Chapter 55
After another long day of floating through the dreary marshlands, they reach the site of Ustengrav marked on their map and make landfall. There isn't a convenient shale beach located directly in front of their destination, unlike Folgunthur, so they're obliged to shove their way through a dense bed of reeds while tramping through knee-high mud to bring the canoe to shore.
A short distance uphill from the swampy coastline is what they first take to be a shallow knoll rising above the fens. As they draw closer, they realize it's actually an artificial mound much like Dustman's Cairn, although this one has a formation of tall standing stones at the summit. Each menhir is worn smooth from the elements and covered in grey moss, while droopy stalks of deathbell at their feet are providing splashes of color with their toxic violet blossoms.
Across the murky pools to their south, east, and north are other henges protruding from the fog like the fangs of enormous beasts. Whether they also mark the locations of burial grounds or were simply erected by this region's ancient inhabitants as gloomy decorations, Mull doesn't know. It's beyond him why anyone would want to live in this watery hellhole, much less go through the effort of raising massive stones to mark it as their own.
However dreary and isolated this place may be, it isn't abandoned. Signs of human habitation can be seen everywhere around the perimeter of their landing zone.
Simple huts are arranged around the nearest artificial mound in a rough circle, each constructed with interwoven branches and reeds rather than traditional Nordic lumber. Among them are firepits, stacks of kindling, chicken coops, granaries, paddocks, raincatchers, wheelbarrows, and the numerous other things a rural settlement requires for everyday life. It reminds Mull of the clan stronghold at Silent Moons Camp.
Unlike Silent Moons Camp, the air is permeated with the heady scent of woodsmoke and… something else. Something coppery, bitter, and all-too-familiar.
Blood, he realizes.
There are bodies everywhere.
They're sprawled out near open-air hearths, slumped against walls, laying in doorways, and partially concealed in fields of coarse grass. A cursory glance reveals dozens of them. Judging by the number of huts, this must be the settlement's entire population.
The locals are a Nord clan without a doubt. Their hair is predominantly blonde and red, many of them have swirling blue tattoos adorning their bodies, and those who are still clothed are wearing rustic garments appropriate for the cold climate.
By the looks of it, this clan was destroyed down to the last man, woman, and child. Warriors and noncombatants alike are tangled together in the throes of death. Five huts have been burned to the ground, now little more than circles of charred ash, and nearby corpses are exhibiting the grisly signs of immolation. Others are marred with blackened spiderweb patterns – the victims of lightning spells – and yet others have been impaled or hacked to pieces by unknown weaponry.
This isn't like the aftermath of the battle between Stormcloaks and Imperials that they stumbled across south of Eldersblood Pass. That was a brutal and merciless execution, but in a way it was clean. Precise. Deliberate. Controlled.
This, however, was nothing of the sort. It's pure carnage.
The blood is mostly dried, meaning the slaughter happened recently, but decomposition hasn't set in yet. That shouldn't take very long in a fetid environment like Drajkmyr Marsh. Nor are there any telltale signs of predation by animals, not even greedy crows.
"This happened today," Mull announces. "But not more recently than an hour, by my guess."
"So whoever did this could still be in the area," says Torgen.
He nods. "I'm willing to bet on it."
At the very least, there aren't any signs of vampire activity that Mull can recognize. No telltale twin punctures on the necks of the dead or any obvious indications of necromancy. But if this wasn't the work of vampires, then who?
"Why would a nomadic clan be living in the middle of a swamp? There's nothing of value in this wasteland." Jenassa scans the landscape with a critical eye. "Just trees and noxious water. I can't imagine what drew them here in the first place."
Torgen shrugs. "Defensibility. Maybe they were hiding from a bigger clan and ventured over from the Pale. Or they could've been explorers looking for old ruins to scavenge."
"Like Ustengrav."
He pauses. "Aye, could be. But whatever the case, looks like it didn't turn out too well for them in the end."
Mull's gaze descends to a dead girl at his feet. Her matted ginger hair is splayed across her face, concealing whatever expression she bore when her death arrived. Judging by her proportions, she can't be much older than twelve years. Her torso is a mess of gore and ripped clothing, with the nature of the wounds suggesting she was killed while trying to run away. If she'd made it ten feet farther to the water's edge, then maybe she could've escaped into the swamp with her life.
His eyes turn flinty. "No," he neutrally replies. "It doesn't."
Valdimar rises from inspecting a deceased warrior with jagged thunder-scars marring his flesh. His expression is grim. "I didn't expect to find signs of human habitation this deep in the marsh. It doesn't bode well, Thane Mull. There are no clans dwelling in Drajkmyr to my knowledge. These people must've entered from the Pale to the east. There are many clans who make their living along the frontier."
