Chapter 50
It's about halfway through the month of Second Seed when Mull and the Mighty Mudcrabs set out for Ustengrav. After several days of careful planning, Mull implements an elaborate scheme to sneak out of Whiterun using a group of unwitting merchants as cover. He doesn't want that creepy bastard Arcturus or his goons to notice he's leaving. Lydia, Torgen, and Jenassa think his behavior is exceedingly odd, but he doesn't answer their questions and refuses to tell Lydia what's going on no matter how many times she demands to know. She would completely freak out if she were to learn about the Penitus Oculatus.
The godsdamn Penitus Oculatus. He shivers while recalling the casual displays of magic Arcturus threw around like they were nothing during their nighttime meeting. I still can't believe that happened, but… I guess this is my life now.
Officially, Mull and his mercenaries are traveling to a place on the northern plains called Silent Moons Camp to execute a bounty on behalf of the Jarl, which was their excuse for leaving town. The Jarl probably assumed the Dragonborn would come straight back to Whiterun to continue carrying out his Dragonbornly duties, but Mull intentionally never stated he would do that. In fact, he expects to be gone for at least a month and a half. Balgruuf already promised to let him go to Ustengrav when the time comes, but that was before the Penitus Oculatus showed their hand. Now Mull's greatest concern is getting out of Whiterun without anyone noticing, and if the Penitus Oculatus are anything more than rank amateurs, they'll surely have moles planted within the Jarl's household.
The Jarl won't be pleased in the slightest with Mull's truancy, but that frankly isn't his problem.
After exiting through the city gates and emerging into the outer townlands, the Mighty Mudcrabs turn north and hurry for the safety of Whiterun Hold's sparsely-inhabited plains. It'll be difficult for anyone to catch up to them once they're out in the wilderness, or so Mull hopes. It might be a naïve hope seeing as the Penitus Oculatus found him so easily once already.
But his plan doesn't quite go off without a hitch. They've almost reached the beginning of the grassy steppelands when they unexpectedly encounter a woman leaning casually against a fence on the side of the road. Her fiery red hair and oversized recurve bow make her instantly recognizable.
When they come within earshot, Aela the Huntress crosses her arms and grins smugly. "Going somewhere?"
A huge Nord man is standing behind her like a bodyguard, not that she would ever need one. His long black hair, blocky features, and scarred face are vaguely familiar. Mull thinks his name is Farkas, one of Aela's fellow Companions. Or maybe he's Vilkas. He always gets those two mixed up.
Both of the Companions of Jorrvaskr look like they're outfitted for a multiday journey, with bulky backpacks and rolled-up cloaks laying at their feet. Their clothing is mostly comprised of hides and warm furs appropriate for traveling the wilds of Skyrim
"Yes I am, and before you ask, it's none of your business. See you later." Mull goes to walk past Aela and her friend without stopping, but the big man steps in front of him and blocks his path before he can get too far. He glowers darkly at the oversized interloper and the interloper glowers right back. "Goddamn, you're an ugly bastard," Mull sneers.
The Companion reaches up and grabs the hilt of a greatsword protruding over his shoulder.
"Now, now. You boys shouldn't be getting into spats without a good reason." Aela unhurriedly saunters over. "Farkas is just trying to help, so be nice to him, okay? There's something I want to talk to you about."
"Tell your pet bear to move aside if he doesn't want a few new scars to add to his collection."
"Not gonna happen." The Huntress crosses her arms and frowns. "Are you always this prickly? Surely you can spare a few minutes for an old friend like me."
"I really am in a bit of a hurry, so I'd appreciate it if you could find somebody else to pester." The faster he can put distance between himself and Whiterun, the less likely the Penitus Oculatus will catch wind of his escape – if they haven't already.
Aela gives him a long, searching look. "…You know, it wasn't difficult for me to track you here. I'm sure you're smart enough to see this wasn't a coincidental meeting. I've been keeping an eye on you ever since you snuck out of the city earlier this morning."
"Why the sudden interest?"
"You have a very unique scent," she continues. "It's hard to miss for those of us who're sensitive to such things. Sometimes I can feel it lingering in my nostrils for hours after you've left Jorrvaskr. There aren't many mortals who smell so potent, and none without a reason."
Without breaking eye contact, Mull lowers his head and sniffs beneath one of his arms. Torgen and Jenassa chuckle at the display while Aela tolerantly smiles.
"I know, I know, it's so funny. But seriously Mull, you aren't as discreet as you think you are. There will always be people like me who can take a single whiff of you and instantly perceive that you're more than you seem at first glance. Don't forget that. And if you do, don't come whining to me when things get down and dirty because of it."
"What is she referring to?" asks Jenassa under her breath.
"Don't worry about it," Torgen lazily replies. "Just some personal business between the two of 'em. The boss has known this crazy bitch longer than he's known me or the princess, so I think they've got some kind of history if you catch my drift. Best not to pry too deeply."
