They returned to Markarth with 11 Namira cultists. 11 fine, upstanding citizens with a craving for having people for dinner. Faleen took them to the dungeons for interrogation and later execution. Jarl Igmund was appalled at the number of citizens, even more at how many were Nords rather than the blasphemous Forsworn. The reward was 750 gold. Stingy. Brother Verulus had been far more generous for scaring off one cultist.
Faleen was going to be busy for a while, so Tariq went to see Calcelmo. As he left the throne room and walked to the side hall, he saw Aicantar marching three shock spiders back to their places in the Dwemer Museum. On the way back from the hidden temple, Aicantar had been happy to talk about Nchuand-Zel, the city below, where he had found the control rod and the spiders. It had taken him many months of tinkering to get the rod working again, and then more months to learn the right buttons to push to command the spiders.
Nchuand-Zel, Tariq learned, was probably the most complete city to be found in this part of Skyrim. Clan Rourken, a Dwemer clan migrating from Morrowind, had stayed here for a time as guests of Clan Duergar and had helped them build Nchuand-Zel before moving onward into the desert frontier of Volenfell where they'd built their cities.
Expeditions down into the city below were expensive because of the many dangers to be expected in Dwemer ruins. When Uncle Calcelmo led them, he gave strict orders that no one was to touch anything. No turning wheels, no flipping levers, no pushing buttons. Other expedition leaders were not so careful, and someone in recent teams hadn't followed that rule, had done something, and now there were Falmer in the deeper levels. The last expedition hadn't returned at all, and Calcelmo feared the worst. It was his fear that someone had turned off the deep defense systems of the city.
At some time in the future, the Falmer would start coming to the surface to hunt.
Tariq had to ask: who and what are the Falmer? The name translated to Snow Elf.
The Snow Elves, for a quick answer, were the elves that had once occupied the northern territories of Skyrim and High Rock. The Atmorans came, an incident happened, and there was a war that the Snow Elves obviously lost. They had fled underground to what they had hoped was safety with the Dwemer, the Deep Elves. But Uncle Calcelmo had a section of ancient Dwemer wall in his museum that had writing regarding that matter. It was a grim confession that the Dwemer had deliberately blinded and enslaved the Snow Elves. Calcelmo could tell him more if he was interested.
Tariq found the old elf sitting at one of his workbenches with a stack of slender books in front of him. His muttering hinted at frustration as he translated the works to the blank pages. Tariq politely scuffed the floor to alert the elf to his presence. Calcelmo looked up, an annoyed frown on his face that rapidly melted away.
"So, you're back. No further trouble I hope?"
"None at all. Faleen has taken the prisoners to interrogation. She will enjoy hunting down the rest, spreading fear amongst the vile wretches. It is a rewarding accomplishment in these troubled times."
"We must take what we can," Calcelmo agreed with a snort. "Is there something else you want of me? Or do you just need to use my equipment again?"
"I have questions and Aicantar said I'd best ask you these questions."
"And you are not happy about that," said Calcelmo shrewdly. "You'd rather not talk to an elf. Do not bother denying it, sword-singer, I recognize the small signs. Your control of your voice and facial expression is on par with any court dancer of Altmer politics, but work on your psyche defense. Your mental shield against Illusion's influence crashes down as subtle as a rusted gate. Anyone halfway competent in either Illusion or Restoration can sense this. Any Justiciar will suspect you are hiding secrets and will take that as an excuse for an arrest. Drawing your shield should be as smooth and swift and silent as you draw your sword."
He smiled with a twist of mockery. "I've heard your Redguard title being passed around by the guards. Faleen used it a couple of times when promoting your services to the Jarl. 'Lion of Yokuda,' is it? A grandiose description. They get quiet if I'm around, so you likely were active against the usual forays the Dominion will make from time to time to send in covert implant teams." He shrugged. "Don't worry. I am quite used to the hostilities and suspicions directed towards me. Most think me a Thalmor sympathizer or spy.
"Now, what questions do you have for me?"
