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Chapter 32:
"I want the bastard responsible for all this dead!"
Rannveig's Fast was on the Whiterun side of the border. Idgrod recognized most of the ghosts guarding the outer grounds as hunters and adventurers who lived in Hjaalmarch and came to Morthal to trade. They'd been missing this past year but hadn't been among Movarth's thralls. They were here.
"I'm sorry, my lady. I don't want to do this!" sobbed the ghost lunging at her.
She put an arrow through his head. "I'm sorry, too, Bran." The ghost dissolved into a puddle of ectoplasm she collected for future alchemy use.
"Tariq, whoever that bastard is, he's mine," she told him. "Beat him near death if you happen across him first, but the killing blow is mine."
"I'll try to hold back," said Tariq.
"I'm only asking this because I want his soul," said Idgrod. "Falion has told you he can cure vampires of their curse by using black soul gems. This sick bastard enslaving these people deserves to do one useful thing in his miserable life. Why not save a soul from Molag Bal?"
"It's not actually the soul itself stored in the gem," said Tariq. "I was taught that the soul's energy is what is stored. The soul itself goes somewhere else. It goes neither to Oblivion nor to any of the gods. It is damned to nothingness. It is a great sin to deprive another — even sinners — of their right to their soul's journey."
"I'll take that sin," said Idgrod. She held up her jug of ectoplasm. "How many souls were put into gems? How many of these people will never find rest?"
"Whether done once or many times, the sin itself is enough," argued Tariq.
"I know that. But as I said, I'll take that sin because it's my duty. And because I want to."
"Your duty? How so?"
"I'm the next Jarl of Morthal, provided I'm not slain by any challenger wanting the position. As Jarl, it will be my responsibility to make judgments, to do what I believe is needed to keep my people safe."
"Then a quick execution should suffice. Please do not blacken your soul with such blasphemy for so unworthy a life."
"Are you hearing yourself?" She held up the jug again. "I'm starting to see what they saw. Why should they be eternally trapped while he walks free to the next life? If the gods choose to judge me for viciousness and arrogance to act in their place, I will accept it. I won't torture him, break his bones, or play the sick games he played with them. I want to damn him to the same hell he sent them to. A hell he's earned in my eyes."
Tariq looked into the fires in Idgrod's eyes and shrugged. "As you please, then. And as I said, I will try to hold my hand, but absolve me if he insists on running into my sword."
"Let's be careful," said Idgrod as they entered the ruins. "Not all of the ghosts are remorseful. Some were robbers who enjoyed their craft. And an eternity of robbing others of their lives, even knowing they can no longer profit from the act, would appeal to them."
The sun was setting. There was an abandoned campsite in the courtyard of Rannveig's Fast with tents, a fire site with stacked wood, a spit, and pots. They had an excellent view of the plain and river below. Tariq looked southeast towards the Nord tomb of Hamvir's Rest, smiling as he hoped Dolf and his family were continuing to have successful hunts. The area around this ruin was as good as Dolf had said. The deer herds were plenty. Wild cattle roamed among them. If it weren't for the ghosts and the ruin's bad reputation, there would be more Hjaalmarch hunters around.
The dragon of Eldersblood flew overhead, ignoring them to focus on the bounty of cattle below.
"A bronze dragon," remarked Rodina. "Fire or frost attack. Good. I borrowed a lighting stave from Farengar.
… … …
Rodina had gotten back with them when Tariq and Lydia had returned to Whiterun to run some errands for folks in Morthal — alchemy ingredients for Argis, letters to Priestess Danica and Mage Farengar, and browsing through Whiterun's shops and booksellers for a particular book for Falkreath's alchemist.
He did his best to avoid the Companions. Word on the street was the dragonborn had left the Companions to seek other training and skills in preparation for his great destiny. That was all.
Gray-Mane had finished the dragonbone bows Tariq had promised the sharpshooters who'd helped him take down the beast at Dragonstooth Crater near Karthwasten. Accepting and completing the commission had nothing to do with the Companions. Once he'd finished, he'd delivered the bows to Breezehome. Tariq had wanted the weapons sent to Dibella's Temple in Markarth, but Gray-Mane had discouraged that idea. No courier service would accept that job. Any regular courier known to be delivering Gray-Mane weapons would be a guaranteed target for robbery. Tariq would have to do it himself or hire trustworthy mercenaries to make the delivery, and the best ones for that were the Companions.
