-Chapter 4: The Summons-

- many years ago -

"Listen well Soran. Do you know why dark mages are evil?

Desperation.

Their souls are no longer their own.

Perhaps they bartered them away, or lost them in a bet.

Daedra love to bet.

But once their soul is gone, there is no doubt to their fate.

Their afterlife will be hell.

And they would do anything to avert this.

Anything."

-

Soran looked up at the old wizard. Following along seriously, before responding cheekily.

"But not you right? You're a good dark wizard."

The old man smiled grotesquely.

"Of course Soran"

-/-/-/-/

Soran woke from a deep slumber with dreams of a childhood in Markarth still fresh on his mind and he scowled viciously. He had dwelled on those thoughts enough for two lifetimes but it seemed the trend would continue. Once again Soran dreamt of the Warrens, the slums sat under the city where his family had lived in squalor. His parents fought for scraps with the rest of the sick and dying, before they too were taken by disease, leaving Soran alone.

He survived on stolen bread for a while, but when the man Soran was stealing from took ill and could no longer afford food, Soran starved with him. The other beggars were wary and kept their meager fare stashed away from grasping hands. The guards never let out any of the sick from the undercity, forever hiding the rot from the surface. And the boys begging near the entrance fought fiercely to protect their territory.

Slowly starving, Soran wandered deeper into the bowels of the ancient city, into the endless Dwemer caverns.

He didn't make it far before he felt a deep exhaustion creep in, slowly overcoming him. And he soon sat slumped over in the dwemer halls, tracing the carved stones as he waited for death to claim him. But then an outstretched hand entered his blurry vision.

An old man stood with a piece of bread. He was twisted and grey with age, one eye stared blankly into nowhere while the other bared down on Soran with a startling intensity.

"Consider it an investment, boy. I'm looking for an apprentice."

Soran recognized him of course, any from the Warren would have. The mad old mage, cursed even by the sick and dying. Shunned by the untouchables. His parents had warned him away from men like him, those who dealt in strange magics and dark deals.

By Shor he wished he'd listened to them.

But alas the staving orphan is not picky about the hand that feeds them. And Soran had always thought himself much cleverer than his parents. He was destined for great things, not to die of rotgut in a slum. So he eagerly reached for the chance to follow the old magician who promised to teach him cool magics and give him food.

-

He took to magic like a bird to the sky, though Soran scarcely remembered what the sky looked like. Finally his prodigious mind was of use, rather than only serving to drain his energy. As the mad old mage taught him the basics of the clever craft in the dark tunnels under the Dwemer city, Soran devoured his teachings. He learned how to wield the elements themselves, to gather the power of the aetherius and mold it into complex shapes and pattern, creating magical effects he could never dream of. He grew obsessed with magic and its wonders, contrasting so sharply with his previous life fighting for scraps.

But slowly the dream darkened, gradually at first. When the mage saw how his new apprentice excelled at the basics he grew excited, and the lessons turned darker; he learned necromancy, how to call down the spirits of the dead, to batter them into submission until they would do his bidding. He learned how cast a soul trap, to ensnare the essence of life.

He learnt of Molag Bal, and of the rituals to venerate and appease the evil god, of how to present the daedra with human souls trapped in gems in exchange for power.

The Warrens were right to shun the mad old man, but even they could not see what lay beneath that singular fevered eye. An unholy devotion to the Daedric Prince of domination, and a willingness to do anything for more power. He had served the demon for a long time, and was ready to pass these teachings down to his apprentice.

But as the lessons grew in intensity and depravity, Soran began to falter. And as Soran stood trembling above the sacrifice. Dagger in hand, yet unable to strike, his old mentor spat contemptuously

"Useless."

He grabbed the dagger from the shaking hands of his apprentice and completed the ritual himself. The boy watched with wide, unblinking eyes as he brutally slit the throat of the captured woman and funneled her soul into a black soul gem. Then he turned to Soran with disgust, but his expression soon turned to a wretched smile as he realized how he would deal with his unworthy apprentice.

-

He trapped him in an iron cage, a jagged altar to the Prince of Darkness, and he forced him to pledge his soul to the dark god. Killing and raising him until he gave in. Then he was left him there, alone, imprisoned in the dark.

He was found eventually, saved from starvation once again, but Soran had learned enough under the mad mage to know his fate. His afterlife would be hell.