"I see. I'll take that under advisement."
Mull glances at Farkas and notes that his expression doesn't shift at all. He gets a feeling that the big Companion is aware of Aela's secret identity as a werewolf since she wouldn't be talking about this stuff so openly otherwise. "…Thanks for the heads up," he eventually responds.
"No need. I always look out for my friends, even if they're grumpy prudes like you."
"That's me," he snarks. "Now what do you want?"
"I want you to let us come with you." Her smile returns. "We've got some business on the northern plains and it seems like you're headed in the same direction. We might as well travel together for a little while."
"Where's your destination?" Lydia inquires as she steps forward. "Does it have a name?"
"It's an ancient Nordic burial site called Dustman's Cairn. It should be about four or five days' worth of walking from Whiterun, close to the foothills of the Skyborn Mountains. Not too far from wherever you're headed, I hope?"
"Doesn't sound far at all," Mull mutters suspiciously. He squints at Aela and she offers an innocent grin.
"I've personally never heard of this Dustman's Cairn, but I don't see why we shouldn't take them along," interjects Lydia. "Aela is a trusted friend."
"Don't jinx us. You never know what kind of trouble she'll get herself into, along with the rest of us by extension."
"Can't argue with that," the Huntress laughs. "So what'll it be? Mind if we tag along for a bit? I promise you won't regret it."
"Stop making promises you can't keep before I change my mind."
"Oh, don't be like that! I swear I'll pull my weight! You should know that I'm the best wilderness guide on this side of Whiterun, and I know these plains like the back of my hand. I'll show you all the best spots!"
"Like what?" asks Lydia.
"Grass, rocks, and more rocks! And maybe a mammoth or two if you're lucky."
"That sounds… interesting," the housecarl politely offers.
"I know, right?"
"Okay then," Mull sighs. "For better or worse, fine. I won't say no. We're headed for the Hjallmarch so you can join us until we reach the mountains." Aela's the type of person who knows what she wants and won't stop until she gets it. It sounds like her mind is already made up, so at this point arguing about it won't accomplish anything.
"Good answer! Thanks for that, Mull. I know I'm a bit of a handful sometimes, but you really won't regret this. I mean it."
"I'll be the judge of that," he grumbles. Aela beams at him with genuine satisfaction and his own lips twitch upwards against his will.
Then she turns serious again. "I won't ask why you're trying to get out of the city without anyone marking your departure, but I'm sure you have a good reason. I could smell your anxiety from almost half a mile away, so I'm guessing it must be something big."
"You could say that," he drily responds. "There are some people in Whiterun who I'm trying to avoid."
"Then you'll be happy to know that there isn't anybody following us right now – at least, nobody who I can detect, and there aren't many people who could fool the nose of Hircine's chosen. I made sure to keep my head down while I was tracking your party this morning, so nobody should've been able to mark my passage even with that big oaf bumbling along with me. If you get found out, it won't be because of me. We're in the clear for now."
"That's good to know. It sounds like I might owe you one."
"Again."
"Hmph. Yeah," he scoffs genially. "Again."
"Let me know if you need someone in Whiterun to be permanently removed," the Huntress continues. "I'm not on the level of the Dark Brotherhood, but I know how to be subtle with a knife or an arrow. Just give me the word and I can make it happen."
"Aela, I appreciate the thought, but these are people you should stay away from no matter what. In fact, once we all get back to Whiterun in a few weeks' time, you should probably keep your distance for a little while. For your own sake." He doesn't want to get anyone else involved in this Penitus Oculatus mess if he can help it. They seem to be after him specifically, not any of the others.
He glances over at Torgen, Lydia, and Jenassa, who are now engaging Farkas in a welcoming but somewhat one-sided conversation. The big Companion of Jorrvaskr doesn't seem like an especially talkative man, but they're doing their best.
"…I'll keep that in mind," Aela calmly replies. "You wouldn't say it if you didn't mean it." She gives him a friendly pat on the shoulder before suddenly dropping into a crouch, stalking behind Lydia, and pouncing on the unsuspecting housecarl before she realizes what's happening. She wraps her arms around the shorter girl's waist and hoists her up. "Come on, girl! Let's get going!" She slings her prey over her shoulder and starts down the road at a steady trot. "Grab my stuff, Farkas! I'm busy here."
"Yes ma'am," he rumbles.
"Hey! L-let go! Put me down!" Lydia twists and turns in the Huntress' grasp, but her efforts are ineffectual and her captor erupts into mischievous laughter.
Torgen chortles mirthfully while Mull just shakes his head and runs his fingers through his hair. "What a strange woman. At least this won't be boring," he grouses.
-x-
They spend the next several days traveling northwest across the high plains.