Alas, it would have to be so. He sent Lydia and the requisite 500 gold to the Companions to hire someone to deliver the weapons. He didn't have time to go to Markarth, nor did he want the weapons stored at Breezehome until he could make time. The pricey weapons would only tempt thieves and robbers, endangering Argis and the healers. It was why he sent most of his gold and other things of monetary value to storage in Vlindrel Hall in Markarth, where the doors were sealed with physical and magical locks. To get in required two keys only Faleen and Aicantar held. That is, until he'd hired Finea, a Blade, as his steward, relieving the other two of this inconvenient extra task.
As he rode past the east gate into Morthal, Joric dashed in front, deftly dodging the lash of Cairo's angry hooves, shouting, "Mother wants to see you!"
"Little fool! Don't you know better than to run in front of a horse?" he shouted after the boy's back. Falion's adopted daughter chasing after Joric laughed and cheekily waved her hand over her head without looking back.
"My thane, I can make the deliveries while you attend the Jarl," offered Lydia.
The Jarl had decided to make him a Thane of Hjaalmarch. The housecarl she gave him was a bald warrior in his late 40s wearing studded leather armor and a steel mace on his belt.
"This is Valdimar. A steady boy. He served as my squire during the last two years of the War. Stayed with the Legion for another fifteen years. He's my best enforcer. I believe his talents will serve you well."
"A thousand apo—"
"I know," said the Jarl curtly, cutting him off. "You haven't accepted the title yet. It's an empty title like your other ones. What's one more? I am doing this for my daughter's benefit. You have your dragon business. Valdimar can assist you in battle while watching over my daughter. Iddy can protest all she likes, but Valdimar is your housecarl, and she cannot order him to return."
"I see," said Tariq, suddenly amused. He bowed deeply. "Very well, my Jarl, I humbly accept your will."
"Excellent. Then by my right as Jarl, I declare you a thane of Hjaalmarch. And in addition to your title and a housecarl, I bestow upon you two mounts and a pack horse, and a small chest of gold sufficient to buy land within the Hold and build a house should you wish or use as you see fit if you do not want the property."
Idgrod scowled when she saw Valdimar, then shrugged and returned to her conversation with Rodina. Tariq introduced Valdimar to Lydia. And it was when the housecarls compared their backgrounds Tariq discovered Valdimar was also skilled in ice attack spells, magic shields, and healing.
"I had some talent for using magic, and so I was put with the battlemages, but after my first year, they said my capacity for magic and interests were insufficient for a true battlemage. I was given a shorter course for spellswords. I won the two-year journeyman assignment to squire for a nightblade."
"'You won?'" Lydia repeated. "Being assigned to a nightblade was such a desirable position?"
"Such a chance rarely comes up. As a knight, she was entitled to have a squire. But because she was also a nightblade, the covert nature of their work prohibits such a breach of security. My instructors hesitated to recommend me but finally did so because of the nightblade's unusually-specific requirement that the candidate come from Bruma. Normally, such a ridiculous demand would have been ignored. But this nightblade was known for a particular talent and indulged because of it, so six candidates were chosen to compete for the position. We had all completed the spellsword training. It was a tough competition, me being the youngest at 15 and the only Nord against three Bretons, a Colovian, and an Altmer."
"But you managed," said Rodina. "And it must have been a pleasant surprise to find that the nightblade you'd be serving was also a Nord."
"Nord and the future Jarl of Hjaalmarch if she survived the war, yes," answered Valdimar.
"And you liked serving her that you came to Hjaalmarch after the war," said Rodina.
"Aye. And because my hometown of Bruma was overrun with Dominion after the war. They didn't hesitate to become an infestation under the protection of the Concordat. People began disappearing. Not just Talos worshipers but anyone who protested their presence. 'Defiance of the Concordat, thus treason against the crown' was their other favorite excuse, as if they cared anything for the authority of the Emperor."
"I hope coming to Hjaalmarch wasn't too much of a disappointment," said Idgrod.