His soul would not go to the warm halls of Sovengard to feast with his ancestors, no, it was pledged to the frozen wastes of Coldharbour

-/-/-/-/

As he fully awoke, Soran refocused and clamped down on those particular memories. They brought him nothing but rage and despair. But as he pulled his mind from the memories of his first terrible forays into magic, he felt something... different.

Something odd.

For all the usual feelings brought out by his cursed memories; powerlessness, anger, and fear for his undying soul, there was something else too.

Something roaring deep in his mind.

--

Shaking off the haze of sleep, Soran sat upright abruptly and looked around. He was back in the college, in the small healing ward which was empty other that himself.

The blizzard had passed and clear light shined through the windows, mixing with the blue magelights illuminating the healing ward.

He could still feel the foreign pressure in his head. It wasn't a purely physical sensation. It was deeper. Something in his very sense of self had been altered. Something in his soul.

His composed look strained as he questioned the new sensations. Thoughts becoming more frantic as it became clear that the presence was not a mere fragment of his sleep addled mind, but a real and terrifying change.

'What in Oblivion has tainted my mind.. my soul!? It feels like fire. Like the breath of god.

For a mage, the soul is sacred. Nay, it is for every man. But a mage is particularly aware of its condition. After all, one does not make deals concerning the outer realms without paying careful attention to one's soul.

And now Soran could feel something deep inside of his being had changed, awakened into something more.

-

He moved to sit on the side of the bed, slamming his feet on the stone floor. While he moved he growled loudly at the violation of his very being. This was no mere alteration of emotions or mental states, his soul was different now than when he'd last been awake.

'What happened?My last memories were of the dragon...'

As memories of the battle rose to the surface, the cause of his symptoms became clear.

After the dragon was defeated, it had burst into flames, burning a brilliant white of a thousand colors. And then the fires flowed into himself.

After which he promptly fainted.

'But what does that mean? What did I absorb from the dragon? And what has it done to me?

His arms rested on his knees and he stared at the floor. Teeth clenched together.

A hand on the shoulder jostled him to attention.

"What!" He snapped loudly.

"Ohh! Are you alright Soran? I've been calling your name trying to get your attention." It was one of the students whose name he never bothered to learn. She had jolted away from him at his shout and now stood awkwardly at the doorway.

Suddenly Sorans anger twisted into confusion, he was never one for outbursts like this; whatever happened had altered his mental state. But the anger hadn't gone away after realizing this, in fact Soran only became more upset. But before his emotions could overtake him once again he managed to center himself somewhat and answer the question.

"I don't know. I feel strange." He felt powerful, yet off-balance. His voice growled in his throat. As if every word held back the might of Ysgramor.

The student leaned in and examined him closely for several long moments before giving up her search.

"Well that to be expected..." she trailed off. "The ordeal you went through. I was told the dragon's magic did something to you when it died."

Soran's eyes moved up from the sheets to look at her and she almost flinched at their intensity. The battlemage's eyes looked intimidating. Predatory.

She continued, quickly conveying her message so she could leave. "Anyways the archmage asked me to tell him when you woke. I'd best be off." Then she scampered out of the room before Soran could respond.

Soran stared after her, then smiled as her words registered.

"Savos is still alive." Soran muttered incredulously. He'd seen him struck down by the rock barrage like Tolfdir was. But he had been too pressured by the dragon to pay much attention after that.

Was Tolfdir still--

"Soran."

Said arch mage stood in the doorway, looking whole and healthy. The ancient robes he wore were once again in pristine condition rather than the bloodied and torn state he'd last seen them in.

"You're still alive." He said numbly, thinking back on Tolfdir's fate. No..there's no way Tolfdir made it out alive after his injury.

"Yes, the ebony flesh spell deflected enough damage to render me unconscious rather than dead. Sadly not everyone was as fortunate. Tolfdir and Colette were slain in battle with the dragon." The dark elf moved to speak further but Soran interrupted.

"Are Onmund and J'zargo well? And Brelyna?"

"Yes. They too remain amongst the living." He smiled thinly at his wayward student, before his face returned to the stern aristocratic mask worn by many of the older dark elves.

Well at least it's not as bad as smug face of a high elf.

Savos continued on.

"When the dragon was slain, it reacted to your presence. It's body... burned up into a white smoke which flowed into you. Master Gestor and I consulted with Urag gro-shub and we believe that you are the Dragonborn of legend. You absorbed the slain dragons soul."

