar was the nearest major city. It should have a good apothecary shop and he

"You were damn lucky," said the female blacksmith, a pregnant Redguard whose Nord husband owned the shop. She was examining the arrows Tariq showed her. "No robber band uses these. These are Falmer arrows. Chaurus chitin and the fletchings are cavefish rib bones glued together with chaurus spit." He nodded, already knowing this. The chaurus molted their carapace as they grew, supplying the Falmer with abundant material for armor, weapons, and anything else. Calcelmo had thoroughly instructed him about the nature and abilities of the Falmer before taking him into the depths of Nchaund-Zel.

She staggered, and Tariq immediately took her in his arms to hold her up and steady her. "Seren, are you ill? Should I fetch a healer?"

"No, no. No more ill than anyone else in Dawnstar," she assured him. He helped her over to a bench. "Just tired and dizzy like everyone else from lack of sleep."

"I've heard in the inn about these bad dreams afflicting the townsfolk, but not travelers," he said. "This is an unnatural curse. Is your jarl doing anything about it?"

"Not that anyone's noticed," she said curtly. "The jarl is more concerned that the Empire will sail its warships into port and take over. He's more concerned with killing off the giants protected by Imperial decree. He has no time for silly dreams of a populace whining like frightened children, letting a few dreams distract them from the real threat of the Empire and the Dominion."

He nodded. Earlier this morning, he'd witnessed an unpleasant scene of a noble spitting anti-Empire venom against a stern-looking woman of military bearing. Behind her was a soldier in Legion heavy armor. From what he overheard, the woman and her attendant were retired legionnaires. The venomous noble was the jarl. He was accusing them of treason and threatening them with death, but since he wasn't acting on it, the woman had protection. Tariq didn't think it came from the Legion. She'd be dead long before anyone from Solitude could interfere, so she had political clout with the locals that reigned in the jarl. That was confirmed when he visited the apothecary, Frida, who was treating Malika.

Old Frida, who clearly had no fear of retaliation, bluntly told him, "Pfft. I'm the oldest woman in Dawnstar. Was here when the Skald the Elder was Skald the Younger. He's a fool, if you haven't met him already. Thinks Ulfric Stormcloak is invincible and spits dragon fire. The people here look to Brina Merilis when they need things settled.Real firebrand growing up. Wasn't surprised when she joined the Legion."

Who should show up but the old war mare and her shadow. She locked gazes with him, and he knew she wanted to talk.

"Good afternoon, Frida. How goes it?" said Brina.

"As well as can be expected, dear. The Khajiit brought me all the herbs I ordered. I'll be able to make those muscle liniments for you, Horik. Ah, let me introduce you two to Companion Tariq. Tariq, this is Brina Merilis and Horik Halfhand."

"Good afternoon, Companion. This is your horse? One of Whiterun's prize stock?" asked Brina.

"Greetings to you, my lady. Soldier. Yes, this is my Malika. Mistress Frida is treating her for chaurus poisoning."

Brina's head reared up, scenting prey. She studied the wound. "Falmer arrow. Too high, wrong angle, wrong shape for tail stingers or jaw rip. Which part of the border did you come through?"

"I chased a pair of criminals from the Whiterun border."

"Your criminals come this way, or did you come here for purely medical reasons?"

"Medical. I'm sure my criminals joined one of the groups occupying the forts southeast of here."

Brina nodded thoughtfully and said, "Fort Fellhammer or Fort Dunstad, then. The bandits in each are sizable groups. The Dunstad group often raids the northern Whiterun farms. At Fellhammer, they do local raiding of farms. Fellhammer also sits over a quality iron mine. They mine the ores and sell them over in Eastmarch. The consortium that owns Fellhammer complains of stolen profits, but hasn't done anything to take the fort back. Can't afford to. Dawnstar can't do anything about it because we lack the manpower and the money."

Old Frida sighed. Tariq nodded sympathetically. Seren's husband, Rustleif, had remarked that he'd hammered dozens of blades in the past half-year for the Stormcloak army, but it would be nice to get commissions for more elegant blades. He's apprenticed in Hammerfell, after all, where he'd met his wife. He'd further muttered in frustration how all the profits from that job went right back to the Stormcloaks in the form of the secondary and tertiary taxes the jarl levied. Taxes for the Empire, taxes for the Hold, and special taxes the jarl collected for "civic duties," meaning Stormcloak support. He knew his wife wanted to go back to Hammerfell, but they just couldn't afford the trip.