Valdimar shrugged. "It certainly isn't Bruma, and my first winter in a swamp was a trial, something I found surprising when it's as muggy as Cyrodiil in the summer." He took a long drink from his tankard.
"I was not disappointed," he stated. "I am glad Jarl Idgrod of Hjaalmarch is not Knight Idgrod of the Special Forces. The Jarl may not simply kill someone out of hand if they annoy her. And while she must stay informed of events to maintain power, it does not mean she must spy on her people and accumulate such information as one would of an enemy. But she knows her people. She knows they like their secrets. And Hjaalmarch is not an easy part of Skyrim to govern. It's not just the physical terrain; it's all the old ruins. It was once the center of the great dragon empire, and the secrets buried in the ruins attract many powerful and unwelcome visitors. The gifts she trained to serve her against the Dominion are of little help in a day-to-day hands-off government. My Jarl's talents in warfare were formidable, and she could have easily been a tyrant if she'd wanted. I believe you will be equally as formidable, my lady, when your skills are honed to better suit your future responsibilities."
"Are you sure I'm not just running away to clear the path for my brother?" she asked bitterly.
"Unless my thane orders me to drag you back to Morthal, do as you wish, my lady," Valdimar answered with a small smile.
… … …
The foyer was cavernous. A few burst-open crypts lined the walls and draugr on the ground. There was a word wall at the back of the room, and in front of it was a large chest. Leading to that chest was a forced path with raised sides to channel approach down the center. One had to be stupidly blind with greed to overlook that the stones there had been replaced with two ornamented iron panels. The raised ground on either side of the suspicious path seemed normal enough.
"ZUN" was the word Tariq collected. Just thinking the word and his right hand tingled as if going numb. He knew this word. Knew it from the withered lips of draugr commanders shouting to knock his weapon from his hands.
While Rodina copied the dragon scratches on the wall, Idgrod opened the chest. It was empty, of course. Tariq and Lydia found two paths on opposite sides of the chamber. The one Lydia found was a short corridor and a dead end.
It wasn't that challenging of a crypt. The attacking ghosts had no special power or strength, unlike draugr, and most were penitent spirits whose unwilling, half-hearted attacks were easily turned aside. With each spirit's death, Idgrod's mood became darker.
They found the sorcerer restlessly pacing around a large cage below the pitfall and impatiently muttering for them to go for the false treasure and into his trap. Tariq saw that the staff the sorcerer had in hand was for lightning. His armor could handle it, but charging forward wasn't his first choice as he was mindful of his promise to Idgrod to let her have the killing blow. He picked up a small clay water jug on a side table, bobbing it by its handle, getting the feel of its weight distribution as he eyed the distance to the sorcerer. At the edge of his vision, he saw Valdimar nodding and picking up a round clay plate.
The jug hit the sorcerer in the back between his shoulders. He stumbled forward from the impact but recovered and whirled around where his forehead took the edge of a flying plate. A screaming fury tackled him. He crashed against the bars of his trap cage. His sacrificial knife was tugged out of its sheath on his belt and thrust through his heart. "Idgrod Ravencrone of Hjaalmarch sends you to share the fate of your victims!"
The chamber had many cages. Half of them had corpses, all showing signs of brutal treatment. The large cage directly below the drop trap had a knee-high pool of water, enough to cushion the fall but not prevent concussion and broken bones. And then the games began. The sorcerer kept a detailed journal of all the ways his victims suffered before he ripped their souls from their bodies, gleeful gloats of his fantasy of cleverness and superiority.
"Souls aren't actually imprisoned in the gems," Idgrod explained much later after dinner. "I saw through their eyes as they were cut from this life and thrown somewhere beyond Aetherius and Oblivion. They are nothing more than meat for the grinder to feed gods of another world. The soul gem strips and stores the spirit and power of the soul and funnels what's left into the ravenous belly of that black world. So if that bastard sorcerer indulged himself in torturing the meat before sending them off, it didn't matter to those hungry vampire gods. The souls languish for centuries as they're slowly digested into nothingness."
"Who are the gods of that hellhole?" asked Rodina. Idgrod shrugged.