There was silence following his statement.

"That explains the chaos going on inside my head." Soran was not one to reveal weakness, but the arch mage was one of the few people he actually trusted. "My every thought seems amplified and my emotions are in disarray. My mind feels...overfull, for lack of better terms. Like I have lived a hundred years."

"No doubt due to the extra soul that it now contains." the arch mage responded dryly. He was watching Soran carefully, like one would a unpredictable animal, or a mental patient.

"How is this happening" Soran said breathlessly, no longer present in the conversation, talking only to himself. He felt overwhelmed. Like nothing ever had before Bones rattling. Neurons aflutter.

Then he felt it.

Somewhere in his mind.

He could feel The Dragon's soul.

But could it still be called a soul, torn apart and subsumed by his own? Like a well chewed steak in his stomach.

By Shor. He hadn't merely absorbed the soul. He'd eaten it. The dragon's essence was so much greater than his own, yet he had still devoured it. And now the influx of power was throwing his entire psyche out of whack.

The dragon likely lived for hundreds of years yet I have scarcely lived two decades.

-

There was a long moment of silence between the two wizards. Soran sat blankly once again, observing the stone bricks of the walls while his mind raced. And Savos Aren watched him. Eventually the dunmer lost some of his watchfulness and spoke to Soran with more compassion in his tone.

"Soran. How are you faring after the fight. Many of your kin praise battle to be a great and honorable endeavor, but I have only known it to be terrible. It is brutal and frightening. And it brings out the worst in men. Those who say otherwise are liars and fools. Or worse." The dark elf paused, his previous words casually trampling on all of Nordic culture. But he knew his audience well and Soran was far from offended. He actually agreed with the elf more or less, and had always thought that his fellow Nords love of battle was strange.

But I suppose when you believe your soul will go to Sovengard rather than Coldharbour when you die, it changes your attitude around death.

"I know you have been in many fights before Soran." the dunmer continued, looking back to his former student. "But a battle like this where men fall like leaves in autumn and death rings certain in your head. That is another matter altogether."

"I thought you had died with Tolfdir. His head... I saw him..."

Savos grimaced. "Take heart that he perished quickly. I would have joined him if not for the ebony flesh protection spell. My skull nearly split as it was. Phinis too would have died of frostbite if not for those potions he consumed."

"..and Colette Marence..." Soran trailed off. He couldn't recall her demise.

"She was killed by the dragons bite."

There was another pause between the two. Less awkward than the first but Soran still felt overwhelmed.

The dark elf and calmed his expression, before breaking the silence once again.

"Soran, there is something more I must say... I am responsible for these deaths, more than anyone else. Hubris controlled that battle from both sides. I felt confident in the power of the colleges master wizards, to the point that I allowed us to split up to look for survivors! A fool's move, to split their force in two."

Soran sat silently; still remembering the sight of Tolfdir's head exploding. Split

--"though Archmage I may be, I am no battlefield commander, though I acted as one." The elf continued heedless of Soran's thoughts. His voice serving as mere background noise to the raucous noise in the young Nord's head.

Then he heard a rumble coming from outside of his head and the room shook. The whole of Skyrim shook!

DO VAH KIIN (Dragonborn) !!!

The cry echoed throughout the college, vibrating its stone walls and startling the already nervous students. No doubt several avalanches began as Skyrim's snowy peaks were disturbed by the powerful voice of the Greybeards.

Savos Aren shot into readiness at the sudden noise but upon recognizing the Greybeard's call he slowly calmed.

"Well that all but confirms our suspicion. The Greybeards have summoned you to High Hrothgar, as they have done for all Dragonborn." the dunmer said. "Do you feel well enough to go to the courtyard. I want to test a theory about the powers of the Dragonborn."

-/-/-/

-/-/-/

Snow fell softly in the college courtyard. As it usually did upon the cliff side castle. High walls protected the circular clearing from the the worst of the harsh winds, but the open sky still dusted the grounds with snow. It spiraled down upon them, moved by the harsh winds above. The blizzard of yesterday had passed, but the weather had worsened once again. No doubt the bridge into the main city was impassable now. One could be blown off the edge easily, especially considering the lack of side guards in several places on the crumbling walkway.

Wait, the bridge was already destroyed in the fight. I wonder how we returned to the college.

