Chapter 46
Serana hadn't returned from the locked-off Pelagius Wing of the Blue Palace. Tariq got the key from Firebeard. But immediately upon entering, he knew she wasn't there. Nevertheless, he should make sure. The lowest level had nothing but barrels of withered food, dusty wine bottles, and dusty extra furnishings not used on the upper floors. The floors above were salons and bedrooms. The roof level's fence was dangerously rusty though unbroken. The planter boxes were stuffed with dry grass that had long ago choked out any flowers. The power of Oblivion was strong but without any intelligent malice. The most prevalent danger he could sense was the unshakable disorientation and certainty that reality could dissolve at any moment.
Sheogorath wasn't represented in his people's religion. Madness had too many faces and signs to quantify into a definitive face and form. And when one could say, "the sanest man is the most insane of all," then what was the use of having a god for this condition? What kinds of idiot savants gave it form?
Ah, the conventional tale he'd heard from Rodina was that all the Daedric Princes feared and were jealous of the overpowering might of Jyggalag. What the tipping point was that moved them to action was unknown. But they united to attack and shatter the Prince of Crystal Perfection, leaving the mentally crippled wreck of the Mad God — still incredibly powerful, unkillable, and uncontrollable but unable to focus long-term on any one goal or thought.
Walk away, he told himself. That's not a river you can cross, an ocean you can swim. All the warning signs were posted. He said a soft prayer to Ruptga that Serana would find the markers to come back. A sudden wave of dizziness overtook him as he descended the stairs back to the main floor, and he was falling.
He woke. He was sitting in a chair at a table laden with silver dishes like those scattered on the floor of the Pelagius Wing. These dishes, however, were clean, polished, and laden with delicious-smelling foods. The empty goblets waited to be filled from the selection of expensive wines. His host seemed to be an elderly Imperial reading from a dark gray parchment scroll. Reading, he hoped, the text on the other side. The side of the parchment that faced him had a disconcertingly beautiful tattoo carefully preserved on the harvested flesh.
"So, you're finally awake, are you? Lost your footing and landed at my table? How delightful!" Wild, hearty laughter. His host seemed quite merry. He looked to be an well-groomed, elderly Cyrod nobleman dressed in gaudy colorful silks of eye-aching patterns. His eyes were blue as the sky and blazing hot. Tariq could feel his wits withering and bleaching away in that mad light. He had to look away, feeling rare, soul-deep fear for a danger no sword skill could battle. "Finally accepted my invitation, have you? We should have a contest. My staff to your Pankratosword. Or, better yet, the Pankratosword against Haskill's cheese knife!"
Serana came running past the stone lintel on the left. She looked tired. She stopped in surprise as she saw Tariq. "You're trapped here, too?" she asked.
"A latecomer to the party," answered the mad god for him, chuckling. "But a Dragonborn is never late nor early but comes precisely when needed. Or so his lady friends all scream." He waved her on. "Go on, go on. One more to go, little fangs. You've eliminated Pelagius's paranoia and soothed his night terrors. Now's the time to pump up his ego.
"Oh, no, you stay put," said the mad god as Tariq rose to assist her. Tariq found himself sitting again. "None of my messengers have ever caught up to Ruptga or HoonDing. Hard fellows to track and find, wandering down more paths than Hermaeus Mora has tentacles. Lucky for me, one of you actually tripped into my sphere. Well, a small fragment, anyway. Shadow of HoonDing, let us discuss Chaos Theory."
"A thousand pardons, but I am truly ignorant upon that subject," Tariq apologized in careful tones.
The mad god grinned. "Have a drink. Have a dozen! You'll be talking like an expert in no time at all."
Tariq found himself obediently downing a dozen glasses from whatever was on the table.
He felt he was on a strange hammock. The swaying of the ship wasn't bad. Quite comforting, in fact. He tried to recall what he had discussed with the Mad God but could only fish up fragments of the conversation. However, the wordless feelings were still strong, and the strongest impression was how beautiful and terrifying Satakal's perfection was through the fractal eyes of Madness.
There was also deep terror and regret there. Something the Mad God said about… sacrifices? Sacrificial moves? Not now, but in the future.
