Chapter 10 – Outward and Inward
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The ship was rocking a bit too much for Bomba ‘Lurrina – the wind was high, and their speed was good. To combat her natural dislike of water and what she suspected was a threatening bout of seasickness, she watched Nenya with increasing fascination.
Although from the moment they met, Bomba ‘Lurrina had seen nothing but cheer and friendliness in the Nord, there was something slightly gauche and ungainly in her manner – like a teenager who hadn’t got out of the awkward stage, as if she wasn’t entirely comfortable in her surroundings. She was a head taller than most Dunmer, and her pale colouring made her stand out instantly in any crowd. Perhaps because of this, she wore her armour everywhere; Bomba ‘Lurrina had assumed it was either the most sensible thing to do in her Nerevarine role, or simply the most convenient, but now she began to think differently.
She had been to Skyrim in her time. It was so entirely, vastly different from Morrowind that she wasn’t in the least surprised that Nenya would feel unhappy and out of place in a region so alien. The armour wasn’t just to protect her from blight creatures and fanatical temple loyalists, it was to protect her from everything. When she put on the inch-thick plate and leather, she was the Nerevarine, and could cope quite unfailingly with any duties and hardships the Dunmer expected of her. Without it, she was Nenya, and she couldn’t.
With every level of Nenya that Bomba ‘Lurrina uncovered, she became more and more intrigued.
The armour was gone now, discarded in a cabin at the beginning of the voyage. Nenya was leaning as far over the rail as she could, straw-like hair in rough pigtails completely disarrayed by the wind, not even slightly phased by the lurching up and down and looking almost as if she were a fixture of the ship itself.
She was still as incurably clumsy as a particularly cheerful blonde hurricane, but now instead of clashing with her surroundings, it just seemed to fit. She belonged here.
As she watched, the object of her thoughts leaped down from the rail with a thump and effortlessly negotiated the impossible rocking, coming to flop onto the bench next to her Khajiit companion.
“You look green as a muckpond,” Nenya said happily. “Want me to get a potion?”
“No, thank you,” scowled Bomba ‘Lurrina. “I’ll be fine, although it doesn’t help to see you skipping around as if you were born to it. And I’m not green.”
“Just an expression. Well, take your mind off it; how about telling me why her majesty’s arranged such a treat for us?”
“Treat? Speak for yourself,” muttered Bomba ‘Lurrina sourly. However, the idea of distraction certainly seemed appealing, and it was time Nenya was filled in. She shifted into a more comfortable position, and noted with satisfaction that the rocking had lessened slightly.
“We’ll be docking in Northmoor, as you know. There are two main things her Majesty wants us to tackle – firstly, have you heard of Orsinium?”
Nenya wrinkled her nose. “In passing, I think… it’s to do with Orcs, isn’t it?”
“It’s their centre – their capital, in a way,” confirmed Bomba ‘Lurrina. “I expect you were too young to remember the realisation of an Orc state by the Emprie, or the beginning of their acceptance in society. It happened around nineteen years ago – probably nearer eighteen, actually.”
“I was four,” supplied Nenya helpfully. “I didn’t really hear about much outside Skyrim.”
Bomba ‘Lurrina was tempted to question her further about her childhood in Skyrim, and what situation landed her in the labyrinth of Dunmer Politics at such a young age, but restrained herself. Not yet. It was too personal.
Instead, she continued with the subject at hand. “The Orsinium Area backs right onto Wayrest, the province where her Majesty Morgiah grew up, and where I first met her. If there has been no new successor – and I’m sure news would have reached us, even in Morrowind – Gortwog will still be their leader.”
“I’ve heard of him,” said Nenya slowly. “I met quite a few Orcs in the Fighter’s Guild. They all spoke of him… reverently, I suppose.”
“They were right to,” Bomba ‘Lurrina said stiffly, with a slight snap in her voice. “Even now, the Orcs are not properly recognised for their true worth. ‘Savages’… even ‘Beastmen’ is an accepted term still. It’s madness. Gortwog is worth more than a whole regiment of Imperials at any time of the day.”
Nenya looked taken-aback by her vehemence, but weighed in nevertheless. “I didn’t mean to be antagonistic. I’m in the Fighter’s Guild – I know how honourable Orcs are. But I don’t understand – what have they got to do with Morgiah?”
“Gortwog was in close touch with the Queen Mother Barenziah when she lived in Wayrest – and he knew a lot about Helseth,” said Bomba ‘Lurrina. “To be straight with you, Gortwog knows a lot about everything. He has contacts, legitimate or nefarious, with an astonishing amount of influential people in Tamriel. It may be that we can find something out from him about Helseth’s intentions.”