Soran looked though one of the open arches surrounding the courtyard towards the broken bridge. He could see that already, a temporary bridge had been constructed using ice magic, allowing the chasm to be crossed. He wondered who created the ice bridge and came to collect the surviving members of the dragon attack. Perhaps it was some of the other students.

No doubt the bridge would remain ice for some time longer, with Tolfdir gone, there was no one who could properly mold huge amount of stone into shape to rebuild the structure. The ice would have to do.

-

The center of the courtyard was dominated by a stone statue of Shalidor. The first arch mage of the college stood in flowing robes, arms outstretched. Before his stone visage, Onmund, Brelyna, and Jzargo had already gathered along with several others eager to see the powers of the supposed Dragonborn. Phinis Gestor and Arneil stood nearby against a pillar. Nirnya the destruction master had still not been back from her visit to the Summerset Isles. She probably wouldn't even know of the destruction of Winterhold for another week.

Soran knew she would have wanted to be there to see him test these new powers. He had heard of the power of the Voice before, in passing reference to the Greybeard monks, and more recently, of how Ulfric Stormcloak slew the high king in single combat using only his voice. It was an ancient and immensely destructive magic and Nirnya would've loved to see it firsthand. She was kind of crazy. He suspected most destruction mages were.

Well what does that say about myself. Lightning magic is my strongest focus.

Despite the ordinary nature of his thoughts, Soran was extremely distraught, his surface thoughts were a mere mask to hide behind, a balm to keep the psychological war in the back of his mind. Lucky for him he was quite proficient in such distractions.

But at the Archmage's direction he moved past these barriers to focus on the chaos within.

It was a strange feeling, deeper than his mind, something more than that. Within that mass of power he had stolen from the dead dragon; was knowledge on magics foreign to everything he'd ever learned. The power to make the world quake with his words. The Voice, the Thu'um, there were many names for the dragon language. But now he understood it on a near instinctual level. A lifetime of dragon insight into the words of power had been crammed into his head.

Aura whisper - LAAS YAH NIR

Which could see the souls of the living

Whirlwind sprint - WULD NA KEST

Which could propel him forward with tremendous speed

Frost breath - FO KRAH DIIN

Which directed a blast of ice magic

Clear skies - LOL VAH KOOR

Which could banish back the weather

And lastly

Unrelenting force - FUS RO DAH

Which created a blast of force.

-

As he thought about the meanings of FUS, RO, and, DAH, all he could recall was the brutality enacted on Tolfdirs head. How his favored mentor had crumpled and fell.

He didn't think he'd use that one for a while.

Turning away from his thoughts, he faced the open courtyard, pulled upon his newly awakened Thu'um and shouted out a word.

FO (ice)

The word came out of his mouth not merely as a sound, but as a misty plume of ice and wind which blew away the freshly fallen snow on the ground, leaving shards of ice in its wake. Though the air ahead of him felt much colder and his throat felt chilly, the blast was nothing compared to what the dragon had been able to produce using the same word.

'And to think, this very magic nearly killed me yesterday'

It was a mere gust to the dragons hurricane blast, but the onlooking mages were still struck with awe. Only the archmage maintained his aristocratic calm.

"It seems the legends of the Dragonborn's affinity for the dragon language were not overstated." Savos Aren said simply.

-/-/-/-/-

After that Soran followed the archmage into his private dining hall. Reserved for formal dinners, or in this case sensitive information. Savos Aren had brought along Onmund, Brelyna, and J'zargo along with them. It was a small space, full of intricate tapestries and floating magelights, and in the center was a fair sized table, enough to host far more than its current members. The archmage sat at the head of the table, flanked by the former and current students.

"I've asked you four to meet me here for a mission of vital importance. Windhelm must be warned of the dragon attack and we must ask them for aid. There is food stored in the college but it will not last indefinitely. We must prepare so that a permanent solution can arise."

The dark elf's dignified voice sounded just like it always did. Like he didn't just witness the destruction of the entire hold. But then again, Savos Aren was older than everyone else in the room combined. Old enough to have seen Winterhold destroyed once before during the Great Collapse. From endless waves high enough to pull over half the city into the sea.

The four mages before him had been badly shaken by the dragon attack, by the slaughter. Yet Savos Aren seemed all the same. Upset, but not broken or numb. Perhaps he was fortunate to be knocked out early on, to succumb to blissful oblivion rather than be hunted like prey.

The dunmer continued on.

