Chapter 7
207_v2
Jarl Igmund was grateful to have his father's shield back and offered Tariq the opportunity become a Thane of Markarth. The first step to becoming that would be to invest in Markarth, or buy property like the home currently available, a nice, one-level abode at the very top of a limestone pillar which had other abodes carved into it.
With the combined treasure he'd collected from Nchuand-Zel and Hag's End, he could make the purchase, but there wouldn't be anything left for furnishing or remodeling.
"It has a very nice view and your neighbor, Lord Nepos, is not one for large parties," said Aicantar.
Aicantar was showing him the house because if Tariq wanted the option of installing an enchantments table or a potion-crafting station, Aicantar would be the one tasked to set them up. Aicantar performed most of the routine and mundane court wizard duties for his uncle.
"Yes, very nice," Tariq agreed in a dour tone. "I just didn't budget for keeping servants who would have to haul up all the supplies, not to mention water if I wanted a decent bath."
"Ah, well, become a thane and you'd get a housecarl."
"A housecarl. Like Faleen? Reduce a warrior to domestic servant?"
Aicantar winced. "Bad idea?"
"I'll have to think this through. I haven't yet decided if I want to become a thane. I know letting me see this place is suppose to give me incentive, but right now I'm not inspired. I don't like all the stair climbing and there's the matter of having to find and engage trustworthy servants to maintain and guard the place. That means an income. That means a commitment to Markarth. I am not sure of this just yet. A walkabout is not about acquiring titles and properties."
"Jarl Igmund did say this was a ceremonial position," offered Aicantar, "that means he isn't requiring you to commit to a government post or military command, just be willing to give whatever job he has for you some priority and support him in battles. It gives you the right to advise him in matters of your expertise and to bring matters directly to his attention without having to wait in line and clear it with his clerks or even Steward Raerek.
"And your housecarl's base salary and equipment is paid for by Markarth. If you give him or her any monies or equipment, those are gifts."
"Good information, Aicantar, thank you. But a housecarl, am I stuck with the one they assign me? Do I have any say in who gets chosen?"
"They may give you that option if you refuse the one initially assigned. I don't know. You'll have to ask Faleen about that. She assigns the housecarls unless you already have someone of your own."
They walked out of the home, called Vlindrel Hall, and Aicantar closed the door and sealed it with a magic lock. Tariq looked down past the stairs. No guide rails to grab onto or to stop a drunken, stumbling body from missing a step and falling more than a hundred feet straight down, possibly pushing many others over the same edge if the steps were crowded with revelers.
On the way down, they met Lord Nepos coming up, and Aicantar made introductions. Tariq noted the man had the look of a Breton aristocrat. Faleen had said Lord Nepos was in charge of Markarth's mundane civil projects and services not handled by Silver-Bloods, who oversaw matters of finance, or Steward Raerek and Jarl Igmund, who oversaw military and judicial matters. He was the barely acknowledged third power who kept the city running on the leftover, spare change that leaked out of the pockets of the first two.
As Tariq stared into those shrewd eyes during introductions, he knew he was looking into the eyes of a spymaster. But for whom? He didn't sense any great malice like in that Thalmor cat spymaster, but got only the impression of great weariness from the Reachman. In a way, that was worse. The man had been doing his job for a long time.
The two women servants behind Nepos were clearly guard dogs despite being dressed as housemaids, one carrying a net bag of vegetables and the other, a net bag of herbs. Both had the bags slung on their left arms, leaving their fighting hands free. One could say for balance and momentum for climbing these stairs, except as they stepped up and saw him and Aicantar, their arm swings stopped and hands hovered near the knives on their belts.
They exchanged pleasantries and parted.
…
Ogmund had gone over the border into High Rock with his patron when Madanach took over Markarth. It had been relatively peaceful for a takeover. Madanach had done the impossible and united the different tribes of the Reach and they'd just marched into the city, giving the Nords still there the choices of leaving peacefully, citizenship for the price of paying their taxes, or holding onto their ground and gold and dying on it. They'd given Jarl Hrolfdir's wife and son safe escort to Solitude.