"I shouldn't have said 'gods,'" Idgrod said slowly. "They're not Aedra or Daedra. I sense they were once mortal. Powerful liches. I don't know. Something I think the legendary Lich King Mannimarco aspired to. They've drained their world dry and sought ours as a new food source. Food for the scraps of power exchanged through the gems."
Tariq shifted uncomfortably. He never used black soul gems for his enchantments. White gems only. Grand whites skirted the border of the blacks by requiring powerful monsters or semi-intelligent ones having some awareness of "self." There were some enchanters who claimed black soul gems made for stronger enchantments than a grand white. However, according to his teacher, Mehmet, the black gems seemed to only give advantage to the destruction power of weapons.
The wizards called him a living soul gem for dragons. The dragons were too great for black soul gems, as befits demigods, he supposed. Where did they go once he absorbed their power? Thank Satakal's winding grace, he did not appear to absorb their souls. He couldn't imagine the hellish madness of hearing them talk and fight in his mind. Surrounding his own soul with powerful enemies he would not have any defense against. Did they go to that cold place Idgrod spoke of? If Auri-El or Akatosh was the progenitor of the dragons (as claimed by the Greybeards), and he, Tariq, had the soul of a dragon (as also claimed by the Greybeards), surely the father-god would not do that to his own children?
Flying lost in the cold void between Tamriel and the Far Shores would be merciful in comparison. It may seem an eternity, but when Satakal reaches its limit and devours itself at last in the fires of death and rebirth, all souls still in the void and strong enough to survive that conflagration will return to life to start the journey again - Man, Mer, and dragons.
He walked away from the campfire to go to the edge of the courtyard and stare up at the moons. Idgrod's talk of soul gems and other worlds bothered him, and he searched his feelings and memories for the reason. There was this unease that he recalled feeling at Helgen while watching the Stormcloak prisoners being lined up for execution. There was this same chill in the air. The high thunder of a dragon's roar. The certainty he felt of knowing death was on the wing; recognizing the repeating echo of a familiar event. "Tall Papa, is this a sign I should recognize?" he asked the darkness between the moons. "Did I fail to heed it in my last lifetime?" He was here after all, for obviously he hadn't made it to the Far Shores in the divine serpent's previous incarnation. He would rather have liked to believe he was a new soul of this incarnation, but these nagging memory echoes forced him to doubt that cherished belief. If he was a returned soul, where had he failed in that life?
Tamriel was created from Satakal's shed skins by the trickery of Lorkhan and complicity of the naive Aedra. Could this world be a soul gem, trapping — as the Mer believed — their souls to this existence? Even the Aedra and Daedra; the former by initial intent and the latter by choice?
He remembered his parents taking him to a glazier's amusement room in Skingrad. It was a chamber filled with skillfully placed mirrors. Some mirrors distorted one's features, but mostly it was a play of reflections. To see oneself coming and going, how other saw one not only from the front but from the back and sides. Fashion-minded patrons were the most numerous as they loved to admire their display.
His father had used the venue to start a discussion of perspectives of reality, points of view, and the many vanities people had that could either help or hinder their journey from here to there. His mother, a talented fashionista, had bought an expensive three-panel mirror from the glazier and commented that the mirrors she valued most were the eyes of her husband and son. The glass facets might expand one's view of oneself, but the judging ego was always one's own.
Another chill. The dragonborn, according to the Greybeards, only appeared when the dragons overstepped themselves. The dragonborn was the manifestation of the dragons' desire for power and domination. Tariq rejected the notion that his desire to become Ansei was a form of a dragons' hunger for power.
"Excuse me, my thane," said Valdimar, gently interrupting his musings. "Are you intending on taking the first watch instead of the dawn watch?"
"Hm? No." Tariq went to his bedroll, which Lydia had already laid out for him. As he settled and drifted to sleep, he still mused about the event triggers that brought forth a dragonborn. When Nords rebelled against their gods, there didn't seem to be a dragonborn then but a proliferation of Tongues. The Greybeards and all the bards he'd asked didn't know who the first dragonborn was, the name, or the dragons faced. That knowledge was lost.
And thinking about taking down dragons, he'd better start planning on how to take down the one at Eldersblood Peak.