"Soran has decided to answer the summons of the Greybeards and it is sensible to stop at Windhelm first. Jarl Ulfric is much more likely to accept the plea of the Dragonborn than he would for a ordinary mage. Onmund, Brelyna, Jzargo; you three are the most accomplished students of the college. I would ask for your aid, please go along with Soran while I coordinate the situation here." He fell silent, awaiting an answer.

"This one will go." Said J'zargo as the aged dunmer stopped. Onmund and Brelyna quickly agreed as well. The three of them had been waiting for a change; before the massacre. After their years of study, they were want to see the wider world, like many young people do. The dragon attack had cut through those youthful hopes, and terrified them beyond measure,but it had also filled them with determination to avenge their hold and figure out what the fuck is going on.

Soran smiled at them, grateful for their help. He rarely saw them nowadays, after he'd scoured the college library researching soul and contract magic and failed to get any useful knowledge from the conjuration master, he rarely spent time in Winterhold. But he was touched that his friendship with the three had not fallen through.

The archmage spoke again.

"Dawnstar must also be told of this danger. But the recent snows will not allow us to travel westward, the only dog-sled teams were destroyed in the city. However the road to Windhelm is better established. It could be passed by a sufficiently strong beast."

"The only horses were killed in the town." Said Brelyna. She had seen the crushed stables when she searched the city for survivors again after the dragon was killed. Sadly none of the horses had escaped.

"No doubt Phinis knows how to summon some daedric mount strong enough to take us through the snow. The man's a walking grimoire of summons." Said Onmund.

After the meeting they confirmed with Phinis that he could summon such a beast and prepared to leave for Windhelm the next morning.

-/-/-/-/-

-/-/-/-/-

The harsh early morning light scattered off the snow making Soran and Onmund squint. Luckily the sky was clear for once, had Lady Kyne so wished it we could have been snowed in for days. No matter our magical might, we could not face the full strength of Skyrim's weather. In the north, even her summer storms could be spurisingly brutal. And the sea of ghosts was always angry. As it was now the landscape was covered in a thick layer of frozen over snow, but the weather was calm so today was the day they would travel.

"Ya know, we saw a survivor when we searched the town."

Soran looked up as Onmund spoke. They hadn't spoken much since the attack. The two of them were currently back in the ruined town, scavenging through the broken wagon that they had helped to guard to Winterhold. There was no reason to waste the valuables within. Already they had found several scrolls, but most had been damaged by the dragon's ice.

"Today!?" Soran responded.

"Nah, yesterday, when we split off with Colette. It was the soothsayer, she was diggin through this same wagon we are now." Onmund said, still sifting through the shredded remains of what were once priceless scrolls.

"What happened, did the dragon get her?"

"I don't think it did. I watched its movements as it flew overhead and it never moved towards her. Poor lass, must've died in the blizzard. She was a looker too, you never saw with her all bundled up in those cloaks, but she spoke to us close enough."

"Hnnn."

Smash! "There it is!" Onmund cried out triumphantly, as he broke through the false bottom of one of the wagons compartments, revealing a hollow interior stashed full of coin and magical goods untouched by the ice magic.

"I knew that merchant had to have stashed his gold somewhere in here. Those bodyguards weren't cheap." Onmund reached inside and pulled out several heaping coin purses.

"Gods, he's got a fuckin fortune in here!"

"This was a good idea mate." Soran told his friend.

It seems the merchant had stored the more valuable higher level scrolls and tomes within the hidden compartment, giving the scavengers a bounty of powerful destruction and illusion spells;fire storm, blizzard, mayhem, call to arms, and several tomes smuggled in from Cyrodiil.

The two Nords eagerly stuffed the gains in their bags, before carrying them to the edge of town to meet up with Phinis, Brelyna, and Jzargo. As Soran and Onmund joined the others, stopping to stow the goods and coin in the saddlebags, Onmund called out,"We found some scrolls and gold in the merchant's wagon, should help us on our journey."

Phinis only nodded before quickly launching into a lecture on dangers of the daedric mounts he would be summoning for them.

"Now these are deadly demons." The balding conjurer said with a grave tenor. As if the fate of all Mundus rested upon his next words. When in reality he was going on and on upon the same topic he usually discussed. The safety procedures of summoning daedra. An important area to be sure, but such a small portion of the field of conjuration.

