Chapter 30

The testing site for Tariq's advancement from the whelps to full Companion was a tomb called Dustman's Cairn. It was northwest of Fort Greymoor, a place the Jarl had recently hired the Companions to clean out recently of robbers to give to the Legion. Why the Legion couldn't send a unit do the job seemed to be some political flexing on Jarl Balgruuf's part, a grudging show of cooperation with the Legion. And as the Thalmor still insisted on their right to set up an embassy post in Whiterun Hold per the Concordat, he said they could do it there. Thalmor would not be granted entry into the city unless it be for official business with the Jarl.

Tariq would get to the Cairn eventually and meet with Aela. But for now, he and Cairo were chasing a headless horseman.

He'd been in Rorikstead because of reports of a dragon flying about. They'd wanted the Dragonborn to come to take care of it, especially since the large herds they had this season had come from Fort Sunguard and Granite Hills, a town Tariq had helped months ago to drive out Forsworn invaders. He'd watched it for two days. It didn't seem interested in Rorikstead or the cattle. Certainly the herded and penned cattle were easier prey than the wild aurochs or young mammoths, but the dragon ignored them.

Alduin was presumably resurrecting its subordinates, dragons killed by other dragons, or slain by heroes, the Tongues of legend. This particular dragon seemed content in avoiding human settlements. Tariq had shouted to let it know he was watching it.

The people of Rorikstead were disappointed that he didn't charge out to kill it. He explained that any tales that he'd soloed against a dragon were exaggerated. He'd always had the help of many skilled warriors. Being a Dragonborn only meant that he could absorb the beast's soul and thus prevent it from being resurrected again. He could not kill a dragon by himself. Maybe there were Tongues in the past who could kill a dragon without help, but he wasn't one of them. He recommended they always have a fast horse and rider on standby to ride to Whiterun. Balgruuf had appointed a special cavalry unit armed with all the weapons needed to fight a dragon.

He would have stayed another night. He had just pulled the saddle off Cairo's back when Cairo sounded a warning and reared in a challenge at something coming from the west. Tariq only saw a faint glow at first. A rider carrying a torch? But, no, the light was all wrong. White light and too steady, like a magic light.

It came closer, and he saw that it was a headless ghost. Ragnar the Red? He immediately thought in astonishment, recalling that obnoxious song popular with the bards.

And this was Rorikstead.

Without a second thought he saddled Cairo and jumped on.

At least the ghost kept to the roads, which made it marginally easier for flesh-and-blood pursuers to keep up.

The ghost led them to an open tomb. Three above-ground crypts. Two were enclosed in iron bars. The central crypt was upright. The headless horseman dismounted. Its horse reared and disappeared. The horseman shrugged off its ax harness and took hold of the double-headed weapon. It beckoned to Tariq, who answered, "I have no quarrel with you. I was just curious." A ghost was not as bad as the undead. It was still a spirit or soul out of place, trapped or unwilling to start the journey to the Far Shores. Generally, they were impotent shadows. He was inclined to leave ghosts alone unless they proved malicious and intent on causing harm to the living.

"You are not welcome here," said the ghost.

"Are you Ragnar?" Tariq couldn't help but ask.

"Oh, for Shor's sake, that again?" It dropped the ax to throw its hand up before disappearing.

Tariq stared, bemused.

To his left, a man laughed. The still-laughing hunter crawled out from under some bushes. "Had a good chase, friend?" he asked.

"It was a challenging ride," Tariq admitted.

"On a fine horse, too. Not one of our Skyrim breeds. It looks like one of those fancy desert horses from Hammerfell that Whiterun imports.""On a fine horse, too. Not one of our Skyrim breeds." The hunter walked around Cairo, studying it. He kept a good distance, which spoke well for his ability to recognize a dangerous animal. "It looks like one of those fancy desert horses from Hammerfell that Whiterun imports."

"A Yokudan charger. You have a good eye, friend."

"Hmph. You must be hungry after a long chase. Come. We've got deer, fish, and apples roasting." Tariq followed the hunter two hundred feet to a shallow cave where two older men were busy stretching hides on frames, and a boy turned the spitted meat and apples over embers.