The weather is chilly and dry, which is typical for the part of Whiterun Hold throughout most of the year. There are no trees and very few hills or major undulations of the terrain. It's completely flat with miles of unobstructed visibility in each direction. Mountain ranges are looming on every horizon except the west, and even there the travelers can spot one or two individual peaks far in the distance. The fields of stubby yellow grass seem to go on forever, and the only indicator they're making any progress in their journey is the sight of the northern mountains growing steadily larger with each passing day.
Torgen and Farkas unexpectedly become fast friends and fall into a habit of drinking and swapping stories around the campfire each night while laughing uproariously. "Those two icebrains are practically made for each other," Aela jokes. "Look at 'em. I don't think I've ever seen Farkas having this much fun."
"He's found a kindred spirit," Mull snorts. "I never thought I'd see the day. Torgen is one of a kind, and not in a good way."
Aela, Lydia, and Jenassa spend most of their time gossiping together about whatever it is that women tend to find interesting, leaving Mull to keep watch over the landscape as they travel through the pathless steppe. He greatly enjoys the ruggedly beautiful scenery.
These plains feel free, like they could walk endlessly for years and still have the world all to themselves. I understand why the clansmen like living out here I wouldn't mind waking up to this vista every day. He shivers and bundles into his cloak. I don't appreciate the wind though.
One good thing about traveling in peace and quiet is that it gives him plenty of time to think. He keeps up with his meditations and also continue practicing Farengar's flame spell. He's gotten to the point where he can produce continuous gouts of fire for several seconds at a time, but they're still sputtery and prone to dying out earlier than intended. His magicka channeling is still inefficient and will require a lot of consistent training to master. He hopes to eventually work his way up to a full-fledged firebolt, but that seems like it's a long ways off for now.
Somewhat surprisingly, Lydia also learned a bit of magic from Farengar during their stay in Whiterun, specifically Alteration magic. According to the court wizard, she displayed a surprising level of aptitude with Alteration spells considering her overall lack of magical ability. She mastered a spell called oakflesh, the most basic iteration of magic armor, and has been gradually grasping the fundamentals of stoneflesh, the next iteration. Manipulating magicka is inordinately difficult for her and she struggles to accomplish the most basic spells, so Farengar also told her that she probably won't be able to learn much magic beyond the level of an apprentice. Still, something is better than nothing.
Each night, Torgen and Aela regale them with what they insist are traditional Nordic tales while they eat dinner around the campfire. Torgen's favorite story is about a snow whale and a dirt bird – whatever those are supposed to be – who journey together to the Planes of Oblivion and confront the dread lord Molag Bal in an expletive-laden adventure that would probably make a priestess of Kyne start bleeding uncontrollably from the ears.
Aela recites a somewhat less raunchy but still energetic tale about a girl named Aless and her family's intelligent bull Mor who together challenge an evil god called Dagon to a battle of wits. Dagon the Demon King tries to trick Aless into inadvertently ending the world, but she doesn't fall for his duplicity and emerges victorious in the end. Or something like that. Mull doesn't listen too closely.
At one point during a lull in the storytelling, Torgen starts picking his teeth with a green twig and stares at Jenassa without looking away. When it becomes clear that the man is examining her for some reason, she scowls at him with distaste from the corner of her eye.
That's when he speaks up. "Is it true that Dark Elf women are always horny?"
The campsite goes dead silent. Lydia drops her spoon and nearly loses her grip on her bowl of soup along with it.
Jenassa slowly and menacingly turns to glare full-on at the Nord bandit. "Would you like to repeat that, n'wah?" she softly demands. "I didn't quite catch it."
"Are Dark Elves actually the shameless sluts everyone makes them out to be, or is that just a tall tale? I sometimes overhear people talking about that sort of thing and it always makes me wonder."
Mull winces heavily.
The Dunmer literally trembles with rage. "…How dare you insinuate such a preposterous thing," she spits out.
"Yes or no? It's a simple question. I mean, have you read 'The Real Barenziah?'"
Aela sputters with poorly-concealed amusement. "That's one hell of a book," she snorts.
Mull elbows the Huntress hard in the ribs until she gets herself under control. "Torgen," he sighs loudly. "She's gonna slit your throat if you keep that up, you idiot. Shut your mouth before she does it for you. And Jenassa…"
The elf's angry crimson eyes swivel to him.
"Both of you are under my employ, which means you aren't allowed to kill each other without me saying so. Don't murder him in his sleep, please. I know they do things differently over there in Morrowind, but in this company my word is law. I've invested too much time and energy in that fuckup to lose him now because of his big mouth."
"…I shall endeavor not to disappoint," she growls. She marches off to her bedroll and goes to sleep a short distance away from the camp. Everyone keeps quiet for the rest of the evening, not wanting to disturb her rest – otherwise Torgen might not survive until dawn. For his part, the no-filter Nord leans back against his knapsack with his arms behind his head and a smug expression on his face. He's pleased with another job well done.