Kindness and benevolence were not the point of his rule. Iron hand, and the only rule was that all tribes had to leave their differences, tribal or religious, outside the gate. One would have thought the Hagravens would have united to tear him apart, but, surprisingly, the old witches seemed relieved. It got the restless troublemakers out of the core tribes as they left to go to the city to create a new kingdom. The ambitious ones, the restless ones, the ones who could not live a simple life of obedience to the witches and their gods. Let Madanach have them and let them try.
"It surprisingly peaceful for a usurpation," said Ogmund. "Sure, there was blood spilled, but mostly it was in reprisal to my countrymen who mistook being outnumbered as a reason for a great 'last stand.' Madanach's response was no more brutal than the Nord response to Reach folk uprisings. I would say even less so because those that still survived were granted the option to leave. Those walkouts then went to Hjaalmarch and beyond to spread tales of barbarity.
"Yes, some Nords ended on the altars of their dark gods, but those were usually just hours from death and beyond any healer's skill. Dark sacrifices for sure, but not virgins or healthy young Nord children nor as salacious as the slanderers would have everyone believe." He took a deep drink and stared moodily into the hearth fire.
"What my countrymen did when then took back the city was worse than anything Madanach did," he pronounced. "Slave labor in the mines and on the farms of their conquerors.
"No one will say this here, but Ulfric's reprisals were as swift and brutal as any Dominion Thalmor. Indiscriminate slaughter of the Reach folk, the torturing of non-combatants, including children, to surrender the names of fighters. Capricious dispossession of native properties as rewards to returning Nords."
"Dominion suppression. The proving of a so-called 'superior' race," spat Tariq, hating this Ulfric already. "Yet, I hear tales that he has power that marks him a chosen champion of the Atmoran gods. Can you explain this to me?"
"He has the thu'um, the Shout," said Ogmund. "That's how he broke the walls of Markarth. He raised his voice and shouted and the walls crumbled."
"I've come across these draugr who shout. Are they the 'chosen' also?" asked Tariq, doubt and sarcasm dripping from his tone.
"Ah, but we're not talking about the long dead. Ulfric is of Windhelm, the city built by Ysgramor himself. His bloodline is the oldest of direct descent. Those who are tired of the Imperial Empire, founded by great Talos though it may be, who tire of soft, southern Imperials dictating what Nords may do in their own land, hail Ulfric's power as a sign that all Nords must remember where the First Empire of Man started, and that it wasn't in Cyrodiil.
"So … This thu'um is power that is symbolic of what? I don't understand the significance. Was this thu'um supposed to be a power of the Nord Kings?"
"No, no, it …" Ogmund wryly grinned, "It was actually a power of terror, of death, of suppression. It came from a time when Dragons ruled and made slaves of the Atmoran people. It was a power the Dragons gave their priests to keep Mankind obedient."
"Didn't seem to work, did it?" Tariq grinned savagely. "Still, how appropriate the Empire asserts that only those of Dragon blood can sit on the Ruby Throne." His grin faded as he considered further that power. "Still … It's confusing.
"By what I've read so far … Explain to me this Ysmir name. I've seen it referenced as king, as a beneficial spirit or as a great evil. I've read that book considered a heresy to Tiber Septim's legacy, the one claiming he's a Breton whose soul was displaced by this Ysmir, and afterwards he claimed to be Nord? Yet some Nords will accept that he was born in High Rock, trained as a Breton, but refuse the idea that he could possibly be anything else but Nord? In Hammerfell all we know is the name of Tiber Septim, a thoroughly Imperial name. Was his birth name, in truth, Hjalti Early-Beard? When did it become Tiber Septim? How did it become Talos? And, again, who or what is this Ysmir? By what path of power did he rise to godhood?"
"Ah, well … ah-heh," Ogmund shifted uneasily. "That's a series of long, involved tales, so many different versions as you can expect when legends, history, and religions all have their own take." He took a large bite of crispy bread with a thick top coat of garlic and melted cheese and chewed longer on it than was warranted.
"Alright. Ogmund, honored sir, no insult is intended, but name me a fee."
"What?"
"As you say, it is a long and complicated tale with many variants. It requires a knowledgeable scholar to teach it. I would not insult you by thinking that you should educate me for free. So please, name the fee for your lessons."