"Latest ghost chaser?"

"Yah. Asked it if the name's Ragnar. Surprised you didn't hear the ghost screeching." They laughed.

"I'm Dolf," said the hunter. "Alfar, my brother," he said, nodding at the boy. "Frode, my da, and Hroaldr, his da."

"Tariq," he declared, putting a hand over his heart and giving them a polite node. Tariq noticed a woman in the distance walking towards them. She carried a spear, a net slung over a shoulder, and a string of fish.

"That's Torni, my ma. Ma! We got company. A Companion."

"How could you tell?" asked Tariq. Dolf shrugged and grinned at him.

"Redguard. Redguard horse. Caught up on some gossip a month ago from the cat caravan on its way to Markarth. Traded 'baskets of smoked fish for stuff and any interesting news. The caravan master said he first met you when you first crossed into The Reach from Hammerfell. You're still wearing Dwemer armor. And you're the reason the Greybeards were shouting."

The food was good. Tariq learned they were all from Morthal, the capital of Hjaalmarch Hold, and they were on their annual hunting and fishing trip to stock up for winter.

Morthal's economy depended on lumber and mining. However, the largest mine was owned by a Haafingar noble in Solitude, so it wasn't Hjaalmarch that benefited the most from selling the iron to the Legion. The lumber in Hjaalmarch was desirable by shipbuilders and artists because trees like cedars, cypress, and certain oaks did not grow outside the swamp.

The current Jarl was old and was going mad. Jarl Idgrod claimed to have visions. It was believed her mind may have become muddled during the Great War. Like many of her generation, she had gone off to battle in Cyrodiil in the armies the then Prince Balgruuf had assembled. She spoke no tales of what she did, but whatever it was, it must have affected her. But no one challenged her right to rule. She kept herself in her hall and mumbled her strange visions to her husband, the Hold's steward. Her daughter seemed sane, but she was a disappointment to the townsfolk. Instead of going to Solitude or Whiterun to attract strong marriage candidates to protect Hjaalmarch, she chose to run herself ragged in keeping track of her young brother, another disappointment. The boy had apparently inherited his mother's mental weakness.

Dolf and his family didn't mind the jarl's madness. She didn't interfere in their lives. And her visions could be useful ― she could be relied on to know when was the best time to plant and harvest, when and where monsters were breeding in dangerous numbers, and knowing where the Thalmor were prowling.

That didn't sound like madness to Tariq. Jarl Idgrod may have the dire gift of prophecy. A most troublesome gift given by the gods. For those not trained to the proper reception of the Sight, it was an easy road to madness if they weren't strong-willed enough to withstand the visions of an uncertain future. Mehmet, priest of Tall Papa, and his teacher in alchemy and enchantments, had such a prophet in his care. This prophet needed medications made from poisons to suppress his visions. The old oracle had described them like mirages ― waking nightmares where any step, any gesture, any spoken word seemed a portent of the future. The poisons helped, if such a word could be used. He was a ward of Mehmet's temple because the poisons made him forgetful, lack energy to work, and demented. He still saw these visions; the poisons only deadened his reactions to future things he still saw and heard.

As he contemplated the idea of investigating Hjaalmarch in the future, the conversation had shifted to dragons. Two dragons seemed to have taken residence. One was in the ruins of Skyborn above the ancient dragon city of Labyrinthian, and the other southwest of there at Eldersblood Peak.

Eldersblood Peak could be seen from this location if one wandered nearer the river and looked northwest. At the foot of Eldersblood peak was another Dragon Cult fortress ruin called Rannveig's Fast. Empty except for bandits and ghosts. Undead walked the area, which was a pity because good game and fishing was to be had there. And because of the undead and bandits, it was safer to travel another two days into Whiterun. The jarl couldn't do anything about it because it was more than her few soldiers could handle, and there wasn't the money to hire trustworthy , the last time people had made a mighty stink about it, the jarl had hired a wizard. She claimed he was a former instructor of the wizards' college in Winterhold. A conjurer. But rumors were that he was a necromancer and did unnatural things at night in the swamp.

