Chapter 11

The hallway steadily descends, and Mull's calves soon begin to burn from navigating the constant downward slope. They're far beneath the surface of the mountain by now. The mazelike passages in this lower section of the barrow are pitch-black, so they light most of their remaining torches to maximize visibility. Shadows dance across the primeval stonework, playing tricks on his already weary mind.

He considers asking Torgen or shield girl about whatever they're hiding, but ultimately decides against it. Draugr? Really? Pfft. Barrow-walkers are just a legend. There won't be anything like that down here. And if there is …

He glances sidelong at Torgen, walking just to his right. …Well, that would mean there's a necromancer camped out somewhere in this crypt, and that wouldn't make much sense. I imagine we'd be dead already. And besides, this place doesn't look like it's been visited in a long, long time.

He gets the distinct feeling that he's being a fool, and that he should swallow his pride and ask, but at this point it doesn't really matter. They're down here and heading deeper still, and there's nothing that can alter their course. It's probably just some superstitious Nord nonsense anyways.

It isn't much longer, perhaps fifteen minutes from the spider's lair, when they abruptly stumble across Arvel's mutilated corpse. One of the women utters a low curse at the grisly sight. The golden dragon claw is still clutched tightly between the elf's colorless hands, glinting in the torchlight.

Torgen pries the claw from his grasp and gives it a shake, splattering the floor with globules of blood. "It isn't dried yet. This was very recent." He guardedly examines the hallway. "Eyes up, folks."

While the rest of the group carefully watch their surroundings, Mull kneels and quickly rummages through the expired Dunmer's knapsack. The first thing he discovers is a sack full of septims, presumably their promised payment. He hefts it in his palm. It's heavier than he expected. Not bad.

He digs deeper into the knapsack for anything else of interest, but the only other thing worthy of mention is a worn leatherbound journal nestled near the bottom.

He skims its contents, ignoring most of the usual mundane nonsense you'd find in someone's personal diary. His eyebrows rise when he notices a few lines pertaining to the golden claw.

'My fingers are trembling. The Golden Claw is finally in my hands, and with it, the treasure-hoards of the ancient Nordic heroes. That fool Lucan Valerius had no idea that his favorite store decoration was actually the key to Bleak Falls Barrow. Now I just need to get to the Hall of Stories and unlock the door. The legend says there is a test that the Nords put in place to keep the unworthy away, but that "When you have the golden claw, the solution is in the palm of your hands."'

Huh. So the claw is actually a key to a door in a place called the 'Hall of Stories.' If the elf valued this claw so highly, then I'm willing to bet there's something worth finding in there. Maybe that's where the supposed treasure is stored.

He also finds confirmation that the elf had been planning to double-cross his mysterious sponsor. 'The value of the Golden Claw and what it represents cannot be overstated. My client is a fool for entrusting it to another. They should've taken it for themselves when they had the chance. Now, if I have anything to say about it, they'll never see so much as a glimmer of the barrow's treasure. They managed to remain anonymous throughout all of our dealings, which I'll admit is a concern, but as soon as I have the treasure, I'm paying my way to Morrowind and never looking back. Then I won't have to deal with these idiotic Nords ever again.'

Mull stifles a chuckle and closes the notebook. You were a dumbass Arvel, but at least we agreed on a few things.

With a soft whistle, he catches Torgen's attention and waves him over. Torgen wordlessly took charge of their unfortunate expedition in the fight against the spider and has continued to do so since Arvel's desertion, so he might as well be kept in the loop.

"Be quieter," the bandit breathes. "We may not be alone down here."

Mull nods, taking him at his word, and passes over both the coinpurse and the journal. He's loathe to give up the money but reasons they'll probably redistribute the loot once they make it out of the barrow – if we make it out. The alternative is that the bandits will stab him in the back when he isn't looking, and if they opt for that route, then he'll have bigger things to worry about than some gold.

