Chapter 37
"That's an unhealthy interest in poisons. You don't look like the assassin type," commented the elderly Altmer, the proprietor of the White Phial apothecary located in the main market of Windhelm.
"They are more useful as training tools," Tariq answered curtly.
The Altmer snorted. "I see. You're one of those masochist training types — pushing yourself to excel under extreme stress. Forcing yourself to train while poisoned. Bah. If you're going to battle in Skyrim, might as well switch methods and meditate under icy waterfalls. I will warn you, though, the salmon are pretty aggressive this time of year and won't hesitate to use you as a ladder to ascend the falls."
"I have no fear of that. Drenching myself in ice water is not to my taste. I would, instead, invite such sitters to go with me on a leisurely jog through a sandstorm in the Aliq'r desert," Tariq countered with a twisted smile.
"Hah. There are plenty of old-time Dunmer who could match you on that. I know a few ex-caravan traders who routinely marched through the ash storms of Red Mountain as part of their livelihood before the catastrophe. Most of the original Dunmer refugees here were Vvardenfell ashlanders. Islanders — especially tribal ones unaffiliated with any of the Houses — were unwelcome in mainland Morrowind, so they were forced to come to Skyrim."
"So the only Dunmer in the Companions told me," said Tariq. "'Ashlander,' he called himself. "'Erba-something' tribe."
He frowned as the Altmer abruptly turned away to cough into a handkerchief. It was an ugly, painful sound too close to a death rattle. The old one didn't have much longer.
The old Altmer finished gathering up the ingredients on Tariq's list.
"How much?"
"Half off since you promised to fetch my White Phial from Curalmil's tomb."
"No, good sir, I will pay full price. Your investigations found me two wordwalls. Both at great danger to yourself."
"Danger I was risking anyway to find the Phial," said the elf, shrugging bony shoulders.
"Perhaps. But you also sent copies of the writings to the college. I don't know exactly what powers I may extract from them, but I sense they are good ones."
"At least someone profits from these scratchings." He tapped the papers Tariq had delivered. "I am disappointed, though. I was hoping for more information about the White Phial. I suppose I should have known better. Curalmil was not in the habit of carving his formulations on burial walls. And those letters were definitely not the old Atmoran writing he used."
"What is so special about this Phial? Is it a cure-all for every sickness? A divine panacea?"
"No," the elf said curtly, then succumbed to another lung-tearing bout of coughing. Tariq saw the blood spots on the handkerchief this time. The elf saw his gaze and smiled wryly.
"No concern of yours. I started looking for the Phial long before this sickness settled in. If I'd given up my dream and returned to Greenwater Cove, my hometown, I would never have become ill." Another tired shrug. "A result of digging into old tombs, tomes, and other ill-favored places. Such are the risks one takes to pursue his dream." His trembling hands scooped up Tariq's payment. "Better luck to you, sword-singer," he tossed over his shoulder as he walked to a back room. His assistant hustled out, smiling blandly, but glancing back worriedly at his master. The young man efficiently wrapped up Tariq's purchases.
The main market area of Windhelm had space at a premium. The crowding did help keep the area warmer than the rest of the city, that and the open forges of the city's primary blacksmith. Even that fenced workshop was crowded with smiths and apprentices in war production of weapons and armor. Only metal and finished leatherwork were handled here. The gutting and tanning were all done in the Gray Quarter. Even the constant icy winds hitting that area weren't enough to keep down the stench of the tanneries.
The Gray Quarter was where the Dunmer populated was segregated. The iciest and poorest part of the city. Tariq could easily see the low jobs — the street cleaning, garbage collecting, ice and snow scraping, heavy transport — all were done by the elves. Decades of this. The Dunmer Companion Athis had told him of Windhelm's condition and had shown him that libelous book "Scourge of the Grey Quarter." It was the bitter incentive he kept as he fought for his place in the Companions.
"The only ones who have it worse than us in Windhelm are the Argonians and Khajiit. They aren't even allowed in the city. The Khajiit caravans are only tolerated because of the goods they bring. The Argonians do all the work on the dock and get slave wages. Nords seem to have forgotten who stood beside them in the 2nd Akaviri invasion and the Three Banners War."