Hroaldr gruffly dismissed the rumors. "I followed him a few nights," he declared. "I wanted to see what he was sneaking off for. He always goes to this weird stone circle in the swamp. I don't know what magic he does, but it does draw all the monsters to him. He destroys them. Is that necromancy? I don't know. But I think the more monsters he destroys away from town, the better. He's a Redguard like you. People in Morthal don't like him. He's different, and he's a wizard. He's not friendly. But he's adopted the little orphan who lost her family to sickness two winters ago, and she finally seems happy and well-fed."

More dragon walls. Tariq mentally sighed as he resigned himself to swamp muck in the future.

… … …

"Ready to go?" challenged Aela, tilting her head right towards the steps that led down into the tomb.

"Of course." He took one last look around the area. Cairo had gone up a nearby slope to feed on wild blueberries. Aela had come here on foot. A brisk jog from Whiterun of twenty or so miles in full armor was nothing to her, she'd boasted. There didn't seem to be anything else in the area. He'd heard two sizable bandit groups were in the area, but he didn't see any other people right now.

Cairo could take care of itself. It would keep itself hidden until he whistled. It was time to enter the tomb and begin his testing.

As they descended, he remarked, "I heard from a bard that 'dustman' is another name for 'draugr.'"

"Aye. What of it?"

He sighed. How many levels, how many draugr? He doubted this would be more difficult than Ustengrav.

It was immediately obvious by the dust still in the air that others had recently been here. The three draugr that guarded the entry room had been hacked to pieces. A wall had been knocked open to stone hallway.

"The scholar who informed the Companions of the Wuuthrad pieces, where is he now? Is he still in Whiterun?" he asked Aela. She shrugged.

"No idea. He spoke only to Kodlak and Skjor, that's all I know."

"This stinks of a trap," he said bluntly. She shrugged again.

"We know. Now, lead on, whelp."

Tariq frowned and his eyes narrowed. "You know this is a trap and yet you did not tell me? Is blind obedience the first test?" he challenged.

"Eye on the prize, not the horizon," Aela said, repeating a saying Tariq had often heard from the senior members.

"Who watches the horizon then?" he asked. "I am not a hunting dog to lock onto prey if it leads me to my death."

"It's the way of the Companions."

"Companions, yes. Blind obedience is for slaves."

"Are you saying you don't trust us, the Inner Circle? Are you declining this test, then?"

Tariq grimaced, thinking.

Right. Nords. Take on all comers head-on. Even so, if he was expected to walk into a blatant trap, and the Circle knew it was a trap, not informing him of this possibility was a serious test of his trust in them. Was this, then, the very first test?

"No, we will continue. But I do not like this. I will demand answers when we return to Jorrvaskr."

They came to another set of rooms that stank of a trap. Iron bars prevented progress into the tomb. The lever that appeared to control that gate was in a room with suspicious holes in the floor and lintel of the entryway. Another cage trap.

Oblivion take this.

Fortunately, he'd long ago learned to carry a thin and incredibly strong rope of Morrowind spider silk, favored by thieves and assassins. The lever's placement was not ideal and was hard to move. He would have to find something heavy enough to serve as a pivot point. But Aela was visibly impatient and curtly told him to stop wasting time.

"Just pull the damn thing! The lever to open that room's gate is likely somewhere on the other side. I'll go find it and set you free."

Tariq pulled the lever. As expected, bars slammed down from the lintel into the floor.

"Finally," huffed Aela. She turned towards the newly opened room. Eight battle-ready warriors surged out. From what they said, it proved this whole thing was a trap. They recognized Aela as one of the top Companions. Tariq puzzled them, but if he was with Aela, he was probably also a Companion, just an unknown one. It didn't matter; they were going to kill both of them. Aela laughed and began shedding her armor.

Ah, he'd been so willfully blind. His body flushed cold, then hot, as he watched her beautiful form twist and distort into the grotesque form of a werewolf. He'd convinced himself that Cairo had merely taken a dislike to her as he often did with other people. But animals knew the undead and other unnatural creatures. Cairo had been trained to kill such creatures. He should have trusted Cairo's instincts. It was his own fault.