The older man takes a critical look at the coinpurse, stuffs it into one of his pockets with a satisfied grunt, and begins rapidly skimming through the book. He frowns thoughtfully as he reads.

While he does that, Mull sets about examining their former employer's corpse. The cause of death couldn't be more obvious.

The elf appears to have been brutally hewn to death. The floor around his prone form is soaked with blood and his mouth is open in a wordless scream. It occurs to Mull that they should've heard him being killed. It doesn't look like his throat was slit, so his death had to have been pretty loud. He doesn't know that for a fact, obviously, but it's a fair assumption. They couldn't have been far behind him, and noise would echo in an enclosed space like this.

"Stranger and stranger," he mumbles. Besides, what could've done this in the first place? A trap? Maybe one of those axe traps? They've encountered several swinging axes as they navigated this area of the crypt, huge blades that would descend from the ceilings or walls when triggered. Despite how dangerous they might sound, they were actually quite easy to disarm for the most part. All they need to do was find a small switch hidden somewhere nearby and yank on it. As simple as it gets.

Regardless, they haven't seen any of those for a while now. Unless there's an axe trap ahead and Arvel crawled back here to die – which doesn't appear to be the case due to the lack of a blood trail – then Mull can't think of anything else that could've killed him in such a violent manner. Worry gnaws at him. I don't like this. It feels like a ruse of some kind.

He carefully examines the surrounding hallway, but finds nothing save for damp stone and shallow nooks full of bones, completely lacking any indication of traps or the presence of hostile creatures. Still, his unease doesn't fully go away.

After spending a while reading through Arvel's journal, Torgen stuffs the book into a satchel and retakes the lead. "Let's keep moving. We should still plan on finding an exit closer to the base of the mountain."

It might be wishful thinking, but Mull holds onto the hope that there really is another way out. They don't have much of a choice otherwise. With a final backwards glance at the deceased Dunmer, he squeezes the hilt of his sword and falls in line with the others.

Unlike the upper levels, these lower reaches of the barrow contain the whole remains of the ancient dead rather than piles of miscellaneous remains. Mull catches glimpses of mummified skeletal corpses laying in alcoves or standing in niches along the walls. They become more numerous with each twist and turn of the passageway.

Even though he knows that such a thing is ridiculous, he can't keep himself from imagining that their glassy lifeless eyes are staring into the back of his head. You're just being paranoid. You let all that stupid talk about draugr get to you, like a little kid. But down here in the darkness of this ancient place, it isn't too difficult to imagine something jumping out from behind a shadowy corner at any moment.

As if waiting for him to have that thought, something rustles to his left, a noise that his mind immediately registers as outside the norm. It's the low creaking of something that hasn't moved in a long time. His grip tightens around the hilt of his sword as he squints cautiously into the torchlit gloom.

"Ah, shit!" He's startled to attention by shield girl's sudden panicked exclamation. She whirls around and throws an axe end-over-end at something in the darkness just beyond the firelight. Instead of the expected wet squelch of steel piercing mortal flesh or clang of the blade against solid rock, Mull instead hears something like a dry log being broken into kindling. He has no idea what that's supposed to mean.

"What in Oblivion was that?" he quietly demands.

Instead of deigning to answer, the woman curses again, draws a dagger, and retreats a few steps. A heartbeat later, her unseen opponent emerges from the ring of darkness encircling the expedition.

Mull sucks in a sharp breath. The sight before him is like something out of his deepest, darkest nightmares. The newcomer is a shambling corpse with pallid skin pulled taut across withered bone, knotted clumps of stringy dry hair blanketing their head, and ghostly blue eyes.

The eyes are by far the worst part. They glare with undisguised malice, as if burrowing into Mull's soul. He always imagined that undead would look like typical zombies – that is, normal people except dead – or at least normal corpses in varying stages of decomposition. Even if they're old and rotting, it would still be nothing worse than what you might see in a graveyard or a sewer. With this creature, that isn't the case at all. "Gods save us. It's actually…"

The undead draugr – what else could it be? – snarls and swings a short-hafted axe. Shield girl ducks beneath the blow and slams into the draugr with her titular shield, shoving it several feet backwards.