Tariq could only shrug at that. National relations were rarely that simple. Allies under duress did not necessarily mean lasting friendships were likewise forged. So it was when High King Emeric of Wayrest wedded Princess Maraya of Sentinel Kingdom. A good strengthening of relations for the Greater Daggerfall Covenant, but ties between the kingdoms faded when the war ended. Armies marched on uniformity. No surprise that when armies disbanded — and uniforms came off — individuals re-emerged with their differing cultures, tastes, and habits.
But he had no business in the Gray Quarter or at the docks, unlike Onmund, who had accompanied them south and had duties to deliver goods enchanted by the college to buyers. He would also be adventuring with them to the two tombs near his hometown of Heljarchen.
With business at the White Phial done, he headed to the Palace of Kings. Earlier that morning, Lydia had delivered his letter of introduction to the court mage, and the mage had responded, saying he had time in the early afternoon to meet with him. As part of the educational program he's agreed to with Winterhold College, he'd been studying lessons while traveling to Windhelm. The Windhelm court mage was a college graduate and potential tutor/tester. Wuunferth the Unliving, he was called. An ominous name. Of course, if he was truly a lich, Tariq would have nothing further to do with him. He'd even walk out without killing the monster as a courtesy to the College.
The palace doors opened immediately into a massive chamber that was the throne room itself. Impressive. Rough-hewn gray granite slabs. The overall impression was of cold, elemental power. No great central firepit as he'd seen in Dragonsreach or Jorrvaskr to heat the space, just iron braziers along the walls and a multitude of oil-filled horn lamps. The rest was the multitude of people still in the hall. Servants were still clearing away the dishes of the noontime meal and sending off the after-meal stragglers still talking and downing mead. Tariq had noted this practice by Skyrim jarls to have at least one meal with his community, though "community" most often meant the palace folk. Most of the people lingering appeared to be off-duty soldiers and servants. He knew Balgruuf of Whiterun did this. Idgrod of Hjaalmarch, not so much because her people feared what she might see or say when she looked at them. Korir of Winterhold did not host in his hall, preferring to dine and drink with his people at the town's only tavern.
Most of the bits of conversations Tariq overheard were complaints and grumbling about the hardships of the receding winter, recent losses to the Legion, and the dragons that threatened wildlife and domestic herds. Thankfully, no mention of dragonborns or Redguards. He also honed in on the conversation about a vampire getting inside the palace and a member of the Dawnguard stopping it while on the pretext of collecting a bounty for bandits from the steward.
Interesting. Fort Dawnguard was a few hours away from Forelhost, the dragon cult ruins with a wordwall. He thought about that interesting Orc he'd conversed with in Whiterun, a cheeky, unapologetic worshiper of Daedric Prince Malacath. The Orc had needled him about his beliefs and the ancient history between Orsimer and Yokudans. He looked forward to meeting that one again at this Fort Dawnguard.
"So you're the special traveling student Tolfdir wrote about," the old wizard said grumpily as soon as Tariq crossed his room's threshold. "What can I do for you?"
"An honor to make your acquaintance, Master Wuunferth," said Tariq politely, bowing slightly. The old wizard seemed mortal enough. A healthy, warm look to him, unlike the pallid stillness of a truly undead. Excellent. "I have some questions about shield casting."
They studied until Tariq could smell the evening dinner wafting from the feast hall. It was time to depart and rejoin his companions at Candlehearth Hall.
However, his exit was blocked by an older warrior wearing Stormcloak armor and a bear's skull for a helmet.
"You are the Dragonborn," stated the old warrior.
"I am Tariq ibn Zayad, a traveling sword-singer studying the way of the blade," he responded, blowing slightly.
"Dragonborn or Companion Tariq, so I'm told."
"I am no longer with the Companions."
"But you are the Dragonborn, the thane of Whiterun."
"As I have told Jarl Balgruuf, I have little interest in this Dragonborn title. I am less interested in saving Skyrim than in testing my sword against dragons. They are challenging beasts to try to fight. The ability to absorb some power from their fleeting souls is an interesting sensation. As for my title in Whiterun, it is merely ornamental and was convenient to accept at the time. That is all. I have nothing to do with Skyrim's civil war. I have no interest in raising my blade against you Stormcloaks. Of course, if you try to invade Whiterun, I must, unfortunately, fulfill my obligation to at least defend its walls."