Tariq asked him how he came to apprentice in Hammerfell. Taneth was in the southern half of the country and quite a distance from Dawnstar. The Legion, Rustleif replied. His parents were part of the Colovial Legion. They'd been "invalided" out during the Great War.

The Invalids were those legionnaires medically discharged in Hammerfell. When the forces under General Decianus were ordered to withdraw from Hammerfell to await the all-out strike to retake the Imperial City, some commanders resented abandoning their Hammerfell allies. They enabled volunteers who wanted to stay by declaring them medical invalids who would be discharged and left in Hammerfell so they wouldn't burden withdrawing forces. Rustlief parents were among them. He was born in Taneth and grew up there. His parents discouraged him from joining the Legion or any military, and his father urged him to learn blacksmithing. While he was a blacksmith for the Legion, he apprenticed his son to a civilian. His father was from Dawnstar, and his parents owned this business. The idea was that when Rustleif finished his apprenticeship, he would go to Dawnstar and take over the family business. And so he did.

It was fortunate his master had no prejudices against training his daughter to work the forge. Seren wasn't interested in forging weapons, although she was competent if required. She preferred the more mundane tasks of pots, cutlery, kitchen knives, cooking tools, iron fixtures, hinges, nails, bolts, and miscellaneous tools — things for homes, wagons, and other things. And working in the forge area kept her warm. She had, at first, seemed happy with living in Skyrim. But as her pregnancy progressed, she fretted more about the civil war. And with all the pro-Nord rhetoric the jarl and his cronies spouted, she also worried their child would not learn to value the Redguard part of his or her heritage.

Again, Tariq sympathized. He had two books at Breezehome he would be happy to gift to the expectant mother. A gift to the children of the Invalids. "Out of curiosity, where are your parents now?" he asked Rustleif.

"They retired to a little town in Colovia near Rihad to care for mother's parents and their farm. They will return to Skyrim some day after her parents have passed on. Father really doesn't like the hot and damp climate."

Rustleif showed him how to use the skis and poles Tariq had borrowed from Seren. The skis were long, waxed wood beams curved at the front. They were faster than snowshoes but only in open areas.

And it was damn tiring. He could do sword drills all day, but a couple hours of cross-country skiing had him near fainting with exhaustion. He tried not to be envious of Rustleif, who had to tow him back to town. A short nap, a full hot meal, and then he was with Rustleif again, practicing fighting in snowshoes. Rustlief wasn't a warrior and certainly no swordsman, but he knew how to use a quarterstaff. And Tariq, trying to find his footing with snowshoes tied to his Dwemer boots, was finding it a trial to defend himself. A paper bag of candy hanging from a tree could put up a better defense right now.

His ears rang from how many times he'd been thwacked with that quarterstaff. But it wasn't enough to drown out the frightened people at the Windpeak Inn gathering around that dark elf priest who was trying to console them of their bad dreams.

This dark elf purported to be a priest of Divine Mara. Interesting. Dunmer always looked to be ill-tempered, and this one was no different. One eye was white from blindness, the other half closed with dispirited weariness, and his mouth had a tenseness like one on the edge of constant battle. Tariq beckoned to him, and he came over.

"How may I help you, my son?" The dark elf lacked the sound of Morrowind, so either he'd been born in Skyrim or he'd immigrated so long ago he'd lost the accent.

"It seems to me, dark father, you are the one in need of help," said Tariq. "Priest of Mara, how do you propose to cure Vaermina's poison?"

The elf looked at him, startled. "You know what is happening?"

"I'm not blind. An entire town plagued with unceasing nightmares; that can only be the work of Vaermina the Dreamweaver. 'Speech that drips, corrodes, and poisons — Vaermina's delight.' Sit. Tell me how you came here. Vaermina's followers do not advertise themselves until it is too late. Slow-acting poison, the better to draw out the torment."

