Kindly leave a reviw

Chapter 29

"Wagons," said Lydia, studying tracks heading to Arkngthamz. "We missed them by a few hours."

"If Aicantar is going to meet us there, it's probably him," said Vorstag. "He and Calcelmo have a regular group of mercs they hire for expeditions. They don't help with the exploration and excavation work. They just guard the campsite and any artifacts brought out of a dig."

They called themselves the Dunerippers, naming themselves after a fast and fierce beast of the Alik'r Desert. The group had formed from the Hammerfell Invalids, legionnaires medically discharged during the Great War who stayed to fight with their Redguard allies after the Empire abandoned Hammerfell to the Dominion. This lot were children of the original Dunerippers. Calcelmo was a long-time client from their parents' time. He was a reliable employer and paid well.

"It's as good an excuse as any, and it's true besides, O lord," said the troop commander, a Nord-looking woman named Fayruz. Her mother was Ra Gada, but she got her father's turquoise eyes, she said, hence her name. "But Calcelmo has been an ally of the Invalids since the Green Fires. If the Dominion knew who he truly was, Markarth would also burn."

"Should you be so free with this information?" he challenged.

Fayruz grinned. "Dragonborn," she half-sang. "You are come like HoonDing to obstruct the Hunger that would destroy the world again. A prophetess of Leki, the Saint of the Spirit Sword, is said to have visited Sentinel's chief priest of Ruptga to tell him that his son, the Lion, is rushing to stop Satakal from chewing his own tail."

"What?" His spirit chilled. Someone told his father… The Temple of Leki was a small one, the religion of the Sword Saint had shrunk as the days of the true Ansei grew more distant from history and into legends and fables. Still, those who truly wish to study the sword still went to train under the holy ones of that temple. Tariq had wanted to, but then he'd gotten involved in Dominion spy hunting and had put off that pilgrimage.

"I don't know where you heard all this, but—" he started to say, but Fayruz laughed.

"Aicantar. We were concerned that he wanted to take this place apparently on his own because he brought no assistants along. We were concerned, so I made him tell me about you. If it were Calcelmo alone, we would not worry. We know that old elf is quite capable for any battle. Once he told us your name, we came up with the rest from the gossip we heard in Markarth and from letters from back home. The Lion has been driven out of Hammerfell and has crossed the desert into Skyrim. My father," she confided, "was originally from Eastmarch. A small fishing village two hours' walk from Windhelm. He says if the Dragonborn is from Hammerfell, it's a nice repayment for all the Nords who stayed there to fight with their Redguard allies."

"There were Bretons, Imperial, Dunmer, and even Orcs who were Invalids," he reminded her.

"I know that. As I said, it is what my father believes. But, to business." She leaned forward on the table towards him. "Aicantar has told us to stay outside the ruins. That means we're just glorified stable guards for the horses. If you need our help for extraction, then one of you will have to survive long enough to come back out here to fetch us. Otherwise, we will not go inside. Die just before getting to the door, and it's over. We are paid to wait a month before reporting to Calcelmo that the expedition failed. We'll do what we can to find decent owners for your horses. But your war stallion will have to be killed because it's too dangerous in ignorant hands and will never acknowledge a new rider. Now, do you agree with Aicantar? Or do you want two or three of us to accompany you?"

"No. Keeping track of the five others is quite enough for me to handle. I'm sure your people are competent, but we're not here to dig things up. We're chasing an answer to a mystery. We're chasing ghosts."

"Vorstag, Lydia, and Edmund are warriors. Aicantar and Rodina aren't experienced fighters. A scholar and a bard. Are you sure you won't need an extra sword or bow?"

"Thank you, but no. The group I have should be fine as is."

"Good hunting then."

… … …

"Turn back," the ghostly voice commanded.

"That's Katria," said Aicantar the first time the voice was heard. "Katria, it's Aicantar," he called out. "Do you remember me? What happened. Where can we find you?"

"With all this noise, it should slow the Falmer down from finding us," said Edmund. Besides the rumbling of the quakes, the sounds of streams and waterfalls echoed. Tariq wondered what great works the Dwemer were doing here that demanded so much water for cooling machinery.