So, this explained the oft-unsettling dog behavior of the Companions. He wondered when they'd begun licking Hircine's feet. He now recalled Angi in Falkreath telling him how an older pack kept new werewolves or rabid weres in check.

And Aela and Skjor regularly visit her Falkreath family land for hunting vacations despite the planes of Whiterun Hold being richer in large game.

One of the attackers saw an opening to attack Aela from behind. Tariq used his rope to whip-flick the man's face, causing him to stumble and giving Aela enough time to twist around and rip his throat open.

Aela finished her slaughter and stalked into the now-open doorway. Soon enough, the bars caging Tariq slid back up to the sound of metal grinding against stone.

"I hope you weren't too shocked," said Aela, coming back with a smile.

He turned his back on her. "I'm going to check around, make sure there aren't other traps while you get dressed."

"Tariq―"

"I abhor such surprise as you well know, huntress. I have never lied or concealed that."

She caught up with him on a lower level. He was crouched in the shadows to the side of the entryway. Below was a hall of crumbled pillars, moss, and crypts.

"One archer sentry on high," said Tariq curtly. "At least two or more at the far end of the hall. There are sounds of battle. The Dustmen have roused themselves to evict the intruders. You handle the archer."

He charged out of the shadows. The arrows from above bounced off his armor. The sentry's warning yell alerted the three warriors at the other end of the hall. They were ready for the charging golden centurion.

He shield-crashed into the first, simply knocking that one down and stomping on his sword arm shoulder to break it. Easily shield-blocked a mace swing, bouncing it wildy aside. His scimitar snaked around, stabbing forward, crashing against the other's shield. He followed with a shield bash, the larger, heavier Dwemer shield taking out the second mace swing and knocking down the opponent. A swift downward sword stab ended that fight. The third opponent charged, but fell face down dead, an arrow through his throat.

He frowned as he noted the unusual number of silver weapons, mostly longswords or axes.

"Who are these people?" he asked Aela.

"They call themselves the 'Silver Hands.' They say they are werewolf hunters. Unlike the Vigilants of Stendarr, they're sick bastards who capture and torture anyone they suspect of being a werewolf. And if they're wrong, it doesn't matter. Their victims are too damaged to live anyway. Because of that, no jarl sanctions their activities, and no religion acknowledges them. They're no better than robbers, the way they fund their activities."

"Why do they hate werewolves in particular?"

She shrugged. "It may have started by those whose family and friends were slain by werewolves. But their vengeance-by-any-means meant they took in anyone who wanted a reason to kill, an easy target to hate, a justifiable reason to absolve themselves of their lust for torture and blood. They have no honor. The Companions do, Tariq. Yes, we haven't been honest with you. It was Kodlak's decision to take you in. Your blatant hate of all things daedric was like taking a snake to our breast. You are a danger to the Circle, but we trust our pack leader that much. If you want to rise in the Companions―"

"That was never my intention. I was honest with Kodlak about that. My time with the Companions is temporary. I will someday return to Hammerfell. I came to Skyrim to expand my skills and find new challenges to test myself against. The strength Hircine offers is nothing less than demonic possession. You are given nothing ― no new skills, no greater knowledge. You are merely loaned the unnatural strengths. It is not something earned by your own work. And when you die, his demons drag you to his realm to pay for the loan. Perhaps you will be rewarded and become one of his hunting dogs. But I suspect most only become eternal prey, forever being hunted and torn apart by his demons."

She looked to argue further, but closed mouth, her lips stretching to a tight line.

"We can argue this later," she said after a while.

The mission continued. They put down the undead and Silver Hands. Tariq wondered if the rumored fragments of Wuuthrad were here originally or brought here by the Silver Hands. Aela could not tell him how, why, or when Wuuthrad was destroyed, and when it was destroyed, how its parts became so scattered. The likeliest explanation was that the parts were taken as souvenirs and good luck charms. If so, being scattered in various tombs was understandable if owners took them to their graves.

He could sense a dragon wall. As expected, it was at the bottom of this tomb. Crypts were embedded in the walls of this room. Their prize lay on the altar table in front of the dragon wall.