"Well …" Ogmund drawled uncertainly. "Books I would recommend —"
"A thousand pardons, but books aren't what I want. I will read any you recommend, of course, and they are useful reference points, but what they can't give me are the living minds and thoughts of a Nord who has lived these beliefs. Books are fine for a dead past. I can't ask a book to explain something I've observed. It can't see that I'm confused about a statement. I can't argue with a book when I am frustrated with the logic of the lesson."
Ogmund looked startled. "Oh, were you a challenge as a pupil?"
"Not particularly I don't think. I come from a long line of priests and teachers. As priests, there are things we take on faith. As teachers, it is our inclination in my line to ask many questions and debate many theories. I suppose, to many who do not know us, we seem a quarrelsome family. I just want to understand these tales, this legend of the Dragonborn."
Ogmund didn't immediately answer. Instead, he picked up his lute and began playing a complicated tune. Then he stopped. "Why does it matter to you? You told me you came to Skyrim as part of your 'walkabout,' your journey to master the art of the sword. I'm not refusing your offer to pay me for history lessons, but I have to ask: Why? I don't want to waste my time, even if I'm getting paid for it, for idle curiosity."
Tariq frowned, but offered no answer. He realized he didn't know himself why this was such an urgent question to him. Thankfully, Ogmund didn't press for an answer, but instead started a new tune and stood up to entertain the patrons coming in for an evening meal and drinks.
He still didn't like Markarth, it's government, it's climate. Why was he even considering "buying into trouble?" He was on the path of the Ansei, to learn … to learn whatever he needed to reach his goal.
And to watch the Thalmor, to anticipate their schemes as they prepare for the next great push to conquer the world.
…
Faleen introduced him to the Nord she was considering for the housecarl position if Tariq went ahead to become a thane. Argis was the man's name, "the Bulwark" was the description attached to him, one he'd earned in the same battle that had cost him one eye.
"He'll stand his ground until he drops and is slain, or until ordered to retreat," said Faleen told him later, after dinner. "He's not trained to be a steward, so just leaving him to guard your house is underutilizing his skills and will only set him up to fail. In that case, I'll find you a tame house guard who'd be happy to stay in Markarth and handle house accounts and could be trusted to not steal too much from you or abuse your property as his own while you're away by bringing in his affairs," her fingers traced up from his belly to his neck, "or holding parties.
"I'd selected Argis as being one who could possibly keep up with you in travel. He's not as book-learned as Vorstag, but he knows how to help you with the people you're likely to meet. A native guide if you will.
"I could use a guide, but I'm still considering whether I want to be a thane. It's not part of a walkabout, Faleen."
"I know."
"Markarth has troubles I'm not sure I want to become entangled in."
"I know."
"Why am I even considering this?"
"Perhaps your instincts are telling you there's something important going on, Sword-Singer, and the signs you follow lead you to a dark path while your practical sense tells you only an impulsive idiot would dive head-first into black water." She grinned wryly. "Commitments are not to be made lightly. 'Commit to your stance, else the action loses power and the technique fails,'" she quoted, on Frandar Hunding's command on a particularly difficult sacrificial feint.
"Let it go for now, Tariq. You're free to go on with your journey and to return when you have made a decision. I will explain it to the Jarl. He finds the concept of Sword-Singers fascinating. My friend, Yngvar, who is bard college trained, helped me couch it in terms of a heroic Nord saga." She giggled and stated in a sing-song voice. "Tariq, you are the doom-driven hero who must not be distracted from his grand path."
"'Doom-driven?' That sounds ominous."
"Nay. Yngvar uses the ancient Nord definition, which simply means 'destiny and conclusion,' not 'death and destruction.'"
"Now, if you want to try Argis out as a companion, I can give him time away for a little freelancing, and you can pay him a standard mercenary fee. I'm sure he'd like that more than regular patrol duty."
She moved out from under his arm to straddle his lap.
"So … Would you like to demonstrate how 'doom-driven' you are to our mutual satisfaction?"
…
The balding, tattooed Reachman drew his attention. The Silver-Blood Inn was full of sullen, weary faces, but for some reason the desperation-tinged anger in the man's face called out to him. He went to stand beside the man and ordered another drink. As the barmaid fetched the expensive brandy he'd ordered, he turned towards the Reachman. "The bard's pretty good, friend, and singing a fine song about pretty women. Why the frown? Woman trouble?"