"What are you doing here? Turn back!" A ghost manifested. A pretty Nord woman in armor and a golden Dwemer bow slung on her back.

"Katria! It's me, Aicantar."

She looked at him. "What are you doing here? I made a mistake. This place is shaking itself apart. For your own safety, turn back now!"

"Not until I find out what happened to you," he declared.

"We were running from the machines. He pushed me. I fell. Over there." She pointed a thumb over her right shoulder. "It was a long way down."

Shattered bones and broken armor on a small rock pillar rising from a rushing river. Metal ramps connected to that pillar, remnants of what may have been a bridge. "Time cleaned up the gore. My satchel, at least, stayed with me. My journal's inside. Take it; you'll need it. He didn't bother to come and rob me of that, too. Took everything else of mine from our base camp."

Tariq looked up. All he saw was a distant rock ceiling. How did she fall here? There was nothing, no bridges, no structures. If there had been such, it must have fallen in the years since her death. There were many piles of loose, fresh rock rubble and twisted metal girders, tubes, and poles from the quakes.

Edmund and Vorstag had been salvaging armor pieces from the many broken Dwemer machine warriors, pauldron pieces and heads that could be broken down into helmets. Tariq, of course, was wearing his own Dwemer armor.

They retreated outside. They would make armor pieces from the salvaged scraps. The Dunerippers helped them put together a makeshift forge. They concentrated on shoulder pieces, helmets, and boots. Edmund also had brought iron bars out. He hammered hooks with rings and bars with half-hooks on one end and flat pieces on the other. "Rescue tools," he explained and demonstrated how to use the tool for moving heavy rocks and using the curved end for climbing and rock moving. He turned buckler shields into helmets. The wide brim kept dust and falling debrig from the eyes. He welded extra strap hooks and showed them how to lace leather straps to make a webbing to create space between their skulls and the metal. Cloth could be stuffed above the webbing for extra cushion.

The mercs liked that design. Some were trying it with their own equipment, being more concerned with club and mace strikes than rocks.

Re-armored, they went back in. The ghost looked at them, amusement lightening her face. "Determined to find the treasure, are we? Then I'll just come along, if you'll have me."

"Of course we want you, Katria," said Aicantar. "I'm sure we'll being much safer with your guidance."

"Good choice," she said. "A lot of halls and bridges have collapsed, and some places have flooded. The places that are clear are full of Falmer and their pets or a nests of oil-sucking spiders. Unfortunately, the strongest parts are also the most heavily trapped."

"Taron Dreth stole all your work," Aicantar told her as she guided up onto massive pipes to walk on as a bridge and into a semi-collapsed corridor with a floor of rough metal grate over more pipes and rushing water. Some Falmer dropped down from gaps in the ceiling, and Edmund and Vorstag quickly took care of them. "He published a book based on your research and managed to get the Imperial College to accept his claim to be the foremost Dwemer metallurgist."

"Oh, really? And has he found the aetherium to back up his claim?"

"Not yet."

She laughed. While they rested, Aicantar held Taron's book for her, turning pages for her to read. "Somethings things didn't translate well," she commented. "If he had to fake my work, he'd have to mock up my research journals. Likely he translated them to daedric Dunmer to show people all the write-ups he supposedly did while accompanying me on my digs and then had junior students who didn't know me retranslate them to Common. I can see where he didn't quite understand my notes, where I used Nord colloquialisms and story bits to express my thoughts at the time. Raw things I would have cleaned up and clarified for a serious research paper. If he's spent the past decade walking his sorry bones all over Skyrim trying to find proof, it's what he deserves. My journal, this one he didn't bother to retrieve, has the locations he needs for his proof. Stupid, sloppy n'wah."

Tariq looked at her map. "Most are in Stormcloak territories. Not likely they'd give a dark elf permission to dig. And if they did, they'd want the choice of the discoveries. Anything that could be turned into a weapon against the Empire would be taken. A new metal prized by the Dwemer, one worth going to war over? Most certainly."