"I appreciate your willingness to― "
Calcelmo interrupted. "Oh, I may have a price depending on your questions. Nchuand-Zel."
Tariq grinned. They both knew it was not a grin of humor. "Aicantar mentioned you were worried about the missteps of recent expeditions. He made mention of a defense system."
"I can't imagine how he'd mention that unless you were questioning him about Dwemer ruins and the subject of Falmer came up. Do your questions and my concerns dovetail there?"
"Likely."
Tariq wondered if consulting this elf was a good idea. He was far quicker and insightful than he had liked, except where Faleen was concerned.
"Good. Ask me your questions, then you tell me whether you would like to help with Nchuand-Zel before or after you retrieve the Jarl's family shield."
"You assume I will want to explore Nchuand-Zel."
"I assume, sword-singer, you will not run away from danger. It will likely take months for the Falmer to build up their numbers to where they will feel bold enough to surface and begin raiding the city for food. Anything living will do. Their hatred of surface dwellers is mindless and instinctual. It would be best to stop them before their numbers build to such a dangerous level.
"Now, you may wonder why I have not brought this concern to the Jarl. Simple. As soon as I tell him, he will start blustering about action, then Justiciar Ondolemar will know. So far, that one believes Nchuand-Zel to be a typical, gutted, crumbling ruin. He is totally focused on his mission to subjugate Skyrim. I do not want him to know the true potential of an intact, functional city. It would make a perfect base for invasion. Build a hidden army while wearing a Nord-filled Markarth as the perfect cover. I would not put it past the Thalmor attempting to re-enslave the Falmer to use them as their war dogs.
"And then there is Silver-Blood. Should he hear of a potential invasion from below ground, he will naturally pressure the Jarl to protect Cidna Mine. After all, it would be a disaster if the Falmer dig into there. There would be no more silver. So as the Jarl sends the guards to die, Silver-Blood will expand his private army of mercenaries, claiming civil necessity. The only thing holding him back from openly challenging Igmund in the old Nord tradition is that he prefers others to do his killing, and because he does not yet have most of the support from all the Nord nobility.
He has not yet the wealth or the allies to take on the Empire and the Dominion and the Reachmen. He polarizes the nobility, and this satisfies the Thalmor fine. It keeps the Reach weak, divided, and perfect to stage the next war from, whether it be against Skyrim or against Hammerfell and High Rock."
Potentially useful information. And, Sep eat the old elf's heart, he knew he had hooked Tariq by pointing out the danger to the unsuspecting populace of Markarth, the future danger to Hammerfell. He was a sword-singer; it was his duty to wield his swords in defense against any danger to the people. Tariq grinned again but conceded defeat in this round.
"So, you wish to avoid both possibilities by having me do what? Kill all the Falmer? Find out if, indeed, this speculated defense system has been turned off and so find a way to turn it back on?"
"There is a defense system. I know where it is, I know how to reactivate it. What I am not fully capable of is fighting my way to it and then repairing it while being under attack. It has been decades since I've had to practice the art of combat. This would be a joint mission."
"You would go with me?" asked Tariq, surprised.
"If I were younger, I'd handle this myself. And even though this is nothing like fighting my way through the Deadlands to find a sigil stone, I'm far past where I once had the energy or power. Too many years behind academia's desk," the elf grudgingly admitted.
His words tamped down Tariq's growing irritation. If the elf spoke true, he had been a battlemage who dared enter the gates during the Oblivion Crisis to take the fight back to Mehrunes Dagon. That … was worth a good measure of respect.
"You must be proud of how your people handled the Oblivion Gates," he said carefully.
Calcelmo snorted. "I handled myself well enough. Thank the Divines Martin Septim and his Champion put an end to that nightmare. Now stop poking, young man. I am not your enemy.
"Now, those questions of yours? Or are we going to play more games? Because if we are, I would appreciate if you would pour me a drink for the talking, I've already done."
Tariq sketched an apologetic with a small flourish of mockery. "Deepest apologies, esteemed scholar." Nevertheless, he went to a side table where there was a bottle of wine, smaller bottles of beer, and a platter of bread and a bowl of fruit. He poured a goblet of wine for the scholar and selected a beer for himself.