"And will the Dragonborn raise his Voice against the true sons and daughters of Skyrim?"
"Are you not raising your swords against the empire of your own Talos Stormcrown?"
"The true bloodline is dead, and pretenders sit on the throne. It is no longer the empire we recognize. The Medes have betrayed us and allied with the Dominion. You of Hammerfell know full well the empire's duplicity."
"True. I abhor the Medes' wrong-headed decision to sue for peace at such humiliating costs and the insulting casual gifting of all Hammerfell to the Dominion. However, I honor the courage and battle spirit of the Legion commanders who turned a blind eye to the defection of troops and soldiers who stayed with Hammerfell and who protected the defectors by declaring them Invalids. The majority were soldiers of Colovia, with Nords and even some mer among them. I will battle the dragons, but I will have no part in Skyrim's family quarrel."
"Tariq," interrupted Wuunferth, "I introduce you to Galmar, housecarl to Jarl Ulfric and supreme general of all the Stormcloak army."
"What business does the Dragonborn have with you?" demanded Galmar of Wuunferth.
"The Dra-, Tariq is an associate member of the College. I am still a member of the College. It is a courtesy exchange of knowledge in magic."
"Bah. What need has the Dragonborn of magic? I thought you said you are some sort of warrior?" he said to Tariq.
"Sword-singer. I am a student of the sword. However, the art is not mutually exclusive of magic. At the highest level, the ansei level, the sword of spirit and magic are one and the same," Tariq explained stiffly. "Magic and the Voice are both exercises of power. This dragon soul I am told I have by the holy brothers of High Hrothgar merely means I have a dragon's capacity for magic. Learning the disciplines of mortal magic is a useful exercise, nothing more. I am no less a warrior for learning it," he stated. "From the bard I travel with, I have learned that the Atmoran mages, the 'clever crafters' of Atmora, were a power the elves learned to fear, so I cannot understand this disdain the people of Skyrim today have for practitioners of magic."
"Only milk drinkers and elves rely on magic."
Tariq didn't need to look at Wuunferth to know his reaction; he could hear the other's disgusted snort. "Ysgramor's ax Wuuthrad was a creation of magic," he said. "You Nords could not have conquered Morrowind without using dragon magic, the Voice you're so proud of. And it is magic," he asserted when the other looked to protest. "Dragon magic. Do not mistake the Voice as a sign of divinity or divine favoritism. If there was any divinity, your ancestors would not have been able to rise against the dragons' rule and turn their own weapons against them. That's the mistake the current Dominion is making by thinking that their elven souls are somehow the seeds of divinity by the fact that they inherently wield stronger magic."
"And what know you of gods and divinity?" Galmar demanded.
Tariq shrugged. "I ask myself that constantly. My ancestors have long been priests of HoonDing, the Make-Way God. It is likely that whenever I return to Hammerfell, I shall take up the priest's mantle. But until then, I have given myself the right to question and test my faith and the tenets of my god before making any final commitment. Thus, feel free to dismiss my opinions of your god-emperors and their divine powers of the Voice."
"By the gods, what a travesty that one like you is the Dragonborn," spat Galmar.
Take that up with Talos was the response he wisely kept behind his teeth. Tariq even refrained from shrugging. He was hungry, and he wanted to rejoin his companions for dinner. He sensed that anything further said or displayed would only send the Nord in front of him into a temper tantrum. And any physical contact, such as merely pushing past him, would mean facing all the guards listening in the narrow stone hall. It was too long a distance to fight to the palace doors.
"Galmar, it's time for dinner, and you're blocking the way," Wuunferth loudly grumbled.
"I'll not have this milk-drinker at the same table as our Jarl."
"As you like. Apologies, Tariq, we'll have to end any further discussion of magic this evening. I'll show you out so you can find your own supper."
"Ah, yes. Regrettable indeed," said Tariq, feigning disappointment. Galmar seemed satisfied that kicking out the unwelcome guest without proper hosting was a sufficient display of his displeasure. No soldier dared impede the wizard's path, and Wuunferth briskly led him to the front doors.
"You handled yourself well with Galmar. Ulfric will likely hear of this, and you may be invited to return here to speak with him. I don't know what business you have in Windhelm, but conclude it quickly and be gone unless you want to meet the Jarl."