No. His hammock was too comfortable, and he didn't want to wake up just now. He stopped trying to remember and sleepily felt around for his cape or a blanket. His hand closed on one of the soft, round pillows under his right arm. He tried tugging it under his head, but it seemed fastened in place.
"Stop it, Tariq. You're being quite rude," Serana complained and dropped him on a convenient hall bench.
… … …
"These unexpected delays bringing you to your home… I am sorry, Serana," he said one evening when both of them were studying borrowed tomes in the light of torches in the college's courtyard overlooking the sea. Serana lazily waived it aside.
"In truth, I am not that much in a hurry. While I've been sleeping, interesting things have been happening. The world of the vampires is narrow. Or so it is in my father's court. His obsession to conquer the world hasn't advanced any. With over three thousand years to act, he remains stuck in a crumbling castle on a small isle surrounded by ice. Pointless! Boring! He may as well be dead." She laughed bitterly.
"I'm in no hurry to return home," she stated. "But you, Tariq, are you tired of my company? The inconvenience of hauling around that box I sleep in, the many times I cannot fight or help because I must sleep during the day — And I am one of the undead and a daedra worshiper. I am truly surprised you didn't kill me the moment my coffin opened.
"I know it can't be because I have a pretty face. You're the kind that attracts pretty women. And you haven't tried anything with me, so I know it's not lust that drives you, though you are a lusty man."
"You are a beautiful and lively corpse," Tariq acknowledged. "But be assured I feel no passion towards you." Not only because she was undead but because of the disturbing disconnect he felt as he looked at her. Her speech and haughty mannerisms were typical of a centuries-old vampire. However, if one took away the indifferent, world-weary mask she wore, he would put her as a girl of less than twenty years. If he had to guess, forever sixteen years at the core. "It was the Elder Scroll that kept my sword at bay. I felt Satakal move when I saw it. The Elder Scrolls choose their placement and carriers, so you are significant to its purpose."
"Satakal? Isn't that a mythical serpent or dragon?" she asked, her mouth twitching with humor.
"It is the coil of Everything that is. It is Aetherius; it is Oblivion; It is Existence and Death."
"Ah. So my worth is only because of this Scroll, " she said flatly, her flash of humor smothered once again.
"That was true initially. However, I think I have been gaining more impressions of you. I cannot claim I will ever understand why you chose the undead path. I do not think you had the personal ambition for it. Perhaps it was parental choice and pressure. A young noblewoman — you were duty-trained for the honor of your house and lineage. Your parents would naturally dictate the path of your future, your husband…" he shrugged. "They chose Molag Bal for you. Your wedding night must have been memorable."
Serana threw down the book she was holding. Its spine shattered and the leaves scattered. She got up and walked out to the street.
Tariq watched her go, making no effort to follow her. Parents and children. With his mother in town and knowing his father was in Skyrim, his own feelings were unsettled.
… … …
The path to Wolfskull Cave passed Meridia's shrine and a dragon wall. On that wall was the word "DUN," the final word of a shout that increased the speed and force of his melee attacks. A good shout, but only if unenchanted weapons were used. However, through past training experiments, he'd discovered one may side-step this condition if dual-wielding and the left-hand weapon was the unenchanted weapon. He had been further pleased by discovering the ancient hunter's knife — Valdir's dagger — qualified as "unenchanted." He couldn't fathom that. Its excellent enchantment was one he wished could be learned and applied to other weapons.
"Look at my temple!" Daedric Prince Meridia thundered. She did not like being ignored.
Her temple outwardly appeared a two-level structure of white marble. Faceted white marble orbs that emitted faint white light were placed to gently illuminate the building. Atop was a lovely statue of a winged woman. At her feet was an empty cradle-like sculpture that was obviously missing a piece.
The voice bellowing in his mind, however, was at odds with the serenity of the statue.
In essence, retrieve her missing artifact, enter her temple, and kill the necromancer stealing her power. She even showed them where her artifact was.
He would have ignored her, except she told him her temple's invader was another lackluster Mannimarco imitator intent on conquering the world with his undead army.