"I am curious why you haven't already taken care of this with your nephew," Tariq asked.
"I never trained my nephew for combat conditions," said Calcelmo. "I really should see than he can handle dangerous situations with people, not just underground conditions. He can defend himself somewhat. But I couldn't bring myself to train him to kill."
Tariq shrugged. He could not fault the mer for that. It was common enough that some veterans couldn't bring themselves to teach that kind of warfare to their children.
"So, these Falmer, what is their tale?"
"A typical tale between Man and Mer. The Atmorans had some disagreements amongst themselves. Religious wars are my understanding. The dragon worshipers attempting to dominate all their rivals. Skyrim had always been a safe escape for dissidents from Atmora.
"The Falmer overlooked the small numbers that came, seeing them as no threat. Then a larger group came and asked for land to settle in. The Falmer agreed and, for a time, the resettlement was peaceful, and Man built their new city over the ancient ruins of Saarthal. But during their digging they found something the Falmer had forgotten was there. A stone of great power left from the time of the gods. Possibly the cornerstone of the original pillar of creation tower and destroyed by Magnus as he left Mundus. This would mark Saarthal older than the Adamantine Tower.
"As the Nords tell it, the Falmer grew fearful of their fast-growing numbers. So, one night the Falmer attacked, but they failed to kill everyone. The Atmoran hero Ysgramor and his sons fled back to Atmora and roused an army they called the 500, who sailed back and began a campaign of genocide. With them, of course, came their dragon gods and their priests to counter the magic of the mer.
"I'm sure, Lion of Yokuda, I'm sure you can comprehend the absolute viciousness of Atmora to Falmer as you Ra Gada to the Sinistral mer."
Tariq narrowed his eyes as he studied the Altmer, looking for any sign of slyness or mockery that he would be happy to wipe away, age or Hero of Oblivion be damned. All he saw was an impersonal scholar relating distance facts.
"Let us go to my workshop and I will show you something."
Tariq had toured through the public rooms of the museum after Calcelmo had given him permission after killing the spiders. Now Calcelmo led him past the locked doors in the back. The elf explained there were many rooms and corridors of the palace that were too dangerous to wander. Those places had traps that could not completely be disabled, only temporarily turned off, and corridors filled with poisonous gases that could not be safely vented too often lest they poison the city if the wind was in the wrong direction, which it often was.
Calcelmo took him to the wall fragment Aicantar had mentioned. Tariq recognized Dwemer writing.
"Any Nord will be happy to detail every victory, so I will refrain. The Atmorans didn't stop with the Falmer. They also made war with the Chimer. Seeing no peace there, the Falmer turned to the Dwemer who had escaped the revengeful eyes of Man because their cities were deep underground. They dared go no farther south. The Ayleidoon were no more welcoming than we Altmeri. Falmer entering the portals of Alftand or Raldbthar or Mzinchaleft or Deep Folk Crossing were given bitter wine to drink and obliged to eat the feast of desperation."
Calcelmo translated:
And so it was that your people were given passage to our steam gardens,
and the protections of power.
Many of your people had perished under the roaring,
snow-throated kings of Mora,
and your wills were broken,
and we heard you and sent our machines against your enemies,
to thereby take you under.
Only by the grace of the Dwemer
your culture survive,
and only by the fifteen-and-one tones
your new lives begin.
We do not desire thanks, for we do not believe in it.
We do not ask for gratitude, for we do not believe in it.
We only request you partake of the symbol of our bond,
the fruit of the stones around us.
And as your vision clouds, as the darkness sets in,
fear not.
Know only our mercy and the radiance of our affection,
which unbinds your bones to the earth before,
and sets your final path to the music
of your new eternity.
"Absolute slavery. The children of the light and snow reduced to blind worms." The elf went to a bookshelf and extracted four volumes. "My translations of works I found in an expedition to Deep Crossing before earthquakes collapsed the upper levels. You may take them to read if you wish and return them when you are done.