It vanishes into the shadows, but now that he knows what to look for, Mull can still make out the twin glowing pinpricks of its eyes. He wouldn't normally dare take his attention away from such a cursed creature, but the return of that itching feeling on the back of his neck prompts him to hastily scan their surroundings. The sight that greets him isn't exactly encouraging. To his later shame, he whimpers like a frightened child.

"What is it?" one of Arvel's lackeys whispers. His tone is dripping with fear.

Mull swallows heavily, hoping that his voice will work. It does, though barely. "There are… more of them."

Following his gaze, several of his companions peer into the darkness and deliver a colorful variety of expletives. All around them, pairs of hateful blue orbs stare back.

They've found themselves in a decidedly unenviable position. If they were in a regular stretch of passageway, then they would only have two directions of assault to worry about. However, they've been surrounded in the middle of a crossroads, where a narrow passage intersects the main hallway. They're standing right in the center of it without any cover whatsoever.

They instinctually form a circle, just as they had with the giant spider. Torches drop to the floor and sputter against hewn rock while weapons are raised protectively.

"Watch out for archers," Torgen calls softly. "We're gonna keep moving."

His voice doesn't betray any anxiety or fear, and Mull gains a small measure of confidence from the older man's words.

"Do not fall behind, and do not stop for anything or you will die."

Just as quickly as it arrived, that confidence is brutally extinguished.

The draugr collectively advance into the ring of torchlight. Most of them are carrying swords and axes of a craftsmanship unlike anything Mull has seen before, all jagged edges and intricately intertwined patterns. There a few bows as well, which validate Torgen's warning.

Some draugr are wearing elaborate armor of black steel, so dark that it seems to consume the light like a starless abyss. Among their ranks, Mull even catches glimpses of prowling four-legged creatures slipping behind and between bony legs. Are those mummified wolves?! What the fuck?!

He considers his earlier thoughts, back when they first entered the barrow, of the dead not caring about the actions of the living. Clearly I was wrong. Wrong about a few things. There must be a necromancer here, or else the undead couldn't… be undead. Right? Oh, godsdamn it. He clutches his sword and gets ready to follow Torgen. No more time for thinking. We need to get the hell out of here.

Torgen steps forward. Next to him, shield girl holds aloft her shield. "Let's go," the older bandit orders. He begins shuffling down the hallway, watching cautiously for any sign of hostile action. Mull, shield girl, and the rest stay right behind him.

From the shadows ahead, three draugr stride forth to meet them with weapons clutched in fleshless hands. Now that Mull is getting a better look at these undead, he can make out a few more details. Their exposed ribs protrude from their bodies in a manner that he finds mildly nauseating. Their gaunt shriveled faces and brittle beards are framed by black helms. They barely look human at all.

When the draugr are close enough, Torgen hefts his axe. "Get ready!" With that, he swings overhead. One of the draugr raises its sword, but the bandit's axe batters it aside and cleaves into its torso. It promptly collapses.

In that same instant, as one, every single draugr surrounding them moves to attack. Their weapons gleam menacingly. Shields are raised. Bows are drawn. Undead wolves snarl and howl throatily.

"Run!" Torgen cuts down his two remaining draugr with assistance from shield girl, who briefly crouches to scoop up one of their black-steel weapons. They dash down the passageway without another look back. Mull slashes at a draugr that he feels has gotten too close, severing its throat, and sprints to keep up with the group, now moving at a headlong rush.

A glance backwards informs him that the draugr he attacked doesn't seem to have been at all affected by what would've been a debilitating injury to a living man. It chases after him and swings its axe at his head, but he ducks and slashes again, this time cutting across both of the mummified corpse's thighs.

It stumbles to the ground and Mull continues to run. Blood pounds angrily in his ears. First the spider and now something like this?! I swear to gods above and below, I'm gonna kill that damn wizard!