The elf slowly lowered himself to the bench beside Tariq. Tariq didn't like how the elf avoided his gaze.

"If you're truly here to help these people, I will aid you. But do not lie to me, father," he said in a low, warning voice. "And you will swear upon the Divine you claim to worship that your passion is true."

At that, the elf looked at him. "I swear," he said softly. "But I cannot tell you here. I cannot risk being overheard and misunderstood. Outside, my son. Please."

… … … … … …

The Temple of the Dawn. Temple of the Mythic Dawn, to be more accurate. A cult of Vaermina had taken it over after the eradication of the Mythic Dawn Cult. And the Vaermina worshipers had released a poison weapon when they'd been invaded by an Orsimer war party that had come to retaliate against the nightmares plaguing their settlement.

Escaping that disaster was a lone Vaermina worshiper, a penitent priest who later switched gods from Vaermina to Mara. He called himself Erandur now. But it was Casimir back then.

How did he know? Because now, in this dream state induced by Vaermina's Torpor, a potion that enables the imbiber to travel in dreams. The Dreamstride. He was sprinting through the blocked-off sections of the temple in the memories of Brother Casimir. Brother Casimir had been charged by senior brothers Veren and Thorek to release the Miasma when it became clear the Orcs were winning the battle.

Tariq carefully noted the corridors and rooms and the number of combatants in each area. Priest Erandur had warned him that after so long a time, there was very little chance that anyone inside was still sane. They'd all fallen in battle; had battled for decades in Quagmire; would awaken, still locked, in a battle state. Their reason had been eaten long ago. There was only hate, anger, and destruction left.

Oh, and their souls. If they locked the outer doors, all those inside would eventually slaughter each other, damning what was left of their souls to Quagmire to rot. That would be the perfect power boost to the Staff of Corruption, and people in Dawnstar would start the final stages of catatonic sleep and die.

He awakened seconds after pulling the chain that released the Miasma. In front of him was the soulgem that someone had set up after Brother Casimir's resolve to serve Vaermina to death had broken, and he'd fled the fate he'd inflicted upon the others. This barrier was the reason they'd searched out the Torpor in the battle-wrecked laboratory. They needed its power to enable Tariq to use the reality-altering "Dreamstride" to cross the barrier. It was Tariq's task because Erandur claimed his allegiance to Divine Mara would render the Torpor useless. There was only enough for one usage, one chance.

He took the soulgem from its niche, deactivating the barrier.

"Follow behind. You can take out anyone I missed," he commanded. Erandur nodded, taking his ebony mace in one hand and gathering fire in his other.

Tariq called on the Yokudan gift of Warrior-blessed stamina that boosted his speed and strength, and he became running Death. The cultists and Orcs, groggy and sluggish upon awakening from their nightmare, could not adequately put up a defense against his blades. Slicing throats, one-thrust kills. Those he didn't immediately kill, he left maimed. The ones still unconscious he left untouched. Erandur, running yards behind, struggling to keep up, would finish the maimed ones. And, with his magic, he knew which were corpses and which were unconscious, then his mace ended that distinction.

The final room. He lowered his blades and waited for Erandur to catch up. He'd caught a glimpse of movement in the shadows and knew Thorek and Veren had revived and were ready for combat. He was sure they had choice words to say to their Brother Casimir.

As a panting Erandur stumbled in, Tariq called out with malicious cheer, "Brother Veren, Brother Thorek, you're alive! How nice to finally meet you."

Erandur's head came up in shock.

"Casimir, you traitor!"

Tariq stood back to watch this amusing reunion between a junior and his seniors. Oh, they weren't happy that their Casimir betrayed them by refusing to lay down and meekly let the miasma take him. Tariq couldn't understand how a cult that values murder, torture, and madness expected brotherly love, faithfulness, loyalty, and obedience amongst their members. What's more, Casimir's stuttering, placating attempt at justification betrayed his guilt and lingering pain at his weakness in the face of their devotion.

He wouldn't be surprised if this was how Casimir had gotten involved with Vaermina in the first place. Just another aimless, clueless life swept up by collectors looking to fatten their flock. Tariq suspected the elf's conversion to Mara was not because he felt any real draw to her. Likely, it was because he encountered someone stronger who happened to be devoted to Mara. So he followed, dedicating himself again to a god and faith he hoped would be the strength of his life.