He looked uncomfortable standing out in the morning chill but much healthier than when Soran last saw him. After some tender care under college's most skilled healers, which now consisted of Brelyna and Onmund following Colette's passing, he had largely recovered from his close encounter with the dragon language. Enough to summon several daedric thralls at least. But that was only scratching the surface of the man's unfettered abilities.

"They will not hesitate to attack if they slip from my control. Though they are unintelligent beasts with weak minds, my connection to them will weaken over distance so be careful all the same. Never place yourself in a position where their sudden actions could kill you."

Soran and J'zargo stood together and resisted rolling their eyes. Daedra were dangerous. Really??? This was the most elementary lesson in conjuration. Yet Phinis repeated it every chance he got. That man had seen too many apprentices lost to the dangers of Oblivion, but we weren't the common idiots he usually dealt with.

Even Onmund and Brelyna, the more deferential pair, seemed ready to zone out at another impromptu safety lesson from the conjuration master.

As he droned on, Soran could feel the blood roaring in his veins, pushing him to let Phinis know just know useless this lesson was to him. But he forced down the strange emotions. He had too much pride in his self control. Besides he wasn't even angry about the current lecture. It was the culmination of years in Phinis' company attempting to learn from the man that truly angered him. Getting any useful information from the conjuration master was like pulling teeth.

That's why Soran left the college for darker pastures. The most important field to regain control of Soran's soul was conjuration. But he was never as naturally fluent in the art as he was with destruction and alteration. So he searched for a master to learn under. And Phinis was one of the best, but he was useless as a teacher. Soran's inquiries into the more arcane forms of soul manipulation were shut down instantly, time and time again. The man knew many tricks. But he would not tell them to Soran.

And so Soran left for someone who would. The liches new how to manipulate souls. But they turned out to be utter bastards. He probably should have expected that.

-

-

Unaware of Soran's thoughts, Phinis finished his speech and eyed his audience. His grimace tightened at their uninterested look; gods I wish I could find an apprentice who actually listens to me. At least this batch shows promise. Even the black sheep, or should I say the Dragonborn, what a crazy thought!

They're all quite impressive really.

Onmund and Brelyna's work in the medical ward has been beyond reproach.

Jzargo is still a natural born genius. Though his pyromania is still and issue. Ughh.

And Soran is driven and skilled in different ways. I never liked the boy. Strange look in his eyes... I wonder, was that the look of the Dragonborn?

He looked back at the four mages in front of him.

They were dressed to protect themselves from the freezing temperatures. Soran in his usual steel plate over destruction robes, completed by his horned helm. While the rest of the group wore the adept level college robes and hoods supplemented further by extra layers to ward off the cold.

They expected to reach the hold city by nightfall, but it was always necessary to pack for a little extra. Delays were frequent in Skyrim, from winter storms and wild animals, to the swelling number of bandit attacks as army deserters turned into marauders. Even worse, vampire activity was on the rise lately.

-

The conjuration master attuned his magic to a particular plane of Oblivion; far from the domains of any major players. There were many small realms left virtually untouched by the more dangerous daedra. Once he located the correct dimension he resonated his magicka, tearing through reality and creating a white line in the air. Phinis quickly widened the line into a portal; creating a window into a strange realm of bleachbone trees and a parchment sky. The tree were covered in linen wrappings blemished by age and dust.

Out of the portal stepped four horse shaped creatures. They were wrapped entirely in cloth and where the wrapping was exposed no flesh was present only a skeleton. The daedra moved smoothly, already under Phinis' sway. Their feeble minds unable to fight off the master of conjuration.

"Now don't ride the daedra into Windhelm. Nay, don't ride them even near the city. Banish them before they can be seen. Though they are not technically undead, they'll look similar enough to upset the locals. Gods know how the peasants fear a necromancer."

Soran gave Phinis a calculating look. He hadn't put much stock in the rumors that the man delved heavily into necromancy. Make no mistake, it was a given that the master of conjuration had at least learned the basics, but Soran had always thought him to be too cautious to deal with the dead.

But the feat he accomplished mere days ago changed everything. The ability to raise five undead in under a minute was astounding. Even though the bodies were freshly dead, allowing the vessel to be easily utilized by a new soul, that was a feat that could only be accomplished by true master necromancer. He hadn't even had time to prepare the bodies beforehand, there was no time. All the usual tricks to lessen the magicka cost had been steamrolled over by Phinis Gestor's necromantic power.