"Quite a crew you've got here," chuckles Aela.
Mull glumly nods. "Quite a crew indeed."
-x-
On the fourth day, they arrive at their first stop of Silent Moons Camp, the stronghold of the eponymous Silent Moons Clan. This particular group of clansfolk has been causing trouble lately and Jarl Balgruuf is promising a good amount of gold to whoever can either claim their chieftain's head or otherwise convince him to stop being a chronic nuisance to the Hold's trade caravans and sedentary farmers. The clan's rise to prominence on the northern steppe is a fairly recent phenomenon brought about by their ability to craft large numbers of enchanted weapons through unknown means. Apparently they're masters of nighttime raids and have an unusual penchant for burning things down.
So Mull decides to do the logical thing and strolls right up to the front of the clan's settlement in the middle of broad daylight. The site of Silent Moons Camp is hard to miss, being the most prominent geographic feature in a ten-mile radius. It's comprised of a multistory mound of earth and stone vaguely pyramidal in shape, with a broad base tapering to a smaller peak. A wide staircase with multiple landings provides access to the top of the megalithic structure, where there appears to be some sort of dome-roofed shrine. The entire mound is at least sixty or seventy feet in height. Stone dolmens are scattered around the area in seemingly random locations alongside interspaced tents and timber huts with heather roofing. Smoke is rising from dozens of chimneys and cooking fires, around which numerous figures can be seen going about their daily business. The clan stronghold looks like it's home to hundreds of people.
Mull might've been worried about their odds against so many people under regular circumstances, but fortunately this clan's chieftain is known for his sense of personal honor according to Lydia. The Mighty Mudcrabs stopped at spearpoint when they reach the entrance of the stronghold, but it doesn't take much haranguing for the clan's warriors to summon their chieftain for a personal parlay. The chieftain takes one look at their group, grins like a hungry wolf, and presents his demands – Mull and the Mighty Mudcrabs are to face off against him along with his eldest son and two of his best warriors in a four-on-four duel to first blood. Despite Lydia's reassurances, Mull had been expecting the clan's reaction to be much more violent and problematic, so he doesn't see a reason to risk refusing their proposal.
The clan goes all out for the event with decorations and music, almost to the point of making it a full-fledged celebration. A grassy field adjacent to Silent Moons Camp is staked out as a sparring ring, squads of musicians armed with drums and flutes are assembled, and long garlands strung with dried plants and other livery are suspended from timber poles planted deeply into the earth. The clansfolk even slaughter a few pigs and sheep to roast over open fires.
Mull finds this whole development to be extremely confusing, but Lydia explains that it isn't uncommon for some of the more 'civilized' clans of the high plains to purposefully misbehave whenever they're in a prosperous season as a way of challenging the Jarl of Whiterun's authority. They then eagerly look forward to fighting it out with whoever the Jarl's sends to pacify them in ritual trials-by-combat, as they view the entire affair as a way to determine if Whiterun is still worthy of their loyalty or not. In their eyes, strength is everything.
When the preparations are complete, Mull and his companions arrange themselves against the chieftain's party in the center of the sparring ring and the festivities commence. He refrains from using his Voice so the clansmen don't learn his identity – he doesn't want to leave a trail of rumors for the Penitus Oculatus to follow – but luckily, it turns out he doesn't need it anyways.
It's obvious from the very beginning that the clan chieftain and his subordinates are only taking this half-seriously. They're legitimately pushing the Mighty Mudcrabs to the limits of their endurance and skill, but they also aren't trying to execute killing blows or using their full strength. Since they're being such nice hosts, Mull returns the favor and holds himself back from cutting them up too badly.
Meanwhile, Aela and Farkas keep their distance and watch the show from afar since this technically isn't any of their business. It doesn't take long for the local kids to start climbing around on Farkas' muscular frame while Aela tears into an entire shank of mint-basted lamb with inhuman gusto.
Torgen leans into the theatrical atmosphere and tries his hand at performing over-the-top feats of martial acrobatics to rile up the crowd. They cheer boisterously for him whenever he spins his greataxe in complex maneuvers or drops into an exaggerated stance and flexes his muscles. Some of the younger women even swoon.
Jenassa doesn't fully get the memo and nearly lops off one of their opponents' heads during the 'aggressive negotiations,' after which the clan's four champions are very careful to keep their distance from her. Nobody wants to mess with an armed and temperamental Dunmer. Still, Mull is glad that he brought her along, or else forcing these poor bastards to submit might be even more of a challenge. She's certainly good at intimidation, what with her eerie red eyes and perpetually stern demeanor.