-x-

The barrow is darker than the blackest night, with their few torches serving as the only sources of illumination. Unlike the spider's lair, there is no natural light here.

They spend what seems like an eternity slogging through narrow corridors and terraced halls, always hurrying but simultaneously trying to remain vigilant. They strain to hear the tell-tale rasping of desiccated flesh on cold stone that inevitably heralds the arrival of yet more draugr, who come at them four or five at a time. The howling of wolves echoes unnervingly through the ruin at irregular intervals, sending goosebumps rippling across their skin. It's a grueling never-ending battle, and they aren't given so much as a second of respite. They don't dare stop to offer an actual fight. It's all they can do to keep moving and hold off their assailants without being swamped.

Arvel's henchmen are both killed within the first ten minutes. It's obvious they aren't cut out for something like this – though to be fair, none of them really are – and the draugr and wolves show them no mercy. The only reason the young archer girl survives their journey through the darkness is because she stays in the center of their formation and carries the torches, one in each hand.

Mull doesn't spare any pity for the two slain men, but he acknowledges their misfortune. They had no idea what they were getting into. He remembers that shield girl said something very similar back in the spider's chamber. And neither did I.

Torgen and shield girl prove to be the true leaders of this expedition. They carry themselves warily as they take point, but Mull doesn't see the same sheer panic in their eyes that he does in the others or feels in himself. These draugr aren't enemies to be taken lightly. He's no stranger to hardship or fighting and killing for survival, but this is something else entirely, a whole new level of ferocity, terror, and death all rolled up into one. If Helgen was a baptism in the fires of Oblivion, then this barrow is a tempering in the frigid waters of despair.

He isn't sure where that sudden bout of morbid poeticism came from, but he ignores it in favor of dodging a draugr archer's oncoming arrow and ducking behind a corner. Torgen flanks the archer and beheads it, and they hastily move on. Maybe it's because I'm scared out of my wits. Yeah. That's probably it.

As the crypt grows more and more expansive, he's increasingly concerned about their final destination. Where exactly are we going? He's pretty sure they're utterly lost. He can't speak for the others, but he knows he couldn't find his way back to the spider's lair even without the draugr hounding their every step.

Some draugr are relatively easy to kill, going down after a solid whack to the head or thrust through the torso. Mull notes that those undead lacking weapons, which instead attack with their clawed fingers, are usually among these. The wolves are also fairly simple to defeat despite their fearsome appearances. They charge, he sidesteps and swings, and their heads roll.

However, the same can't be said for all the draugr. Some are significantly more resilient, especially those clad in armor. One or two even have frost-enchanted weapons, though Mull and his companions don't have the time or inclination to stop and retrieve them.

These draugr in particular display a cunning that he finds extremely disconcerting. They're stronger and tougher than their counterparts, moving with dexterity and mindfulness that seems far more human than it should. It's almost like fighting actual living warriors instead of allegedly mindless undead.

At one point Mull slows down just a little too much, already worn out by this constant running and fighting, and is cut off from the rest of the group by a lunging draugr. He clumsily smacks the creature in the face with his blade but lacks sufficient leverage to deliver a killing blow. The draugr continues its charge unimpeded and bodily slams him into a wall.

Air rushes from his lungs and his legs wobble, but he retains enough presence of mind to raise his sword defensively. The draugr swings its own sword and comes perilously close to slicing open his neck, but he parries the blow with an alarmed gasp. The draugr advances relentlessly and presses against him blade-to-blade. Its desiccated face hovers inches from his own. With each passing second, the others draw further away.

As they struggle, the draugr opens its mouth and growls, displaying cracked and disgusting teeth. Though guttural and unambiguously malevolent, the sound isn't as animalistic as he would've expected. Rather, the undead utters distinct words in some language that he doesn't recognize at all. Since when do undead talk?!