"You could say that." The Reachman gave him a quick glance, taking in armor and weapons, then a second time with a more thoughtful expression. He turned on his stool so that he faced Tariq. "Little girl trouble actually. My holding was raided by Forsworn two days ago. Of all the things they took, it wasn't food, it wasn't the silver that we mine, it was one of our children. That meant they needed a sacrifice for some future attack because of all our children, they took the only Nord in the bunch. I came here yesterday hoping to get the Jarl's help in getting her back, but was told there's no guards to spare and that I should go hire a mercenary. Interested?"
"Yes," Tariq answered, so quickly and firmly to cause the Reachman's eyes to widen in surprise.
"What's your fee?"
"None. Ah, I lie. I desire information. I am new come from Hammerfell and I have many questions about this land, this Reach. Is the girl worth your patience to answer my questions?"
"It's a long ride. I suppose I'd rather talk than brood in silence all the way back. When can you leave?"
"I can be ready at dawn."
"All right. I was going to leave after this drink, but I think I can stomach another night in these walls. I'm Ainethach, owner of the Sanuarach and Fenn's Gulch mines, and most of the land of the town of Karthwasten."
"Tariq ibn Zayad, a scholar of the sword."
They met at the stables at dawn. The Reachman was already sitting on a loaded wagon when Tariq and Argis arrived.
"Is it free for both of you or do I owe your friend a hiring fee?" asked Ainethach, sounding not at all put out by an extra sword.
"No fee to you. I've already paid it," announced Tariq. That brought a frown to the Reachman's face, but a look at Tariq's firm smile and he decided not to question the situation.
"My great-grandfather started the town and named it Karthwasten after an ancient city in hopes that the mining town would grow into a trade center. The original city it was named after was destroyed some centuries ago during all the wars between the Mers, the Nedes, and the Nords. Tiber wars, worm cult wars, more wars than I care to study or remember. Old city used to be up north, between Hjaalmarch and High Rock, sitting right on the northern trade routes. All in all, our town isn't doing too bad. The mine is producing, but we're a town without walls, no defenses, so we have to rely on Markarth if there's any major trouble. Though, help from Markarth isn't reliable anymore."
"You may have noticed I'm a Reach native. I'm the only one left in this area with any major land claim. Everything else belongs to the Nords, or more specifically, the Silver-Bloods. Those who weren't bought out eventually lose to foreclosure since the only money to lend are the Silver-Bloods who can set any repayment and interest rate to what they like, and there's no appealing to the Jarl. To him, any Reachman is just another potential Forsworn."
"You don't approve of the Forsworn?"
The Reachman's knuckles went white, but he was carefull not to mishandle the reigns. "I said the Forsworn attacked and grabbed one of our children for sacrifice. If I approved of them, shouldn't I have been happy to make a sacrifice of an orphaned Nord girl? Would I have bothered to come to Markarth to beg help from the Jarl?
"No! I don't approve of those damn savages!" He glared at Tariq. "Before the war, the Nords were overbearing, but they could be reasoned with and a Reachman had the chance to own land and to prosper. And sooner or later, people intermarry, have kids." He lifted one hand to his face, touched his tattoos. "We have our tribes, but who doesn't? Different tribes in different parts of the land. Nords have their Holds, different ideas in their Holds. Same with High Rock. And don't Redguards have their classes?"
"We do," agreed Tariq, amiably. "Crowns and Forebears and smaller groups within each."
"Huh. Well, when Madanach declared himself king and managed to get several tribes to cooperate, that was an accomplishment, I'll acknowledge that. But he had outside help and I don't mean the blessings of the gods. They came through High Rock using ancient family ties. High Elves, a number of High Elves posing as merchants and researchers and saying they were studying the history of the Direnni Hegemony. They seemed sympathetic to the complaints we generally had about the Nords pushing into our lands, claiming some ancient right as if my people weren't here first and as if we were lesser because of our partial mer blood.
"So Madanach thought he had some outside allies. He got many tribes to follow him. The mer told him the war didn't concern the Reach natives, that the time would come when the Nords of Markarth would have to march to support the Empire, and when that time came, to be ready to reclaim the land that was our birthright.
"And so it happened."