Lydia sticks close to Mull for the duration of the melee and helps him fend off a combined assault from the chieftain and his eldest son. The chieftain is a spear-wielder with reddish-brown hair and an eyepatch while his son is an axe-wielder with long hair of the same color and an impressive beard – stereotypical specimens of the hardy and half-tamed plains dwellers. Both men are strong and fast, but they can't overcome Lydia's tenacious and well-practiced defense even when they work in tandem. Mull uses his housecarl's roundshield as mobile cover and darts out with lightning-fast swipes at their foes, keeping them on their toes and discouraging them from committing to powerful attacks. His footwork has improved tremendously in the last month thanks to some pointers from Lydia and Jenassa.
After about half an hour of low-intensity dueling, the clan's champions finally get tired out and concede defeat. Their chieftain gets down on one knee and pledges to be a good boy from here forward on pain of eternal damnation for blaspheming the mercy of Stuhn. He doesn't seem to take the loss personally, and the old fart even shakes Mull's hand with a smile and invites them to stay for lunch. At least he's friendlier than Iron-hand.
The Mighty Mudcrabs take a short breather for a couple of hours while enjoying the clan's food and company. Aela and Farkas make a concerted effort to drink their weight in mead, Torgen obstinately flirts with every woman in earshot, and Jenassa and Lydia are bombarded with curious questions about their origins. Some of these people have never seen a Dunmer before, and during the melee Lydia displayed a remarkable level of talent with her sword for being such a young woman.
Mull manages to find himself a calm spot near the edge of the encampment where he can enjoy a platter of mutton in peace, but the chieftain and a few others quickly track him down and insist on sharing a meal together. They make for good enough company, even if their thickly-accented Nordic is difficult to understand at times. To think I came here fully prepared to bash heads and now they're trying to make me their new drinking buddy. The Nords of Skyrim never cease to amaze me, he thinks sarcastically.
Torgen wanders over to join the conversation once he gets tired of harassing the local female population and plops down next to Mull. He looks around the encampment and sighs contentedly as he watches children chase each other around old standing stones and women gossip as they prepare more food. "This is what a clan is supposed to be – a community. A real one, not like that gang of snowbacks who followed Iron-hand to the gates of Oblivion like a bunch of headless lemmings."
Mull swallows the last bite of his mutton and stands to go find some more. "Does this remind you of home?"
"Aye. I'll almost be sorry to leave."
"I wouldn't mind dumping you here if it's really what you want. I'll drop by to say hello in a year or two."
"I know you don't really mean that, boss."
"But what if I did?"
"Then I'd say you're a heartless bastard."
Mull chuckles as he walks away, leaving the older man to have his social time with the clan leaders.
Once everything is settled and they've eaten their fill, the Mighty Mudcrabs say farewell to their new friends and get underway for their next destination.
While planning out the route for this journey, Mull briefly considered turning north at Silent Moons Camp and passing through the ancient valley-city of Labyrinthian. It's objectively the easiest route from Whiterun to Morthal, the capital of the Hjallmarch, and an Imperial road even runs straight through it, although it isn't used as heavily as it once was. The Imperial Simulacrum during the Third Era and the accompanying conflicts between rebellious provinces resulted in most of the largest overland trade routes throughout Skyrim, High Rock, Hammerfell, and Cyrodiil declining in importance while maritime routes rose to prominence in their stead.
Labyrinthian also a popular destination for Imperial loyalist pilgrims retracing the steps of the Eternal Champion across Tamriel, but their numbers have declined drastically ever since the killing of High King Torygg and the worsening of the Civil War.
The downside for Mull is that Labyrinthian is the site of an intermittent Imperial garrison due to its strategic and commercial importance. The Empire makes a habit of monitoring traffic between Whiterun Hold and the Hjallmarch during the spring and summer months, and since Imperial soldiers have a tendency to make everything complicated – to say nothing of the Penitus Oculatus – Mull would very much like to avoid them.
So instead the Mighty Mudcrabs continue farther west towards the more treacherous and less well-known Eldersblood Pass, which coincidentally means they'll be going in the same direction as Aela and Farkas for another few days. Eldersblood Pass is very difficult for wagons and beasts of burden to traverse, but four people on foot should be able to do it easily enough.
At least the others seem mostly pleased with his decision. "I've had enough of ancient Nordic ruins to last me for a while," Torgen shudders. "The way I see it, you're doing us a favor."
Mull shares a meaningful look with him. "Aye, you never know what you'll find crawling around in those places. We learned that the hard way."
"Imperials are obstinate at the best of times and outright malicious at the worst," Jenassa offers her two septims. "I concur with your pet ignoramus. Avoiding them when possible can only be to our benefit."
Torgen glares unhappily at the Dunmer. "It sounds like you've been picking up a few new insults from the princess. And to think we were just starting to get along."
"Then you seem to be operating under a few misconceptions. Allow me to rectify them for you."