Tariq nodded. He planned to leave before morning.
… … …
Hadring was the proprietor of Nightgate Inn and Onmund's uncle on his mother's side. The tiny village's largest businesses were the inn, an apothecary, a smithy, and a general store. The rest of the inhabitants hunted, fished, or worked at the mill across Yorgrim Lake. Nowadays, the village was more of a stopover for travelers between The Pale and Windhelm or coming down from the northern mountain pass.
Conversing with Hadring let him know the village used to be a much larger town called Helarchin Creek some centuries back. Only the inn has survived. His family had owned and run for six generations, about 200 to 250 years. Unfortunately, Hadring hadn't married. He wasn't sure if anyone else in the family was interested in running the business after him. He'd hoped his sister's boy, Onmund, would, but the boy got the notion to be a wizard. Yet he still hoped the boy could be persuaded to eventually take ownership of the inn. he could simply hire someone else to manage the place while he did whatever wizards liked to do. And if it was stargazing, there was no reason he couldn't use his magic to build a tower on any of the nearby mountaintops for his studies.
Selfish? Maybe. But Onmund was the steadiest temperament of his generation. The others had been taken by the Stormcloaks, and one had already died a "hero" at some misbegotten ruin called Korvunjuud.
The apothecary and blacksmith were relatively new on the last twenty years. Fathenda, the apothecary, didn't deal with as many exotic herbs or potions as could be found in Windhelm. But she was a skilled healer and well able to treat many illnesses or injuries one can expect in a snowy wilderness. Traillus had solid skills in metalworking, leatherwork, and wood carving.
Hadring's sister, Onmund's mother, ran the general store out of the front room of her family home. It sold miscellaneous items usually wanted by local hunters, fishermen, and travelers, like various small tool kits, pre-packaged kits of dried food that could easily be thrown in a boiling pot of snowmelt for a stew, backpack frames, all sorts of bags, belts, straps, buckles, medical kits, and so on. The store was busy. With the mountain passes and roads opening up, locals were coming into town to restock, and many travelers needed medical treatment and new supplies to continue their journeys. Onmund was helping his mother in the store and gathering information. Rodina was plying her trade and gathering information. Valdimar, Idgrod, and Lydia, escorted by three of Onmund's kin on his father's side, were riding about exploring the area.
So far, they'd cleared out a nearby den of bears that had attacked some local children going to Lake Yorgrim to fish. The bear cave had Dwemer pipes running through it. They'd also seen the clearly visible Dwemer lift gatehouse on a nearby hill, indicating a large Dwemer city was beneath them. One possibly running underneath the local mountain range.
The Dwemer ruin of Alftand was the entrance to a vast Dwemer kingdom called Blackreach, according to that madman, Septimus Signus, who had given Valdimar a key that opened the way to Blackreach. The college had the key and the cube that Septimus claimed could hold all the knowledge contained in the Elder Scroll that was supposed to be in Blackreach. By the time Tariq had left Winterhold, the college loremaster had unearthed some other tidbits about this Blackreach. One claim was that its size undercut most of The Pale, the northern half of Eastmarch, and possibly down even to Whiterun Hold.
And there was another mention of the noted Altmer scholar of nirnroots that had visited the college to inquire about known Dwemer ruins in Skyrim and any unusual plants growing therein.
That reminded Tariq that he should return to Whiterun after this and escort Avrusa Sarethi back to her farm. Considering the large bed of nirnroots she cultivated, he wondered if she knew of this nirnroot scholar. It was also about time for her to go home to her farm. Argis could take care of himself now, and the alchemist and the face sculptor no longer needed to stay in Whiterun. And Galathil, the face sculptor, he'd promised to escort her either back to Riften or to wherever she'd chosen to resettle.
He would send Avrusa a note and have her send her reply to the college if she did indeed know about this scholar. They would have better questions to ask of her.
Onmund's mother dropped in for a quick lunch and then took Tariq back to her shop for a fitting for a new coat. Onmund's kin on his father's side had had a good winter harvesting meat and furs, and his mother's family processed the kills into food packets and leathers to sell in their shop. Onmund's mother was making Tariq a fur-lined hooded leather jacket that also doubled as soft leather armor. "Can't have the Dragon of the North freezing his arse or catching a cold that would take his voice just because he's a desert-born Redguard," she'd laughed.