He ignored the ebony shards on the altar. The word wall drew him. This new word drew him. He sensed raw, elemental power in this word, similar to the mystery word learned at Sunderstone Gorge in Falkreath. He needed to kill another two dragons to awaken the power of these words.

"Now for the battle," he said to Aela. "If you are ready, I will spring the trap. You may go to wolf if you need to. I am going to use my shouts."

She ignored him. Perhaps his remarks had stung her pride. She merely notched an arrow in her bow. "Just pick up the damn pieces."

He grunted and, in one smooth motion, snatched up all the fragments and dropped them into the leather purse on his belt. In the next heartbeat, a half dozen crypts burst open.

"SU GRAH!" he shouted, and felt the surge of inhuman speed and power. "FEIM," he added, coating his silver scimitar in ethereal power.

There were a handful of deathlords. Their FUS shouts rocked him, but could do little to stop his enhanced power and speed. Those deathlords tried the disarming shout, but failed because he had learned that bound or ethereal weapons were immune to that shout's effect. They fell as wheat to his reaping silver blade.

More crypts opened as half the first wave fell.

Thanks to the tutorings of a ghost and a Legion elf, his shield skills had improved considerably. What didn't fall to his sword was knocked down or bashed aside by his Dwemer shield. And body charging like a bull, capitalizing on the weight and strength of his Dwemer armor. Another Legion technique.

Eventually, he sat, exhausted, on the altar. He snarled out a prayer for the dead, commanding them to begin their journey to the Far Shores. While he rested, Aela searched the chamber for the hidden backdoor these tombs had. She found it, and they walked up the narrow, steep corridor to the entry room. The exit was one of the crypts. He had learned from stories that most of these ancient tombs had a way of resetting their traps, likely from the draugr reviving and doing that work. Inventive as the ancient Nords or Atmorans were with their tombs, he doubted their skill with clockwork mechanisms were the equal to the Dwemer. It had to be draugr.

It was midnight. Both moons were in the sky, gracing the landscape with gentle light. Tariq whistled for Cairo. It galloped down from the mountain slope. Still not looking at Aela, he perfunctorily offered her a ride back. She declined after Cairo snapped at her when she approached.

"I'm going to rest at Breezehome. Knock me up when you get there and we can bring the fragments to Kodlak together." Or come back and summon me after you've first gone to warn him I am not in a favorable mood towards the Companions.

"How went your test, my thane?" asked Lydia after she had fetched him a tankard of ale.

"I was disappointed," he grunted. She didn't say anything further as she helped him out of his armor. Averusa Sarethi heated a bucket of water for him. She and Galathil shared the master bedroom, Argis was in the smaller room, and Lydia usually slept on a mat by the firepit or the secondary guards' barracks across the street. The two elf women stayed upstairs to give him some privacy. He sent Lydia to Jorrvaskr to collect the clothes he kept there.

"They say anything to you or give you trouble?" he asked when she returned.

"Not a word, my thane. Is there trouble I should be expecting?"

"One hopes not. But I will no longer be with the Companions."

"I am sorry to hear that, my thane. May I ask why?"

"I have discovered a core philosophy of the Circle that I cannot agree with nor overlook."

Lydia went still for a long moment. "I understand," she said.

"Do you?" he challenged. She reflected away his anger with impassivity.

"There are two things you react without thought to ― elves and daedra. You didn't reject them for having a dark elf as a member. So it's daedra. If I think about the nature of the Companions, it certainly wouldn't be the three gods of the dark elves. Most of the other daedra would not encourage the virtues of the Companions. The only one I think they could take in and hide would be Hircine. Then the slander of the Silver Hands has an element of truth that the Companions hide werewolves."

"You know of the Silver Hands?"

"Aye, my thane. I was with a Sadras caravan some years ago, traveling from Cheydinhal to Bruma to Riften. One of the regular stops between Riften and Cheydinhal was a small village at the border of The Rift with an inn and plenty of stables for traders. The time I'm recalling is when that place was suffering from attacks by wolves, or so they thought at first. The Silver Hands showed up, ranting about a werewolf pack settling in the area. They brought in two bodies as proof. At first, they were hailed as heroes, but all too soon showed their hands were greedy for gold and blood. They demanded payment of food, weapons, and gold for risking their lives to hunt down the creatures. Deny or disagree, and they attacked. And when these werewolf hunters found the innkeeper was a cousin of a werewolf, they attacked him and his family and attempted to burn down his inn.