Sep's spit. Fine. He'll do this Daedric Prince a favor. But he wasn't about to skip immediately over to Whiterun to fetch her artifact. Instead, he dismissed Lydia from this expedition and sent her back to Solitude to get a horse and go to Falkreath.
Aela was still in Falkreath hunting with Ingvar. Lydia's task was to get Ingvar and Aela to help her raid a robber's den to recover Meridia's toy. It shouldn't be too hard. Ingvar had yet to deliver the assassin's records to Balgruuf and collect his reward. Lydia would stop by Breezehome and have Argis release the funds to pay Ingvar and Aela for their help with the Brotherhood job and again for the Meridia job.
He hoped there would be more treasure to find soon. He came to Skyrim for more battle experience to train his sword skills, not to bleed money doing jobs for barbarian lords, foreign gods, and ungrateful Princes.
So, it was him, Rodina, and Serana riding over to Wolfskull Cave. Argis was left behind in Solitude to watch over the other horses and occasionally carry the burden of his mother's shopping trips. Idgrod was at the Blue Palace to strengthen her political and personal friendship with Jarl Elisif. Hjaalmarch may presently be the poorest of the Holds. But Idgrod wasn't her war-weary mother looking for a quiet retirement. She knew bolstering Jarl Elisif's confidence was key to strengthening Haafingar and Skyrim. She was also working on getting closer to General Tullius and set up covert measures to counter Dominion patrols coming through Falkreath and into Hjaalmarch. Being the daughter of a Knight of the Empire should get her some leeway with the General.
Perhaps he'd been too hasty to send Lydia away. If the Thief of Fortune smiled for him, Wolfskull Cave would only have some minor necromancers he and Serana could handle. They'd take care of that, return to Solitude to rest, and wait until Lydia returned with Meridia's bauble.
Clustered in front of the entrance of Wolfskull Cave were six skeleton warriors. Tariq pulled out Windshear. The mage of the Emperor's ship had given him simple instructions on activating the sword's power. General Tullius had later cooperated with him at Fort Hraggstad (to avoid the spying eyes of the Thalmor) to test Windshear's power against heavy-armored legionnaires wielding tower shields. As a bonus courtesy to General Tullius, Tariq obligingly practiced his Shouts against them. Dragon battle training was how the soldiers viewed it.
From twenty feet away, he swept the sword before him. A force of wind knocked the bonewalkers into the air as if he had used the "FUS RO DAH" shout. Serana took her turn and used the bonewalkers as targets for the magic staff gifted to her by the Mad God. The bonewalkers came down from their air as stale sweet rolls, dead chickens, or shattered fragments.
"Could be worse," commented Rodina. "Stories I've read, the Mad God can't help but aid or harm those he favors. I've heard it also randomly summons dremora and can make powerful elemental attacks. We should be careful using the Wabbajack."
The inconsequential necromancers and draugr in the outer cave were disposed of. The dirt and rock-hauling equipment inside were old but in working condition.
"So, the necromancers dug out the pit Dean Viarmo spoke of. As he hinted, it was the entrance to Potema's hidden fortress. Such a pain to get down there," said Rodina. They were all looking down the opened pit to the rubble-strewn floor twenty feet below. "There's a rope from the bucket pulley set we can use," she suggested.
"Let's look closer at the walls near the entrance," said Tariq. "There may be an entrance hidden by a ledge and shadows. This entrance may be a distraction and a trap with enemies waiting below."
"Oh, of course," said Rodina, sighing. "A hidden way to escape or attack from the back."
Tariq threw up magelights, a spell he'd learned from Master Tolfdir at Winterhold College. He'd seen the usefulness of such a spell from Apprentice Onmund, who'd used multiple castings to blind Thalmor enemies in Labyrinthian. The lights revealed a door on the ledge. Tariq went back outside and took out the rope and grappling hook from Nimat's packs.
It took a few tosses before the hook latched and dragged down a sturdy rope ladder. The ladder was fastened to iron pegs hammered into the stone ledge. They went through a short corridor to rooms of crumbled stonework. The only way out was climbing up stairs to the flat roof of a tower that was bridged to the highest tower of the fortress proper. They could see a circle of necromancers chanting a prayer and spell to an ethereal figure floating high above. A powerful, ghostly light that lit the cavern like a false sun.