"Did you not support Madanach?" Tariq asked. The Reachman turned a face that was expressionless.
"I'll support whoever allows me to live my life as I please," he answered. "I'm not afraid of being labeled a coward for taking a neutral ground. I didn't get where I am by impulsively jumping after the first glint of gold. You do that as a miner, let your greed blind you to safety protocols, then you risk dying and taking others with you.
"It was good two years. Madanach was new as a king, but he wasn't unreasonable. And he had the strength of character to maintain peace between different tribes, get them to cooperate, and was managing to maintain peace with the hagravens that dictate most religious life in the countryside.
"In Karthwasten, we continued mining and we paid the taxes demanded of us. Then Jarl Hrolfdir returned. When Madanach refused him and beat back the Jarl and his Nords, the Jarl went and hired a special force. That was Ulfric, the prince or whatever these Nords call the heirs of jarls, of Eastmarch, some far off hold. This prince had power we'd never seen before, never heard of except in old tales.
"Jarl Hrolfdir promised this loud-mouth prince something, and so Ulfric came and used his voice magic to shout the gates from the city. The Nords went in, slaughtering anyone who didn't immediately throw themselves on the ground. Ulfric knew Madanach had been dealing with the Dominion, and his hatred was fanatical. There was no mercy for warriors. Or for the old, for the young, for the sick, for anyone who wasn't a Nord. At Karthwasten, we were too out of the way for the Nord armies, but we received many desperately fleeing the carnage. We heard the tales, hid and treated the injured so that they could continue their flight.
"An earned blessing, I suppose you could call it. The Forsworn may consider me the Nord's whipped dog for continuing to do business with them, but the ones we helped spoke up for us to the tribes, and so we're left alone and raiding parties pass us by, until that night they took Fjotra. That's her name. I don't know what happened to her original parents, and she claims she doesn't remember how she got orphaned. "
"Who and what are the Forsworn to you?" asked Tariq. "You do not see them as patriots of the Reach? As warrior fighting for freedom?"
"I'd see that if they didn't act like damned fools. Yes, they attack Nords, but every damn attack seems to only add wealth to the Silver-Bloods. Follow the vein, the blood. And the gold always ends up in Silver-Blood pockets. First, it was all the Reach landholders. Now it's the Nords. It's as if the Forsworn are working for the Silver-Bloods. If they are fighting to free the Reach as they claim, well, they're doing it in the stupidest way possible. If they were ore miners, then all they're doing is cutting the timber supports and clogging the ore chutes. It only enrages the Nords and causes hardships for the rest of us.
"Those who join the Forsworn, I barely recognize anymore. Their obsessive hatred isn't just for Nords, it's on everyone who isn't one of them. Maybe my town bought some grace after Markarth's fall, but it's wearing thin. I will not sacrifice a child to keep that favor going."
"I've been in one of their redoubts. I've seen their children there," said Tariq.
"And you would think they would have care for the rest of us outside the redoubts. Make no mistake, by the time their children leave the redoubts, they no longer see the rest of us as the same people."
"What are these Hagravens who seem to rule?"
"Originally? Witches who convened in out-of-the-way places in the countryside practicing what they call the Old Ways, the powers they claim were here before the Aldmer explorers came with their gods. I'm no expert. What gods I make offerings to I suppose are mer gods. I occasionally join in a few Dibellan ceremonies.
"But as times become hard, as people get driven out of their homes …"
"Ah, I see," said Tariq, nodding. "It is a pattern of history. As times become uncertain, it is natural to seek stability, and power is often marked as stable. If you can't find it in your government leaders, then perhaps in the religious ones. No middle ground, only the extremes. People driven to the fringes of society find those that haunt the fringes. And so the hagravens are seen to have some secret power and they find themselves with angry people desperate for leadership, for some sort of sense in the world, for something that would give them any hope of power or control in their lives. The witches suddenly have followers and the means to indulge the demands of their gods and to gather in souls to grow their powers."
"Exactly that," agreed Ainethach. "I don't know what those witches preach, what rituals or drugs or spells they work, but those that come out of the redoubts … Don't expect any mercy or empathy when you face them. They don't expect any, and they won't give any."
"These old gods of the Reach, are they Daedra?"