"War. Stupid, bloody war." The ghost looked miserable. "I can hear my grandparents calling to me from Sovngarde. The worst was hearing my brother. He was a Legion courier. He came by after his death. He was part of General Tullius's escort to Helgen when it was attacked by the great black dragon. He wasn't fast enough to dodge getting burned to death. Told me everything I'd missed. I was worried about you, Aicantar, and your uncle, and the changes in Markarth. And I heard about all the trouble Jarl Ulfric of Eastmarch is causing. He's acting like an asset gone wild."

"What do you mean?" demanded Rodina. "What is an 'asset?' How does it apply to the jarl?"

"An 'asset,'" said Aicantar solemnly, "is a possession. A useful tool. For example, an agent created by the Dominion through bribes, coercion, or torture and placed amidst the enemy to steal information, cause confusion, or kill pre-selected targets once a command is given. It's a foul tactic the Dominion excels in. If the jarl is a former asset, it was through torture. It would explain his hatred of all things mer, especially Altmer." He took a deep breath. "Ulfric was captured by the Dominion weeks before the Battle of Red Ring. He was released months after. Plenty of time to be broken and trained. The Dominion needed to control The Reach before giving up the battle on Hammerfell. They needed to control Hammerfell in the future, so they started by cutting off any possible retreat into Skyrim like the Emperor had done when they took the Imperial City. They led Ulfric the notion that he had to defend the Talos faith, and they created that opportunity in Markarth. So Ulfric broke King Madanach's hold of Markarth. Madanach knew he'd been betrayed when the Dominion did not come to his aid. Then the Dominion forced the Empire to pressure Jarl Hrolfdir to turn over Prince Ulfric to the Empire for violation of the Concordat. So now Ulfric hates the Dominion, the Empire, and The Reach. I think Ulfric hearing of his father's death as he sat in a Cyrodiil prison is what finally cracked the Dominion's lock on his choke chain. The Dominion wanted Skyrim divided, fine. He would divide Skyrim and destroy the Empire by making it turn on its oldest ally. And all Nords would know that Empire chose a false peace with the elves over their shared blood with the Nords."

"Huh," said Rodina. "I think I can follow that. But the jarls of Eastmarch are known to be particularly bull-headed. How could they think to keep control of him?"

"I'm sure Ambassador Elenwen has broken many pens writing her excuses and justification to Thalmor High Command. Justiciar Elenwen was in charge of breaking and maintaining control over Ulfric. It's too bad the black dragon prevented Tullius from executing Ulfric. With that stroke of the headman's axe, he could have broken the rebellion and forced the Dominion to withdraw Elenwen for failing her mission to sabotage Skyrim. If that dragon is half the god he is reputed to be, it was probably a deliberate act."

"Aicantar, I know you love to speculate wildly on minimal facts. Calcelmo says serious research papers do not need fantasy writers. But that's just… That's crazy," said Katria.

"Thank you. I do love coloring outside the lines. But is it plausible?"

"Executing Ulfric won't stop the rebellion; just drive it into hiding to fester. But on the surface, I suppose it could be called a victory. I don't know anything about this 'Elenwen.' About the dragon, are you saying the monster is intelligent? Even if wildly so, who would be conversing with a fire-breathing monster about current politics?"

Aicantar shrugged. "He's said to be a god. An Atmoran god who presides over the end of time. Presumably, that makes him a child of Auri-El, although how a mer god came to be entrenched in the pantheon of Nord barbarians escapes my grasp. And furthermore, if he is a god, he likely gets his information from prayers. They're insane, but there are still dragon cultists around. A god who promises power and domination, there are always people who pray for that. As for the promise of the end of the world, how is that different than Sithis worshipers? A god for every sort of worshiper. My uncle and I, as you know, we prefer Syrabane and Julianos."

"I remember Calcelmo claiming Syrabane was a distant ancestor," said Katria, nudging him with her shoulder, or at least trying to.

Tariq quietly listened, finding their discussion entertaining and enlightening. Aicantar's view of the Dominion's timing to take The Reach while withdrawing from Hammerfell matched his own suspicions.