Mull glances sidelong at Torgen "You recognize any of them?"
The Nord bandit slowly shakes his head. "No, boss. This isn't a clan I've ever had dealings with."
Mull kneels down and examines the moist soil for tracks, but the telltale footprints and indentions are too jumbled to make any sense of it. He can't tell if the perpetrators withdrew from the area or entered the tumulus once they were done with their brutal work. "Whoever did this was powerful enough to kill at least fifty people without leaving any traces of their own casualties," he grimly observes. "And see how many of the clansfolk were killed by spells? That isn't normal."
"Perhaps this clan was targeted specifically by someone powerful," suggests Lydia.
"Or they could've been in the wrong place at the wrong time," Torgen adds. "The killers might be going after something inside Ustengrav. That's what we're doing, right? Who knows what all's squirreled away down there."
Mull looks over his shoulder and warily examines the edge of the swamp. "I can't say I particularly like this." Walking into an unknown situation always carries risks, but he can't back out now. Not for the first, second, or even third time in recent days, he wishes Aela the Huntress were with them. Dustman's Cairn went as smoothly as could be expected, but only because Aela was there to back them up. That woman is something else.
"Me neither." Torgen drops heavily onto a carved tree stump that once served as someone's stool, his armor and weaponry jingling like chimes. He follows Mull's gaze as he takes in their gloomy surroundings. "It's your call, boss. What'll we do?"
"It would be pointless to have come so far only to withdraw now," opines Jenassa. "I, for one, don't look forward to another voyage through the marsh with nothing to show for our efforts."
Valdimar clears his throat. "Whatever you do, know that while Jarl Ravencrone ordered me to guide you to Ustengrav and back, she never said anything about going inside the fane. Nor do I wish to disturb my ancestors' rest. I've fulfilled my obligation as things stand now, so I'll strike camp here tonight while awaiting your return. I'll also guard your backs and make sure nobody goes inside after you."
He lowers his voice.
"Whatever you're seeking within these hallowed depths, I hope it's worth the trouble."
"So do we," drawls Mull.
Lydia takes a hesitant step forward. "Are you sure you'll be alright alone?"
"I was born and raised in these wetlands, lass. I've spent more nights alone in the marsh than you've spent away from your mother's teat, so don't waste your worry on me. If anything, I'd be more worried about yourselves. Only the gods know what's lurking in the ancient burial-places."
"You could say the same thing about your precious swamp," grouses Mull. "Suit yourself old man, and keep an eye out for trouble. The people who did this is still out there somewhere."
"Or inside Ustengrav," counters Valdimar. "But you speak rightly. I'll be cautious, and you should do the same. Jarl Ravencrone will be none too pleased with me if you get yourselves killed."
"We'll keep that in mind," Mull drily replies.
-x-
The first thing he notices about Ustengrav is that the air is cool – even cooler than the marsh outside, which was rather nippy. Frigid currents swirl around them as they cautiously navigate the narrow confines of a stone-bricked passageway. It's barely wide enough to squeeze through and the low ceiling compels them to stoop like old beggars. Mull feels especially bad for Torgen as he struggles at the rear of their little column, hindered by his bulky frame.
It's dark as midnight inside the tunnel, but faint flickers of firelight can be seen reflecting around corners from somewhere ahead. The passage twists and turns as it continuously descends into the earth, forcing him to slow down and peek discreetly around each junction.
I'm glad I'm not claustrophobic, he thinks wryly.
He glances over his shoulder to see Lydia hovering close behind, breathing harshly and sweating buckets. Her blue eyes are wide with anxiety. "Please don't stop," she whispers. "Keep going. If we're in here for much longer, I feel like I might pass out."
"You did fine in Folgunthur," he retorts as he shuffles forward. "Dustman's Cairn too. So what's wrong with you now?"
"There, we at least had room to breathe!" she softly exclaims. "The same can't be said for this deathtrap. Not to cause you undue concern, but we don't know what condition this barrow is in. A single misstep could cause the tunnel to collapse on us."
He pauses to inspect the walls, composed of mortarless stones that don't look particularly stable, and nods. Fair enough. He picks up the pace despite the risks involved. He wants to get out of this tunnel too, though he won't admit it. Lydia sighs with audible relief.
They reach the end of the passageway after another minute of awkward shuffling. Rounding one final corner reveals an A-frame entrance ahead of them, spilling forth dancing crimson and orange shadows. Mull halts just before the opening, huddles against the wall, and pokes his head around the doorway's glyph-etched mantel.