"Wolf Queen, hear our prayer and awaken. Summoned in spirit, bound by blood…"
"Oblivion take them. Looks like we came just in time," whispered Rodina. "Those fools are actually trying to resurrect Queen Potema!"
"They've got a stable doorway for her," observed Serana. "A successful summons — except that she's fighting it. This queen does not want to be chained to anyone's will."
It was nothing for him and Serana to charge forward. Two swipes with Windshear and all the necromancers went flying. In the middle spellcasting, their devastating powers of elemental fire, ice, and lightning surrounding them were only colorful pinwheels of light as they were flung into the air, spinning, then breaking upon the ground below. Serana used a staff to knock down the necromancers and draugr that came charging up the stairs.
Rodina hung back, sheltered within a tower and guarding the exit with firebolt and lightning staves they'd taken from the necromancers in the outer cave. While Tariq and Serana descended to slaughter anything else below, her job was collecting anything valuable or informative.
The Potema triumphantly shrieked as the bindings imposed by the dead necromancers fell apart, and she flew off into the darkness above. Tariq hoped she went straight to Oblivion, although he felt doubt in light of what he'd learned about her ambition. Despite fighting the forced binding, the queen had sounded delighted to be able to return to Mundus. She wanted revenge, he knew, and he could hear her eagerness for that. He should warn Minister Firebeard to be alert for undead activity within Solitude.
Tariq was delighted with the amount of treasure these necromancers had collected. Conquering the world wasn't a low-cost/low-funding venture after all. The spellbooks and magicka equipment Rodina collected would sell nicely to Solitude's Court Mage and the College of Winterhold.
Minister Falk apologized to Rodina for his attitude, acknowledging his dismissal of the Dragon Bridge farmer's concerns was wrong and would have been disastrous for Jarl Elisif's rule if people thought her indifferent to their welfare. He also acknowledged that casually tossing all the responsibility to a bard — even if she was the Dragonborn's companion — was equally irresponsible. The reward he offered was adequate to offset Tariq's cost of paying Companion Aela and Thane Ingvar to recover Meridia's bauble.
… … …
Meridia's bauble was a faceted, ball-shaped piece of white marble a little bigger than the size of an adult head. It was surprisingly warm to the touch despite radiating such a cold, blue-white light. A toy for a Magna Ge, a child of Magnus. Tariq had vague memories of Redguards in the Iliac Bay region having a solar festival on the hottest day of the year celebrating Magnus the Architect. They called him by another name that he couldn't remember.
During the week he waited in Solitude for Lydia to return from fetching Meridia's artifact, he did some reading at the Bards C0llege to acquaint himself with the mythologies of Meridia and Magnus as taught by Imperial and elven theologians.
Tariq reconciled the tales of Sep and Magnus in this way. Tall Papa crushed Sep and let Magnus escape. The Architect may be brilliant at creating Mundus, but not where it came to Sep's machinations. He'd been duped. But because Magnus had stopped working upon realizing Sep's true purpose, Tall Papa didn't crush him. Even so, the trap had been completed because Sep had learned enough from Magnus to finish the work.
Tall Papa had let Magnus and his daughters go. Magnus's daughters, the Magna Ge, were said to have been born in the fires of Magnus's forge. Something like that. When Magnus left, abandoning a project he considered a failure, his spiteful daughters were said to have made Mehrunes Dagon (They created a Daedric god? How?) to unmake the work their father considered an embarrassing mistake.
Meridia stayed behind and became the patron goddess of the Ayleids, who called her Merid-Nunda. The Ayleids openly worshiped both Aedra and Daedra. A Magna Ge that preferred the company of Daedra was perfectly acceptable.
So, this Magna Ge sister was no better than a Daedra. Her self-righteousness grated on Tariq's ears.
For this foray into Meridia's Temple, Serana and Rodina stayed in Solitude, and Valdimar, Idgrod, and Lydia were in this party.