Onmund's family hadn't approved of his decision to become a wizard. Their attitude had softened when their milk-drinking wizard family embarrassment showed up with the legendary Dragonborn in tow and the court bard of Whiterun. The court bard boasted of Onmund's actions during recent adventures, and the Dragonborn also acknowledged his courage and resourcefulness, comparing him to battlemages he'd worked with in the past. Onmund's grandfather, who'd backed the boy from the beginning, was happy to remind the family he'd been right all along. There was no shame in having a wizard in the family.
The two wordwalls Tariq wanted were close by. Tariq opted for Ironbind Barrow first because Nurelion had said it was the smaller of the two.
A young Redguard noblewoman and an Argonian wizard were camping outside Ironbind Barroq. Salma and Beem-Ja, respectively. According to them, this was the tomb of Warlord Gathrik. It was said he was buried with some secret of great power.
"What do you expect to find?" he asked the girl. He disapproved. She was 14 or 16 at the most. Skyrim may consider their children adults at 15, but she should be back in Hammerfell learning the treacherous ways of high society.
"Treasure, that's what. Worry-wart here," she gestured scornfully at the Argonian, "keeps saying we should wait."
Tariq looked at the Argonian, tilting his head in inquiry.
"Salma is… brave. Has much of her father's and brothers' spirits but lacks experience and skill. I merely wish that she would wait until we could find reliable, trustworthy companions."
"I couldn't do anything in Hammerfell," Salma said peevishly. "My brothers kept telling me to hold off until they could find time to come, or father sent his personal guards along with me, and they wouldn't let me do any real fighting. They only agreed to let me come to Skyrim if I at least took Beem-Ja along."
At least her family sent her off with the best steel armor and weapons money could buy.
"Well, now that we have this many here, are we ready to go in?" Salma asked eagerly.
Idgrod came up behind Tariq and touched his back to get his attention. "I get bad feelings from the Argonian. I don't trust him," she said softly.
"I understand this is an adventure for you," said Tariq to Salma. "My party are all veterans. I'll have half of them stay out here. It will make a better challenge."
He chose Lydia and Valdimar. He left it to Idgrod to explain to the others about her suspicions.
Ugh. Spiders and draugrs and reckless amateurs. To be fair, the girl's fighting ability wasn't bad. Nothing experience couldn't temper. And it was obvious she'd never seen her friends die and had probably only ever fought and slain animals. A schoolyard tigress. He suspected any bandits or troublemakers they'd come across in their journey to get to this side of the world were Beem-Ja's prey. That one was very ready with his lighting attacks.
He found Argonians hard to read; and he suspected Salma didn't find it any easier. He was certain she never tried. It was clear Beem-Ja had been her guardian since she was younger. He addressed her by name, and she did not appear bothered by that. Her tone to him was like that of a child to an old servant she'd known for a long time. A family servant whose duty was to sweep the path before her and nothing more. No need to understand their personal life or opinions. Probably appointed one of her bodyguards since she'd made her social debut. Her family name was unknown to Tariq. He hadn't spent any time in Dragonstar to become familiar with the ruling families there.
But Idgrod did not trust the Argonian. "There are shadows around him," she'd added.
"Shadowscale?" he'd asked, referring to the elite Argonian assassins.
"No. The dead. The same surrounds the young lady. Protect her. She isn't in her right mind."
This was not a complicated barrow, and the traps were minor nuisances. Warlord Gathrik and his minions were the biggest challenge. Skeleton minions of swords, archers, and mages. This warlord had been a giant of a Nord, and it had a long reach. Tariq was thankful it chose to wield a longsword and not the double-headed ax hanging on the back of its throne. He'd touched it as he'd walked past it to look at the wordwall. That thing had a double enchantment of soul reaving and fire.
The little girl kept charging at the warlord with mad determination, and Valdimar constantly stepped in at the last moment to block crippling and killing blows while also defending her back against the minions. Her obsession to fight the draugr was disturbing. Tariq also noted that Beem-Ja ignored any danger to his charge, seeming happy to let Valdimar do all the work. At the same time, Tariq saw that many of the lizard's lighting attacks on the minions strayed too close to Valdimar. Tariq regretted ordering Valdimar to not use magic, to hide his skill to better lure the Argonian into complacency.