Yes, Skyrim had been the retreat and wall for Cyrodiil and Hammerfell. Now the Dominion was working to end that and isolate Skyrim, encouraging the Nords to kill each other. They knew Emperor Titus Mede II was trying to buy time by signing the Concordat. The Dominion understood this. Therefore, undermine Skyrim's trust in Cyrodiil. Let the Empire continue to drain Skyrim's resources in the name of rebuilding. Of course, some of those resources would also go to the Dominion through their various greedy asset channels. The heart of Cyrod was greed; Emperor Titus Mede I had planted that rot from the first when he sold Elder Council seats to refill his treasury. The long gaze of Summerset predicted the weakness as they watched the shorter lives play out.

This civil war had to stop. However, Tariq didn't want to get too involved with Skyrim politics. Would killing dragons be enough? He wondered why a dragon god would encourage a war. Would not this just reduce his potential army of worshipers? Would not the best way to revive his religion be to attack the elves and Cyrod cities?

"Here, I've fixed the webbing," said Edmund, interrupting this thoughts. He handed the buckler helmet back to him. A large piece of masonry had fallen on Tariq. The helmet and its inner net of leather strings had done its job and protected his skull, but some of the strings had snapped. Tariq grunted his thanks and put it back on, cinching the strings snugly under his chin. He liked this design and would keep it afterwards, although he'd shorten the brim and paint black the underside to cut down on reflected glare.

Maybe some felt glued to the inside, too. When rubble hit the hats, they reverberated like finger cymbals, announcing to any Falmer in the area the location of the intruders. Then, again, the whole place rang with stones dropping on metal.

Aicantar had brought a small bag of soft leather ear plugs stuffed with cotton that he distributed to everyone. He also had dust masks. A staple in his exploration kit, he explained. Dwemer ruins could be unbearably noisy, and Arkngthamz would destroy anyone's ears. He would bet that most Falmer here were deaf and relied on scent to hunt. The dust masks were just common sense with all the stone dust and dirt raining down. He also had other filter materials they could add for oil smoke or spore clouds.

The amount of water in this ruin indicated this city was once a major manufacturing site.

"I'm not sure what they manufactured here, but my impression was it wasn't like Nchuand-zel, which built centurions and other complicated things," said Katria. "I believe they were more of a research and/or refinement industry. Some forging, but not major works from raw materials. This area doesn't have the volcanic fires they need for large forge works. But it is one of the sites researching how to use aetherium."

"I recognize Deep Folk Crossing on your map," said Aicantar. "Not much left of it. The Falmer were pretty thorough in destroying it, and the last accessible interior parts finally collapsed five years ago. There's only the outer damn structure still standing. If there was an aetherium piece there, it's probably buried. Even the Falmer won't live there, that place where the Dwemer lords promised safety while serving them a feast of poison."

Deep Folk Crossing. That reminded Tariq he still had those books he borrowed from Calcelmo, translations of Falmer diaries. They were at his Markarth property. Touching the Sky had been one of the titles. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to wander north to that ruined city site and look around.

It was good having Katria's ghost leading them through this crumbling maze. Without her, it would have taken days longer wasted in dead-end tunnels or missing entrances blocked by superficial debris. The danger of Falmer was moderate. Most of those miserable creatures were lost. As Aicantar had speculated, most were deaf from the noise. Most of the time, killing them was stupidly easy as pushing them off a ledge or path to fall to their deaths on the ground or the water below.

Now they were at the bottom level of the cave system. Two thick gates blocked entrances into a structure. There was a third gate in the center. Behind it, they could see a giant centurion. Other large extruding pipes had split door caps or spiral plate doors. As Katria had said, a wrong move and centurions and spiders would spill out of those pipes. The floor was littered with bones, broken automatons, and dozens of arrows and ballista bolts.

The gate activators, or resonators, were set in five niches high off the floor in the face of the building. They had to be hit with arrows or mage bolts of fire or ice to spin up and unlock.

"The creators of this trap had been surprisingly nice about it," said Katria dryly. "Instead of signaling failure by first making you activate all five, they activate immediately as soon as you make the wrong move. So provided you survive the attacks, you'll know which ones not to touch in that sequence on the next try."