They turned on him when he tried again to assert that he was no longer Casimir but someone else and one who followed another god.

At least he fought back when they tried to kill him. Tariq killed the nearest one and let Erandur kill off the other.

"Is this my punishment?" Erandur asked helplessly to the air.

"We're here to stop the Skull of Corruption," Tariq curtly reminded him. "End the nightmare!"

"Yes, of course. Stand back, please."

Tariq wandered back to the corridor. He could faintly hear the mer praying.

"He's deceiving you."

Tariq scowled at the intrusion of this female voice.

For the love of… Not even an attempt at using the illusion of his own voice to trick him into thinking it was self-doubt.

"And I should trust the Queen of Nightmares?"

"He's deceiving you."

"I do not think so. He hasn't the imagination or the will to deceive. His greatest sin, aside from the murder and tortures you require of your worshipers, is that he isn't one to think for himself."

Erandur needed a strong leader, a teacher and model.

Listening to the Daedra's shrieks of rage as her corrupting staff was flung back into the void was satisfying. He walked back with Erandur to the entry hall of the temple. Tariq looked at the makeshift altar Erandur had created.

"This is not a good place," he said. "Even less so as the bodies start to rot. Divine Mara teaches that love is to share, and to keep it closed off does no one good." He looked hard at the elf. "I know you want to do penance for your past crimes. If you stay locked up here, I'm sure it will count as punishment. It's cold, it's miserable, and it's filled with dead and bad memories — it's a little corner of Quagmire. Are you sure this is what you want? What Divine Mara wants? Does she really ask her followers to die in the hell of isolation?

"Of course, I can't say much on what Divine Mara's dictates are. When I think of the goddess of love and fertility, I think of Morwha, the favorite of Tall Papa's wives, a lusty wench with four arms to grab at life and pleasure. Ah, and yes, I was recently declared the champion of Dibella by the priestesses in Markarth. Poverty and chastity are states I am unaccustomed to and will fight to avoid." He grinned merrily, watching the mer's reaction.

"I know nothing about you and your past, so my opinions may seem to make light of your pain. Look you, I came to The Pale to find a pair of robbers to drag back to Whiterun to finish their sentences. Once I have them, I will come back here. If you can bring yourself to move on, you are welcome to come back with me. I have an injured servant that a chirurgeon and alchemist are working on. He is also seen by the priests of Kynareth's temple. But the priests are also busy taking care of war wounded. If you could help my servant, we can negotiate a fee. And an additional priest-healer would be welcome in Whiterun.

"War wounded soldiers, civilian victims of violence, trauma, and loss — there are nightmares aplenty. There is also a chapel for Mara. Two priestesses, one elderly, one apprentice. They are not physical healers; they offer comfort and counsel for the heart and spirit. It would be good if a man joined them. There are often some things men need to discuss that they can't with women. And some get violent because they can't handle the pain. The guards or Companions have had to come to their rescue. Love doesn't have to be perfect, but it does have to be tough to endure, even fight back.

"That's my thought." Tariq shrugged. "If you care to listen to my other thoughts, come with me to Dawnstar, and I'll introduce you to Brina Merilis. She's a retired legate who actually handles problems. She will likely know the best way to clear out this place and salvage items for resale or community distribution.

… … … … … …

He was watching Fort Fellhammer. Mining, yes, they had been part of the murderous crew hired during the bloody dispute of the Halted Stream mine some months ago. From what he had observed the past few days, there were seven crew and one boss. A sparse number for guarding and operating a mine. The Halted Stream criminals confessed that they'd been hired across the border in The Pale. This was where they'd been hired from. Jarl Skald hadn't been of any help to Whiterun's inquiries, saying if they wanted a bounty on the bandits, Whiterun could pay for it.

As Farkas had counseled when he'd first joined, one was only paid for the targets, not any extras.

But he was up against the typical problem — he had no real idea what his targets looked like, just general descriptions. They were Nords, one of medium build with black hair and brown eyes, and the other was skinny with blond hair, hazel eyes, and a scarred left cheek. So… that ruled out three bandits, an Orc, a Khajiit, and a Bosmer.