The chamber beyond is much longer than it is wide and thankfully more spacious than the tight passageway. A single pillar in the center of the room is holding up the ceiling. Dozens of candles are burning brightly along the walls on either side, scattered haphazardly on the floor or clustered atop protruding ledges. Other signs of habitation can be seen as well – scattered kindling, crumpled bedrolls, and brass-bound chests containing everyday goods of various kinds.
Some of the clan must've lived inside this chamber. By the look of it, they'd been here for a while.
The next thing he notices is the smell of tangy blood mixed with the putridity of loosed bowels. It's the familiar scent of recent death, identical to that of the settlement outside except for an added undercurrent of dampness and mildew. There's also an acidic hint of burnt flesh.
The bodies of more clansfolk are strewn lifelessly across the chamber. Some are huddled in pools of blood while others have been charred to a crisp.
But the recently deceased aren't this chamber's only inhabitants. A group of strangers are picking their way through the corpses or standing vigilantly next to yawning black voids in the walls – entrances to unmapped rooms and shadowy hallways. They definitely aren't clansfolk based on their clothing.
These men and women are garbed in austere hooded robes of black and grey. Long hems are billowing around their ankles and voluminous sleeves are obscuring their hands. Each one of them is attended by ghostly blue or yellow orbs of light hovering near their shoulders or orbiting lazily above their heads.
Those are magelights, Mull recognizes. Dammit.
The robed strangers are mages, and needless to say, that's a bad sign. Very, very bad. You never know what kind of tricks wizards will have up their sleeves.
He inhales sharply through his teeth and crabwalks back into the dark passageway, taking refuge in the shadows. He bumps into Lydia and continues to press, forcing her to move.
"What did you see?" murmurs Jenassa.
"Dead clansfolk and the people who probably did the deed. I think most of 'em are mages. Can't think of anyone else who would wear cloaks and hoods underground for no reason."
Torgen blinks with surprise. "…That ain't good, boss."
"I know."
"How many are there?" Lydia interjects a little too loudly. Her voice echoes in the cramped space.
"Keep it down," he hisses. He twists his head and stares at the tunnel exit for any sign that they've been heard, but nobody comes for them.
The housecarl grimaces and stares at her feet like a scolded child.
"Four or five," he continues once he's sure they're in the clear. "Could be more that I didn't see."
"What do you think we should do? Go back?" asks Torgen.
"Maybe." The longer they sit here blabbering, the more likely they'll be discovered. If the robed strangers are hostile, which is a fair assumption considering all the dead clansfolk out there, then they'll be sitting ducks as long as they stay inside this cramped tunnel. A single good fire spell is all it would take to turn them into juicy roasts for the skeevers.
But then what? The Greybeards sent him here to prove he's worthy of their advanced teachings. He needs to retrieve the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller, that's nonnegotiable.
Whether he likes it or not, he's the Dragonborn with powerful Shouts at his beck and call. It might be a terrible idea to use the Voice down here in the bowels of the earth with gods-know how many tons of rock and soil above their heads, but… it looks like there isn't any other choice.
"I think we should fight," he continues. "If they're hostile, we'll just kill them all and go on our merry way. They might think they can block our path just because they know some fancy magic, but they've got another thing coming because so do I. They've met their match today."
His followers stare at him like he's lost his wits.
"My Thane, are you sure about this?" Lydia whispers. "Mages shouldn't be trifled with, especially when they aren't alone. They have strength in numbers."
She makes a valid point, but it's also irrelevant because he's already made up his mind. "So do we. Now I'm going to go say hello to our new friends with or without you, so either head back to the surface or get ready for a fight. All of you."
His subordinates share a round of troubled looks, collectively sigh, and start prepping their gear for combat. Jenassa mutters under her breath about needing more hazard pay.
Let's get this party started. Without giving himself more time to think about his decision, Mull ducks beneath the shoulder-high mantel of the tunnel doorway and rises to his full height inside the chamber, leaving himself completely exposed to the occupants. Gasps and low whispers greet his sudden appearance as the robed strangers take notice of him.
"Gentlemen. Ladies." His voice projects across the room, bouncing off the walls. He raises his free hand as a sign of peace while the other is already loosening his sword in its sheath. "Lovely place you've got here."
Silence is their only answer as they wordlessly watch him from beneath their hoods.
Jenassa emerges from the tunnel with an aggrieved sigh, Torgen and Lydia following close behind. The housecarl shifts her shield into position on her forearm.