As soon as her beacon was in its cradle, she snatched him up into the sky. And while she raved about how it was time for her glory to return to Skyrim, he looked down to admire the landscape. There was Solitude. Lording over it on the highest peak in Haafingar was the Thalmor Embassy. Little Morthal was crouching over its little bay, still overshadowed by the ruins of Bromjunaar. Ah, and he could see the battlements of High Hrothgar. On eye level was the crown of clouds shrouding the peak or Throat-of-the-World.
A movement. A flicker of something amidst the clouds. Possibly a dragon, its wings momentarily catching and reflecting sunlight.
Faint on the northwestern horizon, he saw the castle Serana claimed was her family home. The center of the vampire clan Volkihar.
He wanted to look further, but Meridia had finished her self-glorification and was dropping him back to the ground. His ears popped unpleasantly on the way down.
"Time to clear the undead," he said as he jumped down from the altar platform onto the archway above the entrance and to the ground. The heavy door opened before his hand could touch it. The interior was dark and smelled of decaying and burnt flesh.
They found a Legion officer camping on the outside patio between the lower and upper sections of the temple. Herebane Sorenshield was his name.
General Tullius had received information that a sizable Stormcloak squadron was gathering in the old temple to Meridia. Three units were assigned to cut down this Stormcloak buildup. Youngest of the three commanders, Herebane was assigned the outer balcony to prevent Stormcloaks movement between the lower and upper levels of the temple. Gradually, his team was whittled down during combat.
Eventually, the fighting died down. The situation became too quiet for comfort. Herebane went inside to find thorough and inconceivable slaughter of both sides. And worse, all the dead resurrected as black shades. He lost the rest of his team fighting to get out.
"Again, I apologize for recklessly attacking you," said Herebane.
"When was the last time you had a good sleep and meal?" asked Idgrod. "Sounds like you've been going this past week just on catnaps and emergency rations. Anyone would go mad on just that."
Indeed. Tariq could easily see the man was on his last legs of sanity. He had no medical supplies, water, or rations to spare for any survivors staggering out of the temple. He couldn't do anything for them except watch them die. What kept him here? In this situation, abandoning one's post to deliver a warning and bring back help was acceptable. It was not a life-ending risk to jump off this balcony to the steep hillside, scramble to the road below, and run to Solitude or Dragon Bridge for help.
They left the bulk of their food supplies with Idgrod, who would stay outside and get the legionnaire back to strength for the march back to Solitude.
It wasn't slaughter. It was laying the pitiful shades of the dead to rest. The necromancer wasn't that strong of an opponent. His last effort was to turn into an undead shade. It wasn't to his advantage because while he was able to keep his soul and spirit intact despite the death of his physical body, he was too new to the changed state to fully utilize his magicka — disciplines he'd mastered and anchored in the physical world. Tariq knew the transition period was usually the weakest point in one's existence. And so the necromancer died to a single sweep of Tariq's silver scimitar.
Prince Meridia gave him Dawnguard, the sword of her champion. He reluctantly accepted with the firm condition that he was not her champion and would not represent her religion. He was already cursed with disciplining Imperial Akatosh's wayward son, Alduin. She took the rejection with surprising equanimity. As long as her tool was out in the world, being properly wielded for everyone to see, belief in her would grow.
Tariq paid a special courier to deliver the sword to Ingvar in Falkreath. Falkreath still had wandering undead and vampires showing up, so he may find the blade effective. He added a cautionary note to Ingvar to be wary of Prince Meridia's meddling and to put the sword aside if he thought there was an unreasonable rise in undead activity in Falkreath. Tariq wouldn't put it above the Daedra to attract trouble if she thought it would further her glory.
… … …
"Tariq, it's time I return to Markarth," Lady Rose said. "I will be leaving with Wakefield's caravan in three days. He'll drop me off in Markarth, where I'll collect your father. I'm sure he's ready to return home by now."
"If you can wait a week," said Tariq, "I'll escort you myself."
"I don't wish to interfere with your training schedule," she said. Tariq waived her concerns aside.
"I've finished what I've agreed to do," he assured her. "I need to deliver some things to Markarth for storage anyway." He sighed. "And I should explain the current state of affairs to father. I should also talk with Faleen and Calcelmo." His mother smiled approvingly.