No choice but to kill them all and hope that Dawnstar had bounties on them or that the mine owners would pay him to get back their property. He should have thought about asking her the last time they'd met when he was pushing the Erandur problem on her, but it had slipped his consideration.

Ah, well, such is fate.

And he was freezing on this mountain slope overlooking the fort.

He would pose as a lost sellsword who wandered into the nearest fort looking for a night's hospitality. If they were smart, they'd go along with it, let him have a warm meal and a corner to sleep in, then send him on his way in the morning. If they were stupid, they'd plan to kill him to steal his equipment and horse.

They were idiots. He hadn't even gotten out a request for shelter when the first arrow bounced off his chest.

He slid off Malika, and she flounced off to an empty stable and the pile of hay she saw there. She whickered in irritation that the straw was soggy and filthy. The two nags there dispiritedly shuffled aside when she came to inspect the feeding trough. Smelling the rotted grains, she broke the trough with a kick and screamed her outrage.

After killing everyone in the bailey, Tariq came to check on Malika. He scowled at the state of the hay and feed. He poked through the nearby barrels. The grain in them had been poorly stored, but once he tossed aside the topmost layer, he found some decent handfuls that he spread on the curved remains of a broken barrel. He set a bucket full of clean snow near the smelter for water.

While that melted, he went up to upper level to what he knew was the boss room and likely where any valuables would be stored.

A criminally good haul. Some of the gold was from legitimate sales from ore contracts these robbers were fulfilling to Eastmarch. He found a note crediting Skald for his generous supply of iron to the Stormcloak cause. There were also pardons from Skald so long as the bandit raids only took place in Whiterun. Oh, these would be interesting to give to Irileth.

Oh, and here was some interesting information he found in a chest of Dwemer items. It looked like plans for an advanced form of bolt-throwing weapon. An independent version of the bolt-throwers some Dwemer monsters had instead of a blade arm. Eorlund Gray-Mane could probably make better sense of the drawings.

Once he'd finished the killing and locked up the bodies and treasures in the mine, he rode in haste back to Dawnstar and Brina. He watched her as she grimly reviewed the evidence.

"So…" she hissed, laying the papers down. "He was in on the robberies. Cheating the consortium of the profits because they would not mine exclusively to the Stormcloaks, yet still taxing them for the land and mine. Unfortunately, there are no bounties on these villains in The Pale. But these are sufficient evidence that should oblige Whiterun to pay you for resolving the problem of these raiders. I will get some people to help you transport the bodies and the loot to the border. I'll also send a messenger to Balgruuf and to the Companions so they can meet you at the border."

"I thank you, my lady. If there is any service I can be to you in the future, please let me know."

"Not at all, Companion," she replied, smiling tightly. "It's Dawnstar that owes you a debt, and it's one we can't repay. I must now caution you against accepting any jobs in The Pale. Skald will not forgive you for interfering in his work to support Ulfric."

"I have no problem with this," he replied. "I do not want to come back until summer. I cannot understand how anyone can live in this cold."

"I can't imagine living anywhere else for very long," she said. "I was born here, and I'm content to be buried here. I've carried the high storms of winter in my heart wherever I've traveled in the Legion."

"Ah, yes, the icy resolve of winter that Nords are famous for. Was that not what one of your ancient kings said?"

"Aye," said Horik. "The Skald-King of Windhelm. My grandmother told me tales of the Ebonheart Pact. It was he who said that our ancestors grew strong in the ice of Atmora, and that was why we Nord prefer the bitter climes of the North."

"I see," said Tariq. "All respect and honor to your ancient king and homeland, I freely leave the north and the snow to your kind. What is the soonest, my lady, that I can expect to be heading back to Whiterun?"

"Give me two days to organize things, that's the soonest I can manage while working around Skald."

Tariq nodded, pleased. Things had worked out very well. Erandur would be coming with him to Whiterun and giving free help to Argis's healing. He would collect extra payment. And Rustlief and Seren had invited him for dinner, and he was anticipating some good Hammerfell food and pleasant talk about forge techniques.

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