… … …
Against such a powerful, airborne foe, the first strike was critical. He and Idgrod spent half a day sneaking around the area. Possibly an open-air chapel with some remaining standing columns that may have supported arches. There were plenty of places to duck around for protection against shouts. Most of the battle would rely on Idgrod's bow, Rodina's lightning staff, and Valdimar's ice spears. Tariq would have nothing to do except shout until they brought it to ground, where he would take over the battle with Valdimar's help.
He had enchanted Idgrod's little bow with the strongest lightning and stamina drain effects he could manage. But for those to be effective, she would have to get close enough to shoot its belly with her conjured arrows. These conjured arrows were from Oblivion and of daedric design, having two biting claw points. They damaged like real daedric arrows, which are forged from ebony and tempered in the blood squeezed from a demon's heart. However, conjured arrows would fade shortly after striking. Any debilitating enchantments imparted by her bow would also fade away.
Her compromise was to have the weaponsmith in Morthal forge special arrows with barbed heads that would eventually break away from the shaft and stay stuck in the flesh of the dragon's wings to continue the debilitating enchantments. The challenge remaining would be just how many arrows she could plant before the dragon was out of range.
They all hid, curled under stone-color blankets for four hours, waiting for the dragon to return and settle down to sleep. Idgrod, by far, had the most hazardous perch. There was a gap between the word wall and the cliff behind it. She had to climb up the crumbling slope and sit in dragon shit to wait. When the dragon settled, she had an unenviable target. When it flexed wider, she began shooting.
She still got drenched as the dragon screamed, voided, and leaped into flight.
As soon as the euphoria of absorbing the dragon's soul was done, Tariq took Idgrod up on Cairo and rode down the mountain to the nearest river. He voluntarily laundered her soiled things while she bathed. "Why is it carnivore shit smells worse than an herbivore's?" he wondered as he scrubbed. It was more oily, too. He had started a second scrub when Rodina came and took over. In her bard's bag of tricks were dried clay chunks she hammered to a rough powder for blotting oil, then leather soap and a bard's experience of scrubbing out all sorts of things that got thrown by an unappreciative audience.
"What word did you choose to learn?" asked Idgrod. Her cheeks were red from over-scrubbing. She smelled of soap and flowers yet claimed all she could smell and taste was dragon turd. She had no appetite for the tender young deer Valdimar had caught.
"TOOR. It's the second word of the fire breath shout."
"So you're a fire dragon then?"
"Not until I find the third word." Tariq grinned. "I doubt that makes me a fire dragon any more than my other shouts make me a speed dragon, ghost dragon, or brute force dragon."
"Have the Greybeards ever told you why they make you seek out the dragon words when they could easily teach them to you?" she asked.
"The easy road to unearned knowledge can breed arrogance," answered Tariq. "My father liked to say that. He required his students to research for answers. It was no different for his son. Even harder because I could make no excuse that my parents taught me differently and did not expect me to think for myself until I was much older. Then there is the physical limitation. As you've heard, I can learn the words easily enough. But to use any word, I must first empower it with a dragon soul."
"But do you not, as the Dragonborn, have a dragon's soul?" asked Idgrod.
"So I am told. But I am without a dragon's body, so perhaps that is why my flesh is so weak and blood is too thin as a sickly dragon babe that I must be carefully nursed with little bits of food to grow. Alas, as a point, the words I learned from the Greybeards came at the sacrifice of a piece of their own souls. It would kill them to give me more. And there is the fact that they have a more arduous learning time, spending years to learn a single word. They focus on peace. I believe — and mayhap I am wrong — but I believe the forceful push shout, FUS RO DAH, are the most violent words they know. Perhaps they know fire also, perhaps some other one. As the Nord dragonborn, I shall have to know many more violent words to battle the dragons. These are not words and powers that one can easily spar with and not suffer serious injuries."
"Of course," agreed Idgrod. "Some things you just have to jump into feet first and survive. When was your first battle, if I may ask?"
"I was 12. A dear friend had been captured by bandits while watching the goats. He was an exceptionally good-looking boy that could be sold for a fair price. I heard of his capture when his father came to gather men to help him search the hills. They wouldn't allow me to join the search. I waited until they were gone, and then I took one of my father's old swords and dared to search alone. I also took my mother's dog, which often played with the young kids. Riverview was on the edge of the great desert. Many valleys and caves to hide in." Tariq wasn't aware he was frowning.