"I doubt becoming a grandfather will soften his expectations of you," she admitted. "He will compare your wanderings to his and confuse it with his guilt over neglecting us in the early years despite my telling him otherwise. His duty was to complete his studies for his priesthood and sword mastery. I understood that. Thanks to Holy Mehmet, you never lacked a male role model, hence your father's jealousy, which he will never admit to. I pray you will consider these in your upcoming battles with him."
"Fear not, beloved mother, I've pondered your excuses for father many times as I've traveled." She frowned and sighed sadly, slowly shaking her head.
"All right. I'll let Bertrand know I won't be traveling with him. Oh. You should also know Taarie and her apprentice are going to Sentinel for the annual food and wine festival, which will also have many fine silks, laces, dyes, and tools clothiers use. There is a strong fashion exhibition during the festival. Nothing like a good fashion show while nibbling on rare delicacies."
"A pity there are no equivalent venues for warriors demonstrating armor, weapons, and techniques. Good food and drinks would not be amiss during such an event," said Tariq wistfully.
"One would need a very tolerant city and government to hold that," said his mother. "A food, wine, and fashion festival is chaos enough and requires a great deal of investment in security since it is a harvesting ground for many thieves. In a warriors' event, I doubt thieves will be a problem. However, rowdy warriors, all eager to try new weapons and armor… I shudder to think what mischief will arise there, especially when rivals show up at the same event. But, if this were peacetime, one could probably entice Imperial interest with a portion of the fees and have the Legion police the event."
A week later, the journey to Markarth began. The route was along the western fork of the Karth and Reachwater Rivers. There weren't many proper roads in that direction. The existing roads went deeper inland than Tariq wanted to go. Besides, those roads led to an Orsimer stronghold, Forsworn camps, Dwemer ruins, and the Dragoncult ruins he'd already collected Shouts from.
For his mother and aunt's party and all their luggage, he wanted professional transporters, which would allow him and his party to handle any fighting. And for that, he relied on Rodina to find discrete and capable ones. She consulted with Dean Viarmo, who gave her a lead on a trustworthy mercenary transport group that had no problem with going into the Reach or taking their wagons where there were no roads at all.
His mother was delighted. Tariq and his group shared her pleasure because the lead wagon driver of that transport group was ex-Blade Edmund, her childhood friend.
"Well done, Rodina," said Tariq. They had met Edmund in Markarth, and he had helped them explore the Dragoncult ruin of Valthume. Ever since learning from his mother that Edmund had been childhood friends with his mother and Taarie, Tariq had been wanting to meet with him again.
"I can't take credit for this," she protested. "I'm delighted, of course, but I had no idea. Dean Viarmo introduced me to the Asbjorn Transport Company. I had no idea Edmund was part of that group."
It was amusing to watch them pretend not to know each other. Mother and Taarie, however, insisted on riding on his wagon and publicly went through the performance of getting to know him.
"Asbjorn is a second-generation Invalid," confirmed his mother. "All the younger members of this company are. Edmund and Bjorn are the original ex-Legion Invalids." Tariq recalled the other elder, Bjorn, was the driver of one of the other wagons. "Sneaking in and out through The Reach and past Forsworn and Thalmor is routine for them. Edmund is the only Blade, but the others are weapons experts and battlemages."
"Why not have them take you and father back home?" asked Tariq.
"That would be ideal, especially since their next destination after Markarth is Scaven. Unfortunately, their path through the Dragontail is a trade secret. So your father and I will have to find passage on a caravan going the longer, conventional route through the Craglorn Pass to Elinhir."
"Hah. Then I shall accompany you and father myself. My friend in Falkreath has been telling me the Jarl of Falkreath has finally opened up the renovated Tsaesci bath house built for Savirien Chorak. The fees are outrageous, as the Jarl is a greedy bastard, but the services are purported to be most excellent. I should be able to demand discounts as it was my sword that laid the wraiths haunting the ruins to rest."
"I would be most pleased if that could be so. We'll see if your father agrees. We can surely find plenty of caravans between Elinhir and Sentinel."
246_v2 Page 5 of 5