"The pleasure is all mine," he continues without missing a beat. "I'm the one intruding on your wonderful little hideaway, after all. But I've gotta ask…" He gestures to the dead men, women, and children scattered around the room. "What in Kyne's name did these poor folks do to get on your bad sides? Piss in your tea? Fondle your wives? I'm not exactly a law-abiding man myself, but you've gotta admit wiping out an entire tribe like so many slaughtered chickens seems a bit harsh in comparison-"
"Enough!" One of the hooded figures, a man with a nasally voice, shouts and gestures threateningly. "Hold your tongue you blathering fool, or you shan't live to tell of what you've seen here!" A ball of swirling blue energy coalesces between his fingers, a shimmering phosphorescent mass of shaped magicka. His deep cowl is veiling his face, but he might be a Cyrod or a Breton based on his accent and stature. He's certainly not a native of Skyrim.
"Who died and made you the owner of their tomb?" snarks Torgen.
"This matter is none of your concern, wretches," the wizard growls. "The indigenous Nords tried to deny us access to the barrow, which they had neither the strength nor authority to enforce. That we did them the courtesy of asking permission in the first place should be a testament to our magnanimity. They even refused our offer of Imperial gold! You can hardly cast judgement on us for what happened next. They have only themselves to blame." He spits. "These miserable strawheads never seem to realize when they're outmatched, and this time they learned the hard way. Oh yes they certainly did."
"We can see that," Mull mildly agrees.
"You clearly aren't their fellow clansmen, so why are you here in this filthy hovel? Were you also hired by Lady Frostfall to carry out her bidding?"
"…By who now?"
"Our client who contracted our services through the Thieves Guild," the warlock impatiently answers. "Only our esteemed leader has met with her in person, but she paid each of us handsomely for our services. Are you working for her in the same capacity? If so, then I would propose a truce between us, or a partnership if you prove yourselves deserving of the role."
He thoughtfully purses his lips. "Why'd this Lady Frostfall hire you, er… distinguished people? Does she want something from the barrow?" Like a certain horn for instance, he thinks grimly. What would be the odds of that?
"Answer me first and perhaps I shall respond in kind."
Mull smiles with too many teeth. "Appreciate the offer, but I'm afraid we're here on our own business. Maybe we can work out a mutually-beneficial arrangement the next time we run into each other."
Torgen steps up next to him and rests his axe against his shoulder in a not-quite-threatening gesture.
"I see." The weaselly man doesn't sound particularly disappointed. A shame.
"That gets me thinking though. If your Lady Frostfall has enough gold lying around to hire a bunch of warlocks to explore a forgotten crypt in the middle of nowhere, I'd say she sounds like exactly the kind of person I want to work for. Why don't you tell me more about her?" he insists. I know I'm jumping to conclusions here, but if she's paying these wizards to search for the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller, that means she knows some of the Greybeards' secret lore. I need to find out more about her. And even if that isn't the case, these idiots might stumble across the Horn and take it for themselves without realizing what it is. I can't let that happen.
"Forgive me, but I don't think I will. Such knowledge isn't freely given nor freely gained, and it would be improper to disclose incriminating information about our employer." The warlock grins spitefully. "Besides, I'm afraid you and your friends aren't much longer for this world. Telling you more would only be a waste of breath. After all, why should I bother answering a dead man's questions?"
Mull jukes sideways as the mage unleashes a compressed burst of magicka in the form of a lightning bolt. It crackles across the room and impacts against the wall where he'd been standing a moment prior. A few stray tongues of electricity dance across the stone surface as the sizzling spell dissipates.
The other robed figures scramble to readiness and prepare their own spells, lighting up the room in a dazzling variety of colors.
Mull brandishes his sword and bares his teeth. "I was willing to talk things out, but you just had to go and ruin it. Remember that when you're dead!"
He wasn't actually, but it's usually much easier to kill people when their guard is down. Too bad it didn't work.
Time slows to a crawl as he settles into the Way of the Voice. His thirst for violence flares hotly, but he clamps down on his bloody yearning to shred these clowns to bits. He'll kill them alright, but it'll be done his way. With control and precision.
"WULD!" Miscellaneous objects are tossed in all directions and candles are blown out by the ferocious wind. Most of the chamber is shrouded in darkness with hints blue and yellow from the eerie magelights.
Glimmering flashes of red and blue shriek past him as he darts towards the closest warlock, who summons a ghostly wolf familiar in front of him. The spectral predator leaps for Mull's throat.