While his employees squabble amongst themselves, Mull gazes out over the barren plains and asks himself how much he should tell Jenassa about his true intentions for this quest. He'll probably need to reveal his ability with the Voice at some point, which shouldn't be too much of an issue. It would only disclose his status as a Tongue and not necessarily the fact that he's Dragonborn, and while being a Tongue is noteworthy enough on its own, Jenassa shouldn't have a reason to think he's anything more than that as long as he keeps his cards close to his chest.
He's already told Lydia and Torgen the true reason they're going to Ustengrav – for the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller – but rather than trusting Jenassa with that information, instead he claimed that they've been hired by private buyers to retrieve some old artifact from within the ancient fane. "It's related to those personal matters I was stuck dealing with all winter long, so I'm sure you'll understand if I don't go into much more detail than that," he'd half-lied.
"Of course, sera. I would never dream of prying into matters that have nothing to do with me, just as I expect the same courtesy from others."
He smiles to himself. If there's one thing he can say in the dour Dunmer's favor, it's that she doesn't waste time asking unnecessary questions – the mark of a consummate professional. To her, the promise of coin is all that matters.
He doesn't feel like he's gotten a good read on his newest employee and honestly can't say he knows her very well, but that's fine. Mercenaries don't have to be friends in order to work well together.
-x-
They arrive at Dustman's Cairn after another few days of travel. Unlike Silent Moons Camp, there isn't much to see here. The entrance to the cairn appears to be located at the pinnacle of a shallow-sloped hill with a narrow game trail zigzagging up to the top. The only signs of the cairn's presence that Mull can see from the base of the hill are a trio of misshapen standing stones erected near the peak that have been worn smooth by the wind over their centuries of existence.
A stout pokes its head over the top of a nearby ridge, cautiously keeping an eye out for predators. Birds of prey are wheeling overhead just beneath the low-hanging clouds as they search of their next meal. Out here on the plains, there's almost no cover for wildlife to conceal their presence from hungry enemies.
They're almost through saying their goodbyes and suffering through Aela's round of bone-crushing hugs for everybody when Mull suddenly stops in his tracks. He could swear he heard something strange just now.
He freezes and falls silent for a few seconds, straining his ears to hear over the blustery wind. At first there's nothing, but then…
…There it is again.
Voices.
He hears familiar whispers emanating from the direction of the cairn, echoing and vague like they're traveling a great distance. They're exactly like the sounds he heard in Ivarstead, only much fainter.
"Do you hear those too?" he murmurs.
'I do, Qahnaarin. This location must contain artifacts related to the dov or inscriptions of Words of Power. Hmmm.' The dragon hums thoughtfully. 'To think we would encounter an unexpected opportunity in these desiccated wastes. Chance this may be, but perhaps it is the workings of fate also. I would council you to investigate these ruins.'
"I don't know…" He feels an undeniable desire to delve into the cairn and seize its hidden knowledge for himself, almost to the point of obsession, but he also wants to get out of Whiterun Hold as quickly as possible to prevent the Penitus Oculatus from picking up his trail. He can't afford to get sidetracked with anything – not even this.
The Silent Moons Camp job was necessary for providing an excuse to the Jarl, and it didn't take long at all to complete. On the other hand, going down into this cairn could burn an entire day or even two for all he knows. The subterranean vaults of Bleak Falls Barrow were enormous in scope and suspiciously mazelike. Who's to say this Dustman's Cairn won't be the same?
His hopes of escaping the eyes of the Penitus Oculatus are probably in vain, but he hates the idea of being followed around and observed by unseen watchers at all hours of the day. It would be a huge weight off his shoulders if he can evade them for at least a couple of weeks. He'll eventually return to Whiterun and they'll almost certainly find him again, but until then, he wants to make their lives as difficult as possible if for no other reason than to spite that peeping shithead Arcturus.
'You swore that you would explore the barrow in the joor settlement at the foot of the Monahven, but you ultimately failed to do so. And now here you are with a valuable opportunity prostrated before you, and you would throw it aside as well? Am I to take this as cowardice, Qahnaarin?' snarls Mirmulnir.
"I had other things to worry about back then and that's still true now. The Penitus Oculatus could be on my trail as we speak and I can't afford to dawdle. I can always come back here later, or… actually, wait a minute. I have an idea."
"You good there, boss? You haven't zoned out like that since we went to Ivarstead. What's going on?"
Ignoring his right-hand man's questioning, Mull glances at Aela and jerks his head to the side in a silent request for her to take a walk with him. They stroll a short distance away while the others watch them with poorly-concealed interest. He doesn't know how much of his muttering they overheard and at this point it's too late to worry about it.
Aela peers at him while crossing her arms and tapping her fingers. "You thinking of joining us for this one?"
"Not this time, but Aela, there's something I want to ask you to do. Can you keep an eye out for anything strange while you're down in the cairn?"
"Like what?"