Panicked and confused, he gathers his strength and shoves the draugr away. It stumbles backwards and he uses the opening to dash down the passageway in pursuit of his companions. Two more draugr nearly intercept him, but he manages to reach the others before being overwhelmed. The pursuing draugr are punctually cut down by the bandits and they keep moving, heading in what is hopefully the right direction.

After that close encounter, Mull is left with several things to think over. He doesn't currently have much free time for thinking, but in the tense minutes between waves of draugr spent carefully traversing the shadowy corridors, his mind wanders whether he wants it to or not. He always heard that undead are unintelligent puppets controlled by their necromantic masters. So for that draugr and others they've seen to display what he can only call intelligence…

He recalls that even back at the crossroads, the draugr hadn't actually attacked until Torgen killed the first one. They were obviously hostile, no question about that, but there was some sort of strategy involved. He's sure of it.

Plus, there's the obvious fact that they were ambushed in the middle of the crossroads, a very vulnerable position. As they've navigated the crypt and continued to fend off the draugr, there have been a handful of other instances where multiple undead appeared at the same time from different directions. Archers would stand behind their sword-wielding brethren or atop elevated platforms while peppering them with arrows. Wolves would hang back until they saw an opening or weakness, upon which they pounced.

These are clearly elements of an orchestrated strategy. Mull knows very little about the arcane, but he's pretty sure such a thing shouldn't be possible without a mage pulling the strings. However, everything they've seen so far indicates that these ancient depths have been abandoned for centuries, maybe even millennia, so that couldn't possibly be the case.

Then a thought occurs to him. Did the draugr rise because we entered the tomb in the first place? Did we somehow profane it? That doesn't really make sense, but then again, there are a lot of things about this ruin that don't make sense.

That point is accentuated by a draugr-wolf leaping from within a recessed alcove, where the torchlight had failed to reach. He slashes instinctively, cleaving the wolf's head in twain. Undead men are bad enough. Why, for Shor's sake, do there have to be wolves too? After taking a short moment to collect himself, he falls into step alongside the clansfolk and continues walking deeper into darkness.

-x-

Their first period of true respite, regrettably brief though it may be, is when the barrow's twisting passageways meander into a segment of natural cavern. It's a long gallery that runs dozens of yards in either direction, with clusters of stalactites hanging from the high ceiling. There doesn't appear to be any draugr in this cave, so they halt to regain their bearings and catch their breath.

Hundreds of glowing turquoise mushrooms are clinging to every spare inch of the walls, blessing them with just enough light to see beyond the circumference of archer girl's torches. A subterranean stream runs through the center of the cave, gurgling softly against its bed of smooth stones. From further down, the unmistakable roar of a waterfall can be heard.

The grotto is beautiful in an eerie sort of way, and all the more so due to the organic lighting. A few of the bandits pause to admire the mushrooms.

Rather than examining the scenery, Mull joins Torgen and shield girl as they reconvene next to the shore of the stream. They look up as he approaches, Torgen from dressing a laceration on his forearm and shield girl from her waterskin.

"We can't sit here for too long," he says in lieu of a greeting. "Those draugr are going to be right on our heels. Lingering will only get us killed."

Torgen finishes tying off his bandage and nods. "Agreed. Once everyone is ready, we're following this creek down towards the waterfall. You good with that?"

Mull glances upstream. The cave narrows dramatically in that direction. Downstream it seems to widen or at least remain about the same. "Aye. I think that'd be best."

"It's decided then." The older man stands and strides over to the others, who are still intent on examining the mushrooms. Archer girl is even oohing and aahing now, enamored by the otherworldly sight.

Not knowing what else to do with himself, Mull wanders over to the edge of the stream and splashes his face with water. It's incredibly cold, causing him to gasp involuntarily. Nothing like freezing water to wake you up. He scrubs his face and beard, trying to massage away the fatigue seeping into his bones.

He lowers his hands and stares into the flowing water. It's too dark to see much of a reflection, not that he would want to right now. He probably looks like a dead man walking. That's what I feel like. Like those draugr back there.