"FUS!" His tightly-focused Thu'um slams into the familiar, dispelling it in midair. He rushes through the cloud of shimmering cyan particles, reaches the mage, and buries his sword in his chest before he can use another spell. The man cries out and crumples to the floor.
Another warlock casts a green-hued spell that covers his body in a layer of scintillating magic. A woman conjures a translucent purple sword from thin air and gives it an artful flourish. Finally, a male Dunmer reaches into his robes and produces a steel dagger with a blade gleaming vibrantly blue – an enchanted weapon, no doubt.
Mull uses both words of Unrelenting Force despite the dangers of unleashing his full power underground, taking care not to damage the room's central pillar. "FUS RO!" The thunderous Shout makes his ears ring so loudly that he can barely hear anything else. He scores a direct hit on the Dunmer with the enchanted dagger and sends him flying across the chamber, where he crashes into the far wall with a sickening crack. The other warlocks scatter in a panic, not expecting the three deafening Shouts.
"That one's a Tongue!" cries the woman.
"Kill them aaallll!" The nasally man raises his hands with fingers splayed and casts another lightning spell, this time sweeping the entire chamber with sparking tendrils of electricity. The harsh violet light illuminates his gaunt features beneath his hood, perfectly selling the image of a mad sorcerer.
Torgen takes the brunt of the arcane assault and topples to the ground with his limbs jittering like they've developed a mind of their own.
Meanwhile, Jenassa engages the man with green-tinted skin in a brutal melee. He punches and kicks with magically-enhanced strength – the sign of a powerful Alteration spell – while the elven mercenary dodges, deflects, and retaliates with her sword. Her razor-sharp blade bounces off her opponent's body without doing any damage whatsoever, throwing her off-balance and giving the man openings to land disorienting blows to her head and torso. She's bruised and bleeding before too long, but she doesn't retreat.
"Lydia, take care of Torgen!" commands Mull. The female warlock with the purple sword is maneuvering around some old wooden shelving to go after the disabled bandit, who's sluggishly struggling to regain his faculties.
While his housecarl rushes to defend their comrade, he starts sprinting towards the nasally man with an unhealthy preference for lightning magic. Another thunderbolt blitzes his way, but he deftly dodges with Whirlwind Sprint and leaps at the warlock with his sword readied for a decapitating strike, buoyed by the power of Wuld.
The gaunt wizard stumbles backwards with a pitiful squeal and narrowly avoids the attack. Mull stomps after him and follows up with an overhead slash that removes one of his upraised hands, turning the squeal into an agonized shriek.
His foe's remaining hand, all sinew and bone, produces a golden spellshield that stops Mull's next swing in its tracks. The ward shatters but does its job, giving the warlock enough time to scramble to his feet while readying a new spell.
Unfortunately for him, Mull's hiding a few tricks of his own. He reaches forward and sprays a concentrated gout of searing flame directly into the old man's wrinkly face, stopping him before he can fire off his next spell. An unsettling wheeze escapes from his blistered lips as he topples backwards with twitching limbs. A quick thrust finishes him off.
Jenassa gets frustrated with her opponent's immunity to physical damage and takes a page out of Mull's book by roasting the pugilist wizard alive with her flame spell. That seems to do the trick. He dies screaming and writhing as his body is ravaged by arcane fire.
While Torgen is still groaning on the floor, Lydia duels the female mage with the purple sword and gradually overpowers her. She uses her shield to bash the woman into submission and follows up by stabbing her straight through the chest. Lifeblood spurts from the devastating wound like a waterfall and she succumbs to the cold embrace of Oblivion.
With that, the last of the magelights wink out of existence. Mull curses and summons more flames in his palm to give himself some light while digging around for a proper torch. Jenassa does the same, and soon the four adventurers are gathered in the center of the chamber to take stock of the situation.
Mull briefly considered trying to keep one of the warlocks alive for an interrogation, but it's too dangerous to try that sort of thing with spellcasters. They can't be trusted to behave themselves unless they're deeply unconscious or dead – and even that isn't a guarantee if they're a necromancer. Either way, it wouldn't have been worth the risk. He goes around and stabs each mage a few times to make sure they're well and truly dead.
Torgen's injuries turn out to be superficial and don't require healing potions. The area-of-effect lightning spell was more for crowd control than to dish out actual damage and only temporarily paralyzed the Nord bandit. He jumps up and down while shaking out his limbs for a few minutes before declaring they're no longer numb and that he's ready to go.
They raise their torches, ready their weapons, and delve deeper into the gloom of Ustengrav. More cramped passageways await them.