"The Dwemer are not nice about anything," declared Aicantar. "If aetherium was as precious to them as you speculated, they would have made access as difficult as possible. Guessing the correct five-key combination, assuming no choice is repeatable, is, hm, a 1-in-120 chance. Plenty of time for the guards at the time to muster and investigate who is poking at their security. I am willing to bet that is where the malfunction is. The system was supposed to wait until all five resonators locked and then retaliate if the sequence was wrong. Perhaps there were too many false alerts without the system being checked and reset, or it was simply a matter of time before something in the system aged out. By some malfunction, the destruct operation was triggered too early. The system is trying to reset itself but failing. I am further betting that the correct sequence will automatically reset the system and stop all quakes."

"Fine," said Katria. "You start guessing, and the rest of us will hold off the attacks."

"Wait!" cried Rodina. She pointed to a remnant column and lintel. "Let's go up there, Aicantar. You'll have clear shots at the resonators. The machines should ignore us if we're out of their line of sight."

They climbed back up the narrow path they'd all just come down on and jumped down from the path onto the place she'd pointed out.

"Ready?" Aicantar called down.

"Begin!" commanded Tariq. Aicantar drew a deep breath and readied an ice bolt.

Katria had gotten the first two of the sequence. One-in-three for the third. Aicantar didn't guess the right one. The eyes of the giant Dwemer face flashed red. Spiders spilled out of the pipes.

They took care in collecting the soul gems from the broken robots. Dwemer-cut gems were always high quality and uniform. Wizards paid top coin for them.

"Sorry," Aicantar called after the group sat down to tend to wounds and pound dents out of their armor.

"I found a scrap on one of the skeletons," shouted Vorstag. "Someone else was here trying the combinations. Upper left is the third placement."

So it was.

The fourth choice was incorrect. Another battle, this time with rolling centurions along with the spiders. These centurions were armed with crossbows and fired from behind a line of spiders. Aicantar fired down ice bolts while Rodina held a Dwemer shield to protect them from return fire.

All five resonators were finally activated in the correct sequence. The giant eyes flashed green, and the gates opened. The protected chamber had shelves of automaton parts, soul gems, precious gems, bars of pure ores, and other things. What was unusual was the blue crystalline piece, like flawless pale blue ice, sitting enshrined on a table against the back wall. It was clearly an exquisitely cut fragment of something greater.

"That's it!" exclaimed Katria. "So beautiful. But it's not complete. The Dwemer clans divided the aetherium. Four clans, four pieces. Look in my journal. I've marked the major cities of each clan where aetherium might be found. If only…" She distanced herself, her posture dejected. "Thank you for finding this piece. At least I know my research was solid. Here's the proof of it. I would have liked to see all four pieces, but…"

"Do you know what kind of power an aetherium device had?" asked Rodina.

"No. All I know is its power and function depended on what shape it was given. It was so rare that I can't imagine the Dwemer would recklessly experiment with it. I wish I could've found any scrap of their research or clue of where they mined the ore."

"I'll search as I can," said Aicantar, his expression solemn and sad. "I don't know how long it will be before I can search the ruins in Stormcloak lands. Not until the war is over. I—"

"I know, I know. Funding is always a bother," she replied, smiling. "Is it all right if I come to visit you? Finding the aetherium piece here released something in me. I think I can finally leave this place. I may as well search out the other pieces. If I find them—"

"Of course," said Aicantar. "Ah, another matter. Your body. Do you want me to return your bones to your parents, or…?"

"That would be nice. My cracked skull alone should be fine. It wouldn't do to see the bones the Falmer chewed on. The Legion never returned my brother's body, just sent an official death notice and his unclaimed pay. So, if you can, persuade them to accept some of the gold if you can spare some?"

… … …

The Companions were happy to welcome back a long-lost brother. Valdar's bones were duly soaked in the best mead from Honningbrew before being ceremoniously committed to the Skyforge's fire as Rodina sang a ballad celebrating his courage and tenacity as warden of the dread Dragon Priest Hevnoraak.

"Sounds like you've had yourself some adventures," said Aela. "Did you find all your dragon walls?"

"Not yet. At least two are in Forsworn camps that I'll have to and sneak into later. Taking care of my home in Markarth was a little more involved than I thought it would be. And there was some annoying local politics I was obliged to take notice of. I also had to hire a caretaker for my property, and there was some remodeling to be done. And then some friends showed up unexpectedly, and I chose to spend time with them."