"Like draugr, and… well, I don't know how to explain it so let me just show you." He finds a stick and writes out several words in the dragon language in the dirt. Fus. Ro. Dovah. Mirmulnir. "If your see letters that look like this on a wall or a tablet or something, can you copy them down for me? I'll want to take a look at them when I get back to Whiterun."
"Sure, I've got some spare bandages and charcoal so it should be easy enough. Does this have to do with you-know-what?"
"It does. Sometimes these runes contain Words of Power that help me learn new Shouts. Right now, I'm getting a feeling that there's at least one down there somewhere." The whispering redoubles, as if somehow knowing that he's acknowledging them. "No, not just a feeling. I know for a fact."
Her eyes go wide. "…Alright then. I can do that. Hehe," she giggles to herself. "I never thought the Dragonborn would ask me to help him out with his mystical hero stuff. This is kind of exciting!"
"Glad to hear it," he wryly replies. "Be careful down there. If you haven't gone inside one of these old barrows before, just know that there's bound to be some nasty surprises waiting for you."
"This isn't my first time, but you're concern is duly noted."
They walk back to the group, finish their goodbyes, and part ways. Mirmulnir grumbles in Mull's ear for hours, but he eventually quiets down when it becomes clear that he isn't going to change his mind. It's frustrating to leave behind what might be the key to a new Shout, but some unknowable sixth sense is telling him that he'll have plenty more opportunities to expand his repertoire in the near future.
-x-
When they're less than a day away from the mountains, Mull and his companions pass through a small area of scattered evergreen woodlands in the otherwise treeless plains. Lydia informs them that its name is Greenspring Hollow.
Less than a hundred paces into the treeline, they stumble across what can only be the remains of a fresh battlefield, the terrible aftermath of war. The woods have been permeated by the putrid stench of bloated decaying corpses and entire flocks of carrion birds are lurking in the branches overhead, croaking hatefully and glaring at the four trespassers with pitiless black eyes.
There are bodies strewn beneath the canopy in all directions, sometimes piled so thickly that the ground can't be seen beneath them. Most of them are clad in the tattered remnants of blue tabards and bearskin clothing that identify them as Stormcloak rebels, but there are more than a few steel-plated Imperial legionaries lying among them as well.
"What are Imperials and Stormcloaks doing in Whiterun Hold?" Mull asks nobody in particular. He swipes at a fly that buzzes too close to his face for his liking. Countless multitudes of the damn things are swarming around them in black clouds, and gods only know what they've been eating.
"I couldn't hazard a guess," Lydia snarls. "Clearly they no longer respect my uncle's neutrality. Neither Ulfric Stormcloak nor General Tullius care for his attempts at diplomacy and I'm afraid we're not long for the war. Especially after seeing this."
A bit further in, they find a large number of dead Stormcloaks who look like they were executed in one big row, about fifty in total. Their bodies were left here to rot. Whoever did the deed – Imperials, presumably – must not have wanted to waste time or effort burying them.
"That's a lot of dead men," Torgen grimly observes.
"Aye."
Lydia drops to her knees next to the body of a girl lying on her back with blonde hair stained red, staring sightlessly at the sky through dilated green eyes. Her hands are bound and her throat was sliced open, exactly the same as all the other prisoners. "Why would they do something like this?" the housecarl demands through gritted teeth. "This is wrong! Do they have no honor?! How dare they call themselves Nords when they would spit upon Stuhn's mercy!"
Mull lightly places a hand on the girl's shoulder. "That's just the way of these things, Lydia. It's a lot harder to spare a life than it is to take one," he mutters. He knows that all too well. He thinks back to the boy he stabbed in the leg in Whiterun. He could've killed that stupid idiot and maybe he would've in the past, and yet he didn't.
"Maybe they weren't Nords," Torgen rumbles. "This smells like Cyrodiilic treachery to me. Bastards to a man, the lot of 'em."
"Perhaps," Jenassa neutrally comments. She nudges a discarded galea-style helmet with the tip of her boot while scanning the corpse-strewn field with sharp eyes. "Are we to stay here and search the dead for loot, or would you prefer to move on?" she calls to Mull.
"…I think moving on would be best," he says at length. He ignores the fiery glare that Lydia shoots him over her shoulder. "The victors might still be around here somewhere and I don't feel like tangling with them today. They might not take too kindly to scavengers."
"Very well."
Once Lydia pulls herself back together, they leave the battlefield behind and delve deeper into the coniferous woodlands. The wind isn't as harsh or cold as it was out on the high plains, which Mull counts as a blessing. The resident fauna is also different, and they catch sight of several elk, moose, squirrels, and even a sabrecat lurking in a meadow of purple heather at one point.
When they make camp that night, Lydia and Torgen turn in early while Mull and Jenassa stay awake to keep watch for a while. They sit around the fire in wordless but not entirely awkward silence.