"The caravan master, Gilvro Venros, had enough of them. He was friends with the innkeeper. Master Gilvro and all the mer of his caravan were House Sadras, meaning they were warriors first and traders second. They hired us Nord mercs because people were more willing to talk to us than them. Being Dunmer of the ashlands, they knew how to deal with daedric minions. We drove out the Silver Hands, and then hunted down the werewolves. Since then, I've come across Silver Hand recruiters. One even hinted that the Companions' upper command harbored a werewolf. I thought it was petty jealousy at the time once I learned he'd been rejected by the Companions."

She looked away as she seemed to search for something in her mind. "There's a book I remember reading shortly after that. Hm. 'Werewolf legends of Skyrim?' Something like that. Written by a Cyrod, I think, by the name. I recall he thought the Companions cowards because they told him to leave when he went to them to ask about werewolf hunting."

Lydia didn't have any other information about the Silver Hands, and soon she was asleep on the floor. Tariq moved off the water jug and tray of cups from the dining table to a nearby shelf and threw a blanket on the table for padding. He had a feeling the Companions wouldn't call on him tonight.

That was fine. He would have Lydia deliver the pieces to Jorrvaskr. He had dragons to hunt in Hjaalmarch.

… … …

Cold and damp.

"Once summer comes on, it gets unbearably sticky," sighed Lydia.

Morthal, the capital town of Hjaalmarch Hold, was primarily built of wood. Half was built on the shallow edges of a wide meandering river. Pylons were sunk deep into the mud, supporting the platforms of the buildings. The other half of the town was on dry ground. But looking at how even those buildings were elevated, the river regularly overflowed its banks. The town walls were cypress logs. Incredibly expensive outside of Hjaalmarch, but fitting for a town that dealt in exotic woods. However, the walls were only protection from trolls, chaurus, and other land beasts. Anything swimming through the water had easy access to the town. Most guards carried thin, short spears with wicked backward-curving serrations. He had seen a guard spear a fish. The fish flopped violently in its death throws but could not come off the spearhead. The guards carried an average of three spears strapped to their backs.

"Argonian practice," Lydia had explained. "Jarl Idgrod seems to have worked with the lizard men and ordered some of their weaponry to be used by her guards. Those spears stab once, stay in, and they reach for their second or third spear to continue the attack. Its remarkably effective against the trolls that wander about. A troll's ability to heal its wounds can't work if the weapon is firmly lodged in its body. Add poison, and the troll dies faster. Of course, alchemists can't make use of poisoned troll fat for their potions."

The Moorside Inn had a decent crowd. A tribute to the quality of the food rather than the Orsimer bard beating "Ragnar the Red" to death in a corner. The crab and tomato stew was good, and the mudbug and cheese sauce pie was worth seconds. There was the infamous chaurus pie, but Tariq hadn't yet dared to try that one despite Lydia assuring him it was a hearty, if spicy, dish.

The locals were sullenly grumbling about another mysterious death and missing deliveries. Something out there was killing people and endangering trade shipments. Customers were angry about not getting their wood. It was fast getting impossible to find anyone willing to drive the delivery wagons. The jarl agreed there was something out there, but she refused to set soldiers to solving the problem. The Hold guards, though, were glad not to be ordered out. There were few enough of them as it is.

The town mare slinked between the men, smiling, caressing, and teasing. She'd tried her charms on Tariq the first night he'd arrived, but he wasn't interested. Alva was her name, a beautiful woman, but the hunger in her eyes repulsed him. The hand she dared cover his with during one of her seduction attempts was too cold for a living woman, and the snow in Morthal had all melted.

He'd looked for her during the daytime, and she could not be found. Tonight, when she came around, he took her hand while smiling an invitation. She was quick to snatch her hand away. Perhaps she didn't like his forwardness. Or was it she didn't like the silver ring he was wearing?