He remains there for a while longer, enjoying the ambient coolness after sprinting for so long in heavy clothing and insulative leather armor, until shield girl calls for him to prepare to get going. He climbs to his feet with as little grumbling as he can manage and rejoins the main group.

Once everyone is ready to go, the set out along the watercourse. They extinguish most of their torches to be reused later and instead rely on the light provided by the luminescent fungi. The bandits' pale faces and hair are dyed bluish-green by the glow, giving each of them a distinctly alien appearance. Mull wishes he could better appreciate the uniqueness of this place, but right now he's far too exhausted and worried to take much notice.

The cave turns out to be fairly small, much shorter than he initially estimated. The darkness has an odd way of making these spaces seem more spacious than they actually are. They reach the waterfall after only a couple minutes of easy walking.

A steep path descends the side of the waterfall before looping directly underneath the thunderous cascade. From their vantage atop the falls, they catch sight of movement down in the darkness, scarcely illuminated due to a lack of mushrooms. It looks like they're only growing above the falls, not below.

"Draugr," one of the bandits whispers. "More of them are down there."

"That ain't a surprise. We knew there'd be more eventually." Torgen hefts his weapon and marches ahead. "Come on."

Some of the bandits hesitate, but they all ultimately follow. Mull brings up the rear, still looking down onto the indistinct forms of the undead until prompted to move by an apprehensive glance from the archer girl. Yeah, I'm coming. Don't worry.

Getting down to the section of path beneath the waterfall is difficult due to the slickness of the stone, but they manage with only a minimum of slipping and sliding. Unfortunately, their descent is anything but quiet. They're greeted by a trio of draugr upon their arrival beneath the falls.

The undead charge from across the waterfall as soon as they come into view, passing beneath the torrential sheets of water. Archer girl snipes two of them, though only slows them down instead of killing them outright. Torgen and another of the bandits cut down the uninjured third, the first to reach them, though the second bandit slips and nearly gets himself impaled.

The wounded draugr arrive at their position a few seconds later, and Mull confronts the first while the shield girl and her compatriots deal with the second. The undead warrior attacks Mull with an axe, but it's slow and predictable. He remains cautious, mindful of the possibility that he could lose his footing at any moment.

His concern turns out to be for nothing – the slick conditions actually work in his favor. After avoiding and parrying a few swings of the axe, he plants his feet and shoves the draugr from a low stance to avoid upsetting his own balance. The draugr falls and slides over the edge of the path, tumbling into the cascading waterfall and vanishing into the murky depths below. He hadn't intended to send the draugr careening into Oblivion, but had only been trying to gain a little space to make better use of his sword. Even so, he won't begrudge some good luck. Gods know we haven't had much of that today.

He wipes his brow for what little good it does – the spray has gotten most of him drenched already – and makes sure his bandit allies are still in decent shape. They are, having surrounded and slain the final remaining draugr without issue.

"Good thinking." One of the male bandits nods at the waterfall.

Mull tiredly shrugs. "Just trying to stay alive."

"Heh. Aren't we all."

Now that the area is secured, they venture beneath the waterfall itself and cross to the other side, stepping gingerly to avoid following the draugr into the rumbling tide just beyond the edge. Walking underneath it is an interesting experience. It's cold and dark, much more so than the cavern above, but also majestic in its own way. Mull wonders how many years it's been since a living person last laid eyes on this place.

Once they've cleared the waterfall, they almost immediately find themselves reentering the familiar halls of the barrow. Natural granite walls give way to masonry. Sarcophagi and cobwebbed alcoves grow increasingly numerous. Soulless blue eyes watch them unblinkingly from the shadows once more.

Before long, they're again under constant assault. Draugr shamble into sight from every conceivable direction, snarling illegible curses and swinging bitter weapons. They continue to follow what seem to be the broadest and straightest passages, hoping as before that they aren't going in circles or heading towards a dead end. If they are, they won't know it until it's already too late.