Tariq skimmed the titles: The Betrayed, Journal of Mirtil Angoth, Diary of Faire Agarwen, Touching the Sky.
"If you come across them, give them the mercy of a swift death. They cannot be talked to; they cannot be reasoned with. Centuries of slavery and warfare and suppression have warped their higher intelligence to adept cunning. But do not mistake them as animals. They know destruction magic, and their crude cities are very impressive for a blind race. They tame the giant insects called chaurus, using them as guards, as food, and make shelters and weapons and poisons from their bodies. Do not let yourself be captured by them. Their hatred of Nords has become hatred of all life above ground. They will torture before eating you themselves or giving you to their chaurus to eat. And if you travel the snow-covered northernmost lands, lay wards or travel in a group and take shifts to guard throughout the night. They come out at night. Mostly."
The elf now rolled out a large map of Skyrim and changed the subject. "Now, your task for the Jarl to retrieve his family shield, do you have any further questions about the Forsworn and the hagravens?"
Tariq eyed the distance between this Redoubt and Markarth. He'd asked around since the last time he'd talked to the elf, and while he would rather go after the shield, Deepwood Redoubt was generally held to be a little over two week's journey. And because this was all unknown lands to him, and estimating for time he would probably spend lost and trying to find direction, it would probably take him a month just to find the place unless he hired a knowledgeable wilderness guide. He'd asked Faleen for recommendations and she'd given him the name of "Vorstag" as a trustworthy mercenary for hire. He'd checked, and Vorstag was currently on another job. For Calcelmo, as it were, fetching some artifact from another Dwemer ruin in another part of the country.
"Yes. Will you explain to me again this magic about some Forsworn camps, especially those camps built within tombs or former fortresses of these dragon cults?"
The elf nodded. "All right, yes, the world displacement or distortion. The dragon cult was surprising adept at creating pockets within reality which allows them to build or contain larger territory than what can be measured. Deepwood Redoubt is an excellent example. If one were to approach it by any other than the main entrance, once would find only the sides of a tall mountain. Scale that mountain, and you would find yourself at the entrance grounds. Enter through the entrance grounds, and instead of finding a wall of mountain, you will enter a wide valley which you believed, after having scaled the backside, was not there.
"The curious thing is that these distortions in the world is not Oblivion magic, not of the daedra power. It comes from Aetherius, the same power that animates the draugr. The dragon cult was granted access to such power by their worship of dragons who were created from the blood of Auri-El when he escaped being sacrificed in the creation of Mundus as engineered by Lorkhan. The dragons, by that definition, can tap into the power of the Divines by that blood.
"In any case, how these pockets are created and maintained isn't something you need worry about. If they are stable enough that primitive tribes can move in long after the original builders have passed, I doubt there's any non-magical action you could do to collapse it. No, your only concern is to be mindful that you can only enter and leave by that same egress. Theoretically, I suppose, you could fly in and out—dragons, you understand—but unless you know levitation, moot point."
Tariq was suddenly minded of the unnatural blue eyes of these undead. He remembered what Onmund, the Nord bard had told him some days ago, but it never hurt to confirm with another source, especially a non-Nord source. "You said this power is the same that animate these walking undead. Draugr, you call them?"
"It's an Atmoran or Nord word. Still means undead, zombie, wight, bonewalker, whatever." Calcelmo shrugged. "If you find yourself exploring Skyrim's tombs—most adventurers do so for quick money—you'll come across more of these undead. Skyrim's draugr are unique in that they can use crude magic and they can Shout, as you've found out. Shouting, theoretically, can be learned by other races, but seems to come easier to Atmorans, or Nords, a binding to their racial trait. Most common are a pushing shout. The stronger one is the disarming shout. Many an adventurer has lost a favorite weapon with that one. I've found I can't be disarmed if I'm using an Oblivion summoned weapon."
Ah, that was something Tariq hadn't known. Interesting. He may have to attach straps to some of his weapons then. It could be a hindrance to different grip styles, but he should be able to manage. Better than losing a favorite weapon.