"At least you took care of the four contracts we sent you."

Tariq smiled. "Running down thieves. Bah."

"Well, we've been talking about that, Kodlak and Skjor and I. We think you're ready for the next step to becoming a full Companion. You're clearly no wet-nosed trainee and have taken jobs we normally wouldn't give out to the whelps. So it's time you dove off the whelping ice. Not to mention, you already seem to find yourself in the sorts of trouble senior Companions would find difficult and dangerous, whether that's you being an Ansei, as you call it, or being Dragonborn, or just your bad luck. Talk to Skjor when you're ready for the test."

This was a step to consider properly. He had initially joined the Companions because it was a convenient way to learn about Skyrim and to avoid political commitments once it became known he was their legendary hero, the Dragonborn. And there being a civil war, it was without a doubt that both sides would seek to use him and this legend to bolster their cause. And it had worked to a certain extent. He had been approached many times by people trying to influence him. Claiming commitment to the Companions had been an easy excuse to avoid them. Could he turn down this advancement test?

No, he could not. He found that no one would give him any further assignments. And if he did not have work, he could not stay with the Companions. It wasn't as if he would be homeless with two perfectly good properties in his possession. When he had come to Skyrim, it was not to acquire property or ties. It was merely a part of his journey to become Ansei.

Still, he could see there were skills yet to be learned from the Companions. A life-long comittment was not possible. But they weren't asking for that, just to grow up and get out of the trainee pool.

Athis and Ria had succeeded in theirs. Nadia was soon to undergo hers, and Aela would be overseeing it. She usually proctored the trials of those who concentrated on close combat and when situations called for distance support. Close-combat fighters should also know how to work with archers. Otherwise, the usual proctors were Farkas or Vilkas. As far as he could tell, advancement only meant that he would be excused from assisting with housekeeping duties and the required formal exercises and educational lectures by the trainers.

Right. He wasn't a child and the Companion's Hall was not a guild for children.

He went to Skjor to get his graduation assignment.

"So your time has come," boomed Skjor. "Last week a scholar came to us. He said he knew where we could find another fragment of Wuuthrad. He seemed a fool to me, but if he's right, the honor of the Companions demands that we seek it out."

"What is 'Wuuthrad?'" asked Tariq, his brow furrowing. He'd heard that word before in some passing conversation. By the tone, it was some sacred object to the Nords.

"Wuuthrad is a relic of Ysgramor. Through that weapon, we trace our line to the First Harbinger of Mankind in this land. What fragments we have are displayed in honor, but we always seek more." A little more prodding and Skjor led him to the Harbinger's quarters. Kodlak obligingly pointed to a display case. Tariq looked and saw fragments of an ebony ax.

"Wuuthrad means 'Storm Tears,' in the language of Atmora," explained Kodlak. "It was forged by his son Yngol and is said to be hewn from Ysgramor's grief after the destruction of the Atmoran colony of Saarthal. 'The Night of Tears' is the story of how the accursed Falmer attacked us after promising us peace and safety when Ysgramor settled on Skyrim's shores to escape the wars raging in Atmora. Only Ysgramor and his two sons survived that night, escaping on a small fishing boat and sailing it over the treacherous northern sea back to Atmora. When Ysgramor returned, it was death to the Snow Elves. Ysgramor and his 500 Companions were only the first of the waves from Atmora. Our homeland was falling into a never-ending winter and waves of ice that no life could grow in. Wuuthrad carved the way through the cities and armies of the Falmer so Mankind could flourish upon the Falmer lands."

"They were driven to seek protection from the Dwemer and are now those monsters in the caves and Dwemer ruins," Tariq added.

Skjor snorted. "That was between the Falmer and the Dwemer and no fault of ours," he growled. "I hear the Ra'Gada were just as ruthless to the native Nedes and Mer that used to occupy Hammerfell."

"So we were," Tariq acknowledged.

The mission was to recover the rumored fragments of Wuuthrad from Dustman's Cairn, an underground tomb a half day's travel by horse west of Whiterun. As he expected, Aela was proctoring his trial.

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