Summoning the souls of the dead wasn't like summoning daedra. Daedra can be tricked or bartered with. Summoning a powerful daedra doesn't necessarily make one a powerful caster, the daedra could be following orders for reasons other than binding magic. But the dead? That was more... visceral. More brutal.

The souls of the dead must be hammered into place, ground into submission. Even a matching soul would flee from its own corpse, eager to flee back to the afterlife given the chance. The situation wasn't natural. So the souls had to be actively forced into the shell.

Fitting for a magic created by Molag Bal. Lord of domination and father of necromancy.

Damn him. That foul daedra.

Soran's mind raged as he thought of his mortal enemy. His emotions had been roiling, and his pride bursting since he absorbed the dragon soul, hundreds of years of draconic instincts attempting to shape his thoughts.

Damn it why do I keep thinking of that bastard. he could barely focus enough to think as he rode the waves of emotional blows.

As he lost himself in his emotions, the desire to challenge Phinis grew once again within his chest. But this time it wasn't about his annoying lectures. It was a more serious matter.

His internal turmoil held his attention long enough that that Phinis had stopped talking about the daedra. Onmund and Brelyna stood examining the cloth covered beasts while J'zargo stood nearby; watching Soran like one watches a stranger.

But the sell sword did not notice any of this, his mind was now singly focused on the man who once taught him. The teacher who had failed him.

He stalked towards the man and barked.

"Gestor! Why did you deny me your true teachings? It is clear to see that your knowledge of necromancy is much more vast than you said. I would not have leave the college to join the death cult had you revealed the truth. I nearly died there!"

The bald mage looked startled at the outburst. But then his eyes narrowed and his own fury beat within his chest.

"I would rather die than share that cursed knowledge with you. I would rather the flesh be stripped from my bones. I would rather you die alone with your death cult." Sptaa! He spit on the ground after his statement. Then looked back into Soran's eyes.

"I learned many terrible things from the Gravesingers of High Rock but some secrets should be left alone. To die with their knowers. I promised myself I would never share their secrets of manipulating souls. It was too vile."

-

-

He doesn't know.

Soran rationalized with himself, barely preventing himself from another angry rant.

He doesn't know why I need this knowledge.

What will happen when I die.

Where my soul will go.

Not to Sovengard to be honored, not even to some nameless plane for the unclaimed dead.

No. It will go somewhere far worse; Coldharbour, the realm of Molag Bal. Prince of darkness, father of vampires, the lord of domination, and owner to my soul. Being Dragonborn makes no difference, a soul cannot be unclaimed, all of my research had told me thus.

But why didn't I tell himmy reasons. Surely he would be more sympathetic. A small voice seemed to echo.

Damn it you know why.

How would they treat me then. Knowing my soul is left for the Prince of Darkness. Would they fear me, pity me, treat me like glass? How would they look at me knowing the true depths of my desperation.

No.

It was better to leave them in the dark. Easier, at least.

-/-/-/-/-

They left soon after. As the group rode through the ruins of Windhelm on their skeletal steeds a strange mood hovered over the group of four.

Soran was still struck by his mood swings. Enough that all his companions had noticed a difference in the normally stoic nord. But they didn't bring it up. Attributing the strange behavior to the aftershocks of the dragon attack. They were all struggling to deal with the memories of battle, and what the future held following the massacre.

They traveled quickly as the good weather persisted. For once Kyne had blessed northern Skyrim. The sky goddess was not malicious, but by the divines her mood was fickle.

The road led them across the icy plains and up into the mountains, and though the summer blizzards were fierce, they were vastly smaller than their winter counterparts, and the daedra were able to traverse the mountain passes that were uncrossable after winter storms. By mid afternoon the party could glimpse the city of Windhelm as they took in the view from their mountainous vantage point. They still had a couple hours more traveling to go but the goal was in sight now and they would reach the city well before nightfall.

Soon they would be nearing Fort Kastav; an encampment of warlocks and common bandits. The unlikely group had banded together and trapped the fortress to hell and back. Enough to repel Stormcloak advances even though the fort was so near the capital of the rebellion.

The bandits there were main reason that merchants hired guards for the route from Windhelm to Winterhold. Falmers and trolls weren't as active or aggressive as the magically supplied marauders.

But the route that the four mages were taking had been carefully planned to maintain distance from the fort. There was no sense in getting closer to them; bandits armed with magical scrolls and weapons, gods protect any who cross their path. The roads near the fort were quicker than moving through their route through the forest, but the risk wasn't worth it.