"There's been a rise in activity over the past decade." The elf's expression turned somber. "I don't like this rise in magic. It's too much like the rise before the Oblivion Gates started appearing. Something's coming, something's going to happen, and it agitates all creatia. A leviathan from the deep void. Necromancers are more sensitive to this. There's been a rise in that practice, too. And vampires." He sighed and shook his head. "Scarcely over 200 years and again all this is happening? It's never a good thing when the dead start rising from their graves."
To Tariq, the Oblivion Crises was academic. It was a terrible thing that happened, according to the history books, but that was generations ago until one met a centuries-old wizard, or a mer of a certain age. Nevertheless, he recognized the battle-drained look of a veteran who had seen sights best left untold, who had done things they would never talk about. He also recognized the look of a warrior who had thought an enemy finally dead, but who was now seeing that enemy reappear again.
He turned away from that path of speculation. He wasn't a wizard, and he couldn't worry about changes or shifts in magic when there was nothing, he could do about it.
"I'll keep that in mind," he said, deliberately make his tone light and moving off and around the table to change perspective. "Anything else you can tell me about Deepwood?" he prodded, shifting the subject again.
"Hm? No. Just take extra precautions. Forsworn weapons are designed to tear more than cut and will cause a great deal of infection if not treated properly. The Hagravens practice a peculiar, old magic. On the face of it, they seem to worship a mix of Daedra and Aedra, but it's a mask. Their own gods have other names and what exactly they are has no official record. Likely ancestral, very tribal, and lumped, for convenience's sake, under familiar names. They say 'Hircine,' but mean some other spirit of hunter. They say, 'Dibella,' but really name their own fertility spirit who only superficially seems related to the goddess. You will see this in old shrines they have taken over. The statue may be there, but the things they put on the altar are things not normally associated. Magic of blood and bones, the oldest, very visceral form of ancestral magic.
"Hagravens birth as normal, mortal women, but change to their half-bird beast forms as they commit their souls to their gods. The women only, strangely enough. The men choose to become briarhearts, I think. I'm not quite sure on that, if it is totally voluntary. They are called such because in their conversion ceremony their beating hearts are replaced by briar roots, or some form of that plant. A binding to the land that gives them extra strength, endurance, and magic, but not much else that I can tell. And they are totally obedient to the Hagravens. Not so much creating an undead but an avatar, but an avatar to what, I have no idea.
"And that's about as much as I can tell you about the Forsworn. I rather doubt you're interested in their history and politics. But 'Forsworn' is a title they took to themselves because they refuse the rule of their conquerors, whether it be Nords or Imperials or Mer. Nedes in origin, natives, but they've taken in many bloodlines over the eons, as one may expect. They currently share traits closer to Bretons in form and shape of their magic—skilled at it and high resistance to it. Their politics is volatile. They once organized enough to actually rule the empire for a number of decades, the 'Longhouse Emperors,' they were called, but then dissolved due to tribal squabbling. Just can't hold it together, much like the Chimer before they became Dunmer and united for a while under their self-made Tribunal. The Forsworn tribes fight each other as much as they do outsiders. They almost united under a war-leader called Madanach, but that lasted only two years. Sad to say, they had Dominion help, and then the Dominion betrayed them and let Jarl Hrolfdir and a Nord tongue and Talos idealist called Ulfric take them out. There's an Imperial book called, 'The Bear of Markarth' regarding that whole incident."
"Faleen has told me of that book," said Tariq.
"Yes. A perfect setup to spark civil unrest in Skyrim," said Calcelmo.
"You suspect this was planned?"
"Of course. The perfect justification for the Dominion to strategically establish a Justiciar post here. Ulfric had been a Dominion prisoner. Time enough to subvert him."
As Tariq had suspected. He took no pride in being correct in his suspicion of Dominion tactics and the timing of the rebellion here, the Treaty of Stros M'Kai, and establishment of a Justiciar post. Well, at least Justiciar Ondolemar was not some lady's lovely lap cat that he had to prove was a spymaster.