"I honestly wouldn't know," answered Ainethach. "I grew up when the Imperial Cult had stronger influence in the region so my education in religion is skewed towards the eight Divines, and the only Daedra I heard are the ones nowadays associated with Morrowind. And then, of course, Molag Bal and Mehrunes Dagon — Markarth used to be a center for the Worm Cult. There are also stories of battles between the cults of Molag Bal and Boethiah, those two really hated each other — and there's Hircine.
"The Hagravens use names I'm not familiar with. Strong spirits, not necessarily gods or god level powers, but strong as a local power. Like damn politics. Ask people hereabouts who they fear more, Jarl Igmund or Silver-Blood? I can tell you it isn't the Jarl. I have no idea if the spirits identify as either Aedra or Daedra."
Daedra, Tariq was certain. "I don't know of any Aedra that demands their worshipers surrender their humanity and become an animal like Hircine does, or to rip out the hearts of their strongest warriors to be replaced by a plant's root ball." He wondered vaguely if a bush or other sprouted from the bodies of the briarhearts once they were planted. It would argue for a strong nature-based spirit, amoral and amorphous. The thought of a hedge of forest of semi-conscious spirit-infused briar bushes made him shudder.
They arrived in Karthwasten. Homes, huts, small camp sites and barns. Ainethach told him there were 120 to 200 inhabitants, numbers varying through the seasons as farmworkers came and left depending on harvests. His own home was central and facing the primary Sanaurach mine.
As soon as they saw him, people ran to Ainethach, shouting with urgency.
The recent Forsworn attack had elicited a response from Markarth. The Silver-Bloods had dispatched a mercenary group to protect the area from the Forsworn, supposedly. They'd come here and drove the miners out of the mines, using the reason that Forsworn may be hiding underground.
As Ainethach argued with the mercenary leader, Tariq assessed them. A mixed bunch of Nords, Yokudans, and Orcs, well armored and highly polished, well fed. He looked at Ainethach's people. Mostly Reach Bretons, a few Nords, and at least two Orcs.
"Highway robbery is what it is," Ainethach complained bitterly as the last of the mercenaries disappeared into the mine leaving two posted outside the entrance.
"How gods-damned convenient that a tax assessor will be due here in another day or two," he added.
"You've been raided. Does that not count for anything?" asked Tariq, although he suspected, by the way all he's heard was leading him to guess, that a raid was no excuse.
"No. Reach-owned businesses and lands get no leniency because we may be diverting our tax funds to the Forsworn. It's pay on demand with immediate forfeiture to the Silver-Blood bank if you owe them anything, or to the crown, who will turn over the land to the Silver-Blood bank to manage the assets as they've been doing since the Nords retook Markarth."
Tariq nodded, sympathetic to the victims of this trap. He swept his gaze around, assessing the mood of the crowd. There were those close enough to be listening and information was being passed to the rest. These weren't starved, dull-eyed, indifferent slaves.
"What's your strength?" he asked.
"My — Oh. I have three employed who keep the peace and who do the primary watch for wild animals. Most of my people have seen some fighting, mostly against bandits. A few retired battle veterans. Plenty of part-time hunters.
"If I didn't mind casualties and the repercussions from the Jarl, we could take the mercenaries. Hell, take the guards out. Our biggest casualties would be keeping the rest trapped inside while we collapse the mine entrance. There's some food and water stored inside, but that won't last them or matter once we block the air shafts."
"Prepare for it then," said Tariq.
"Are you mad? Even if we win this battle, the Jarl will march in here, execute maybe a third to half my people as token examples and, I don't know, double or triple our taxes. The next Forsworn attack, the Silver-Bloods will do this again, and then they'll own everything. All the major silver and gold mines of the Reach."
"I want a show of force. I will go in there and explain their situation to them," explained Tariq. "Even when I tell them everything you've told me, it will do no good for them because they'll be dead. Do you think they're willing to die slowly, choking on ore dust, for Silver-Blood?"
Ainethach didn't answer. He turned to his people, made a few gestures, and the miners quickly organized themselves into work groups.
The mercenaries were gone and far from Karthwasten land by sunset. The townsfolk had a small celebration.
Tomorrow, Ainethach would take Tariq and Argis to the Forsworn who had taken Karthwasten's child.
12
Page 12 of 12