Mull finds himself contemplating what they saw today. He's no stranger to death in its many brutal forms, but there was something unusually sobering about seeing so many corpses piled up together in a single place. There must've been a hundred of them all told. He's never seen that many dead men and women at the same time before, not even during the final stand of Joren Stone-Breaker's gang in the Jerall Mountains where Morven died.
After a while, he begins talking to Jenassa unprompted. He isn't sure why. Seeing that battlefield must've put him in an odd mood.
"I wonder how many men I've killed," he slowly starts. "That's a strange thought, isn't it? I'm sure it hasn't been anywhere near the number of dead from that battlefield back there, but it's gotta be more than a few. It seems bizarre to me that I, just one man, could've ended the lives of so many others. They were all folks leading their own lives with their own troubles. They could've ended mine if things had gone differently, but instead I ended theirs. Does that make me better or worse than them? More deserving to live or less?"
His voice drops.
"I see them in my dreams sometimes – the faces of those people. I recognize them, but I can't remember who they were or where it happened. After a while they all started blurring together. That doesn't sit right with me for some reason. You'd think remembering why I gutted them in the first place would be the least I could do."
Jenassa stares at him for a long moment. The firelight dances brightly in her bright red eyes. "…Forgive me for my impertinence sera, but I don't understand what point you're trying to make."
"Heh," he scoffs. "I'm not sure I do either."
The Dunmer shuffles uncomfortably. "If you ask me, our sole responsibility as individuals is to care for our own well-being along with the well-being of whoever we've deemed worthy of our care. If everyone comported themselves this way, then perhaps our world would be a less chaotic place. Those who are weak and cowardly have only themselves to blame for their shortcomings while warriors like you and myself ought to be immune to their grievances. I understand that my people and your people have differing perspectives on some of these matters," she says with a thin smile. "The Reclamations are many things, but merciful has never been one of them. However, there are also certain universal constants that I think we could find common ground on."
Mull grunts.
"You disagree?"
"Not too long ago, I think I would've. But now…"
"Be a hero… like I never could. For me."
"…I don't know what to think anymore."
He falls silent again after that, and their short but uncharacteristically philosophical conversation dwindles to a close. The only sources of noise for the rest of the night are the crackling of their campfire and the groaning of the wind passing between tree trunks.
-x-
They emerge from the coniferous forest and begin their ascent into the northern mountains the next morning, where a trackless gap between two peaks called Eldersblood Pass will give them passage into the Hjallmarch. With Lydia acting as their guide using a map she pilfered from her uncle's treasury, they scale the first half of the perilous pass in less than half a day with few difficulties. This isn't a popular route by any means, but it's much more discreet than Labyrinthian.
There are a few widely-spread homesteads and lodges dotting the grassy slopes on the southern side of the pass, but oddly enough there isn't any activity to be seen among them. There are no telltale columns of smoke rising from hearthfires and several buildings even have boarded windows. Mull wonders if this region was abandoned for some reason, but when he voices his question, neither none of his companions have any insight to offer.
He becomes distinctly more worried when they pass near the charred remains of a homestead that was very obviously burned to the ground at some point in the past. Mull carefully picks his way over to the site of the destroyed buildings and sifts his hands through a shallow mound of charcoal that might've once been an barn. It leaves heavy black smears across his fingers and palms, meaning it's still fresh. The scent of burnt timber and melted sap is hanging heavily in the air along with a fainter sickly-sweet smell that can only be cooked flesh. Whatever happened here, it happened recently.
There are a few patches of snow lingering here and there, but they're already in the process of melting beneath the rays of the spring sun. That makes the trek through the pass somewhat easier – disregarding the frequent streams of fast-flowing snowmelt – but it's still rough going due to the steep topography. More than once, Torgen is required to bodily drag Mull, Lydia, and Jenassa to the top of sheer ledges that they can't scale on their own. He claims that he's accustomed to this sort of terrain from spending so many years in the Pale's icy mountains.
When they've almost reached the summit of the pass, Mull pauses as he feels a distant sensation brush against him with invisible fingers, intangible yet there all the same. It's a soft, familiar warmth that radiates across the surface of his skin, causing his hair to stand on end.
It's followed seconds later by disembodied voices that whisper in his ears along with the faint echo of drums beating in tune with his feverish heart, causing his adrenaline to spike. This familiar phenomenon is precisely what he felt when Mirmulnir approached the Western Watchtower upon black wings heralding bloody battle all those months ago.
Dread washes over his body like a spray of molten magma. This is much more intense than when he sensed the distant presence of those two dragons in the Rift shortly after leaving Ivarstead.
A dragon must be close. Very close.
"If I can sense a dragon this strongly, does that mean it can sense me too?" he quietly mutters.
'Indeed,' Mirmulnir replies. 'One of our brothers is nearly upon us.'
"Well shit."
A booming roar echoes from the lofty peaks towering over their heads, causing flocks of birds to erupt into the sky in a frenzied panic.