He'd had his fill of information and now he needed time to digest it. He thanked Calcelmo and excused himself, intent on seeing if Faleen was done for the day and willing to accompany him to dinner and, perhaps, for the rest of the evening.
She was. As he waited for her to finished dictating instruction to the night watch commander, it occurred to him that Calcelmo had been entirely too free with his words. He'd outed himself as an ex-battlemage, as an opponent to the Thalmor and the current Dominion, and supporter of the truth that a Septim was responsible for the end of the Oblivion Crisis, not the High Aldmeri Dominion as they boldly boasted.
The Thalmor had demonstrated at Sentinel how well they'd honored their words of forgiveness and mercy to defectors. Tariq was certain Calcelmo was a dissident who should've died that night. If he was, then "Calcelmo" was not his real name. So, and … so. Was it his responsibility to find the truth of this?
No.
Still, he felt he would have to ask the old elf later why he was entrusted with that secret. He already knew he wouldn't like the answer, and not just because of Nchuand-Zel.
"Bindi's again?" he asked Faleen.
"That would be good. Or we can try Pigatelli's. An Imperial, obviously, and, mm, I'm craving salmon in pasta and cream, and the olive bread, and the sweet house wine."
"It sounds quite indulgent and rich. Perhaps a little sword practice afterwards as penance for such gluttony?"
She laughed and boldly slipped her arm around his waist. "I would enjoy that, commander."
"I haven't been your commander since Shadymarch," he replied, grinning.
"I know," she said, patting his ribs just above his sword.
"Is this the best map you have of the city?" Tariq scowled as he studied the crude, boxes, and lines on the paper.
Ahead of him and using flames to burn away the frost spider webs, Calcelmo retorted, "I'm not giving maps away to the Thalmor."
"Yes, but you must have maps for your own use."
"In my head, of course. Look, it's all very simple. The buildings above the water line have two, three levels at most. They are all connected by a bridges. When the system was active, automatons patrolled the bridge, but it was possible to get around them by ledges on the wall or a little swimming. If we get separated, just head back out and we can meet up at the bridge nexus.
"Now, help me with this door."
The corridor beyond the door smelled of a lot of water. A sharp left turn and Calcelmo went into a crouch. Tariq imitated him. The corridor opened into a dark world dimly lit by clumps of fungus. He thought he saw shadows moving. The elf sent a large ball of magelight out. It stuck to an archway over the bridges and now Tariq could see the bridges between buildings and the sentries squatting at their posts.
"I neglected to ask, but do you know any light spells?" asked Calcelmo. "The smell of torches, of burning wax or wood outside of a hut is a giveaway. Burning oil, an oil lamp, is generally safe enough to use within the proximity of machines. Also, the flare of heat where none should be. They're blind, but there is nothing wrong with their other senses, as one might expect."
For an answer, Tariq produced a basic candlelight spell. He processed the warning and added it his other observations. One was that the elf had changed out of his heavy scholar's robes and was dressed more sensibly for exploration in thick, sturdy clothing and soft-soled leather boots. He'd also taken the time to grab some fungus off the walls to crush and smear their juices on his clothes and in his hair, thus masking his scent. Tariq, in his Dwemer armor, which Calcelmo had insisted he smear with Dwemer machine oil, knew he smelled like any of the machines down here.
"Stay here," said Calcelmo. "I'll scout ahead and see if I can get a count." He had strong muffle enchantments on his boots and other items on his person. Tariq heard not a thing as the elf glided swiftly over the bridge, only slowing so that air movement did not alert the sentry he was approaching and then passed.
While the elf explored, Tariq studied the crude map. From where he was, the armory and controls were supposed to be a building on his immediate right. However, if the controls were damaged, parts and repair shops were in another building. And they were also here to find to what happened to the last party, on the faintest chance someone still survived.
Far below he knew there was a lake of still water. He didn't know how deep, but he knew from experience he couldn't swim in Dwemer armor, so he'd best not fall off the bridges or ramps.
The initial light Calcelmo had sent out was fading. Much further away, he could see another light globe float up.