That was not a pleasant time in his childhood. He had been restless. Rebellious. He dreamed of being an Ansei even then. Instead of applying himself to his studies, he ran off to practice the sword and dream of glorious battles. That enraged his father, who had temporarily resigned from the temple of HoonDing in Sentinel and moved his family to Riverview to concentrate on his son's education and to escape from the escalating political battles in Sentinel. He had no patience to deal with his son's perceived laziness, and this had even caused some problems with his marriage because his Imperial wife indulged her son's lack of discipline.
Ironically, it had been politics succeeding in involving the temple that forced his father to resume his duties and return to Sentinel, leaving them behind in Riverview for their safety, that saved his marriage. This also allowed Tariq to pursue his dreams.
He met Holy Father Mehmet of the temple to Tall Papa when he had run off to play fight with his sword. The day had been hot, and he had been hungry. There was a large pond and many trees on the temple grounds, and the priests there did not mind children helping themselves to the plump and sweet fruits of the fig and apricot trees. The chief priest was also a pharmacist, and Tariq had needed his medicines after losing a battle with the geese claiming the temple's pond and surrounding fruit trees that season as their nesting site. Mehmet had noticed angry birds circling a blackberry patch and the wooden sword desperately fending them off. He'd thrown special berries to calm the geese and pulled a well-chastised Tariq out of the bushes. He had recognized the boy as the wild son of the respected scholar from Sentinel. "An intelligent man, wise in lore, but I find him sometimes surprisingly rigid for a worshiper of HoonDing, the here-and-gone spirit of unpredictable salvation," Tariq had overheard Mehmet commenting to another priest in the hall outside the room Tariq had been placed to recover. Mehmet, of course, would not have said such a thing within his hearing, but he had left the room when he thought Tariq had finally fallen asleep.
"We are born, then gone — make the most of it." That was was the first tenet of the HoonDing faith his father had taught him. Tariq knew he could be a wild brat, but mother once confided that a younger Selim had been just as wild when she met him in the Imperial City. He had overcompensated when he'd returned home and assumed his hereditary duties. "He has many enemies," she'd also said sadly. "My son, most of the time, we have a choice. Choose your enemies as wisely as you choose your friends. However, as we are fallible, we may choose wrongly. And one never knows when the ribbon that looked so good at the time in the market will be all wrong at the day of the party."
"As I knew, my mother's dog was keen to find its missing playmates. Most searches went to areas where goats could be watered and fed. A logical choice. However, the dog took me into a rocky desert area. The bandits had found a cavern with an underground stream. They had stolen wagons of barley and hay for the goats. Foodstuff and wine for themselves. I hid and listened. Soon I understood most were not evil, hardened criminals except for the three leaders who had taken my friend to sell. They were just desperate commoners looking to sustain themselves and their families. It does not matter in the end. Desperation had driven them to choose a profession where the final wage could only be death.
"I went and found one party of adult searchers. They agreed after I told them all I'd overheard that they could not wait until all parties were assembled. It was seven against twenty. They did not want me to come, but neither could they stop me. Hammad, who led the group, was a retired city guard captain of Taneth. He planned the battle and made use of my smaller size to sneak around the camp to place objects. We attacked when most were asleep. My job then was to drive out the goats, causing confusion to the guards stationed outside the cave. But that did not mean I didn't experience battle. I killed my first two men that day. The first one that came for me tripped over the goat that ran in front of him. I put my sword through his chest while he was still on the ground. The second was much the same, except I only held my sword steady as he fell onto it, pushed by the horns of the buck that got him from behind."
"And what did the young boy feel afterwards?" asked Idgrod neutrally.
Tariq stared back into those black eyes. They weren't the tired eyes of her mother, who had seen too many dark events of war. But, thankfully, they also weren't the eyes that judged the soul of the dead sorcerer and saw beyond the facets of the soul gems.
"On that day, he only rejoiced that his friend and his goats were safe and that none of the men of the search party would die of their injuries. If the boy suffered, it was only because his mother took away his sword and conspired with his tutors and servants to keep him home with double his studies for the next month."
Idgrod laughed and held up a jug of beer, indicating he should hold out his cup for a refill.