He realized his own complacency and stupidity on his part as Beem-Ja took the opportunity to blast Valdimar while the man was distracted in defending Salma. Yet Valdimar realized something was wrong and managed an incomplete shield. It shattered before the lightning, and he went down.
The warlord charged Selma, sword rising overhead for a killing blow. Tariq was near enough. He knocked Salma back and took on the warlord's charge. A deft twist of his body and the arc of the warlord's sword was deflected by the pauldron of his armor.
It was a brutal battle beyond the girl's ability, strength, or stamina. But Tariq out-shouted it and sliced through every weakness in its armor until it finally collapsed.
He checked on the girl. He must have knocked her back harder than he thought because she was still unconscious. Valdimar also was still on the ground, curled into a ball while healing his lighting burns. Lydia was walking around, kicking at bones to scatter them and make it difficult for them to reform. Beem-Ja was not to be seen. Hiding or fled.
He went to Valdimar. "Here, a healing potion."
"Behind you!" Valdimar hissed even as Tariq sensed movement. He twisted around and brought up his shield to protect both of them. Its length meant his bottom half was braced on the ground, enabling him to take the full force of Gathrik's blow.
The draugr's eyes glowed red instead of blue. Something else was animating the corpse. He looked around. Lydia was down, her body twitching from the lighting Beem-Ja had hit her with. The Argonian hiss-laughed and jumped down from the upper level. Gathrik withdrew. Beem-Ja glanced at Salma, dismissed her, and said to Tariq, "Fool. I should thank you. I knew the girl wouldn't be strong enough to help me kill Gathrik alone. There's just one more thing I need from you. To fully absorb Gathrik's power, I require a blood sacrifice. Your blood should be good enough. This will go easier for us both if you don't bother fighting back."
"No, I don't think so," said Tariq, standing. He smiled as Beem-Ja's lightning merely sparked off his armor. "Is that all you can do? How sad for you," he said.
"FUS RO!"
Beem-Ja flew and crashed against the wall behind him. The draugr didn't move. Tariq strode over and removed its head and then the Argonian's.
Valdimar was sitting up, having drunk the potion Tariq had dropped. Tariq went to Lydia. She was alive. The elemental damage negation enchantments he'd put on the rings and amulet she wore beneath her armor had prevented her from dying. The exposed flesh showed lightning tracks, but those were fading under the enhanced recovery enchantments. Nevertheless, he gave her a healing potion.
"Beer," she muttered. He grimaced and took the liquor flask off her belt to dump the potion into it. The Nightgate Inn's "special" beer was practically an alcohol-infused cold barley soup that only lacked chunks of onion, carrots, and meat. Tariq preferred not to have to chew his alcohol, but Lydia had unaccountably taken a liking to it. He left her drinking and chewing to check on Salma.
She was sitting up now and looking dazedly at everything around her. When she saw Beem-Ja, tears tracked down her cheeks. Tariq examined her. She was a child abruptly awakened from a dream.
"We won the battle," he told her. "There's plenty of treasure to claim."
"Treasure?" she repeated. Confusion clouded her eyes. "Why would I need treasure? My family is wealthy. I don't need to be looking for treasure. I, I came for, for… Beem-Ja, what happened? All those stories of adventure… This wasn't supposed to happen! This, this was not what you told me…" She started crying.
… … …
"He's worked on her a long time," said Idgrod. She held up the Conjuration spellbook Tariq had found in the Argonian's backpack and extracted the paper tucked between the book and its leather cover.
Redguard writing. High-quality paper, elegant, well-trained script.
"Salma's father. It's an order to protect Salma or be revealed as a criminal for deeds not mentioned here," said Tariq. "Strange. Why would a father send his child away with a known villain?" And if the crimes were what Tariq suspected, hiding them to keep the perpetrator in employment meant Salma's father was involved in things he wouldn't want to be revealed and that his rank prevented society from recognizing. The word of a criminal sorcerer to a noble? Not likely.
Not his problem. He was not charging back to Hammerfell as Salma's champion, getting involved in Dragonstar politics, and making presumptions about Salma's family relationships. The best he could do was speak his suspicions to Idgrod and Rodina and let them counsel Salma. The girl had some growing to do, decisions to make, and those two were the best he could think of to help for now.