So the four riders cut off the main road into the deeper snow between the trees. The city was in sight and the beasts could push through the snow without much effort.

Off the beaten path here snowberry bushes and pine trees covered the landscape. It was quiet, the snow blanketed the surroundings. The only sounds were the shuffling of snow as the beasts broke trail, and the occasional drips of water as ice melted off the treetops in the summer sun. Soran heard a woodpecker in the distance.

Onmund spoke offhandedly, "We've been lucky so far, haven't seen any wolves yet."

Suddenly three arrows whistled through the air from a trio of bowmen hiding in a thicket a ways beyond the group. Two arrows clattered harmlessly against the wards that Soran and J'zargo quickly deployed with the flick of a hand, but the third had caught its target before he could defend himself and Onmund was speared through the guts. The arrow pierced through one side of his robes and out the other

The bandits moved forward, spurned on by their semi-successful ambush and notched more arrows.

Brelyna rushed to Onmund side as she maintained her own ward. Her normally composed expression giving way to panic.

Soran watched his friend in daze before another arrow hit his ward with a clatter. Then he saw red. He whipped his daedric mount forward towards the group, heedless of anything else around him.

As he rode down the bandit trio he unsheathed his sword while warding with his open hand. Another arrow shot overhead. Then another went lower, hitting the deadra, but the iron arrowhead merely pierced the cloth skin of the horsebeast before getting caught in its empty ribcage. It didn't even flinch. There was no stopping the enraged battlemage rushing towards the ambushers. But rather than running for cover, the bandits began to laugh.

"Stop there is a rune right ahead you fool!"

Onmund's voice cut through the haze filling his head and he jerked the mount to the side nearly falling off to prevent it from stepping into the explosive fire rune he could now barely spot glittering in the snow.

The bandits had added a second layer into their ambush. Normally, Soran would heighten his evaluation of these enemies after learning this new information; he'd become more cautious and expect further traps, but now, still hearing the dragon blood scream in his veins; he only pushed forwards.

The bandit trio was now much more concerned as the mounted rider re-centered himself and once again began barreling down upon them, but it was too late to run. Soran slashed through the nearest man. The bandits fur armor parted like water as the enchanted sword was swung not just with the power of Soran's arm, but also with the momentum of a charging daedra behind it. His body was thrown back into the snow with a spray of blood. The snow tainted red. And the smell of blood burned off his fire-enchanted blade.

As he continued his pass, the rest of Soran's companions began moving towards him to help finish off the remaining men, but the newly crowned Dragonborn was not finished with the marauders. Soran's rage at these imbeciles attacking him and his friends ran rampant in his head. As they struggled to notch more arrows the mercenary focused all the angry energy that had been whirling around in his soul since the dragon died into the concepts of frost and cold and released it as shout at his enemies.

FO KRAH DIIN(frost cold freeze)

An icy blast tore through Soran's throat and passed through the men standing before him with the force of a gale. Shards of ice filled the air and the bandits were killed near instantly as their blood rapidly cooled, then froze entirely. As the wave of ice magic passed them over only pale frost laden corpses were left behind. The bodies were thrown backwards by the power the the Thu'um.

"AHrghh!" A agonized cry shook the clearing, but it wasn't the bandits final breath, they already lay dead in the snow. Nor was it Onmund, who had only taken damage in the form of torn clothing, the arrow had missed flesh by a hair and only pierced his robes. It was Soran crying out; the uncontrolled power of the Thu'um had frozen his throat solid.

He quickly moved a hand to his throat and began applying a restoration spell but he knew it was not nearly enough and his vision rapidly dimmed.

But before he could fall off the linen-wrapped bones of his summoned horse Brelyna and Onmund caught up with him and began to heal him with their higher skill in restoration. The arrow was still caught in Onmund's robes but he didn't seem to notice.

"What's wrong with you Soran? I might expect this from someone else. But not you. You used to be the most cautious motherfucker I know, and now you're charging in like an idiot!" Onmund shouted.

"This one could have easily taken them out with fireballs; there was no need for your advance. A single chain of your lightning would kill the three." Jzargo said.

"And you nearly killer yourself using untested dragon magic." Brelyna exclaimed, still healing his throat.

As his near frozen vocal chords were restored Soran rasped out.

"I don't know... the dragon soul, it's changed me. Maybe for the worse."