It didn’t add up, and Bomba ‘Lurrina knew as soon as the words were out of her mouth that the story wouldn’t cut it. She realised now that Nenya was as far as possible from being stupid, despite the simple exterior she presented to the world.
Sure enough, Nenya was looking at her with sharp eyes that seemed odd in remembrance of her usual cheerful gait. “We’re travelling hundreds of leagues on the offchance that an Orc on the other side of the continent might have heard something about Helseth’s slightly odd recent behaviour,” she finished.
And Bomba ‘Lurrina knew that she could not keep the cards to her chest.
“There is… another thing,” she said somewhat lamely.
Nenya looked steadily at her. Then, to Bomba ‘Lurrina’s surprise, she pulled a section of hair round and started to re-plait it, instead of pursuing the conversation. “I know you and Morgiah are in confidence. If you can’t tell me everything, that’s fine. I’ll go along with you and do my bit and not ask questions.”
This put Bomba ‘Lurrina out of sync so much that she immediately felt she wanted to divulge the real reason of their voyage, and what’s more, understood that it would be in safe hands.
“No – you deserve to know what we’re getting ourselves into. I trust you,” she said in a rush of affection that was quite alien to her. Nenya looked surprised, but pleased.
“I trust you, too,” she said clumsily, smiling.
“Well,” said Bomba ‘Lurrina quickly, feeling awkward and keen to skate over the moment, “we are going to see Gortwog.
But… that’s just on the way. We’re going to Wrothgaria to investigate an old acquaintance of mine by the name of Nulfaga… and then, we’re going to the Dragontail Mountains.”
Nenya frowned in confusion. “But – that region’s practically deserted, isn’t it? I thought –”
“There is a place in the Dragontail Mountains called Scourg Barrow. It was once a run-of-the-mill abandoned castle – crawling with the usual vermin, but nothing outstanding or special – now, it’s something else. A headquarters. A meeting-place. A Centre.”
Nenya was staring at her. “Centre to what?”
Bomba ‘Lurrina looked out over the gunwale to the foamy tips of the waves. Her golden eyes were incalculable once more.
“We’re going to see a King,” she said. “And keep your hammer close. You’ll need it.”
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Mournhold, the hub of the ancient capital Almalexia, makes up only one ninth of the size of the whole city. The rest sprawls, fantastic and mutated, over the gently sloping fertile land that eventually sinks, after many miles, into the southern swamps on the Black Marsh border.
Mournhold is spotless and decorated, filled with attractive parkland and spacious open architecture.
Outer Almalexia is a seething hive of craftsmen, merchants, courtesans, thieves, assassins, urban catastrophe and jumbled beauty. And in a tiny inn that slanted crazily over the narrow alley in the bad part of town, Solon Gothren was sitting in a narrow room enchanting arrows.
Solon was very good at enchanting. He was very good at a lot of things, but it had come at a price, and his expression as he concentrated on the arrows was the blank inscrutability that had put him deep in the mistrust of Morgiah. She was not the first to have felt so.
But for each one that mistrusted, there were a hundred more that were enchanted…
Solon was very good at enchanting.
A thread of golden fire left his fingertip and wound its way round the arrow, like a snake choking a rat.
He was thinking about his Dark Brotherhood foray, and the words he’d heard from Manos. Not the locations and numbers of the Mournhold spies; no, things like that were par for the course when you lived a life like Solon’s. He was thinking about what Manos had said about Orvas Dren, the headman of the Cammona Tong.
Lu’kin for some mer whu’was at th’ plantation a coupl’a weeks ago. Ub’sessed with him. W’nts to find him.
Solon had left the Dren mansion ten days ago, only a few hours after Nenya’s visit and request. Working for Dren had been profitable, for a time – if you lived in the underworld, the Cammona Tong was an invaluable ally. Their networks were vast; their control reaching far beyond the wildest dreams of the ordinary citizens of Morrowind. A Cammona Tong connection could get you out of debt, out of prison, or even out of a noose. But a few months after Solon had come to the Dren mansion, things took a turn for the worse.
Orvas Dren took an interest in him. Personally.
You might say he was enchanted.
Solon had not meant for it to happen. It had before, of course – fascination with Solon was something quite hard to resist, and he’d been on the receiving end of infatuation more times than he’d had occasion to count. There was something quietly shocking about his appearance that left you breathless, wounded – you wanted to see more, you had to see more.
Man, woman, mer… they’d all fallen sooner or later. All hopelessly irreversible. All totally without Solon’s doing.
He was indifferent to the process, like he was indifferent to
anything. There may once have been some stirring of reciprocal feeling within him, but as over time he’d realised the extraordinary lengths of his nocturnal and criminal talents, any such feelings became secondary. It is not true that he was cold as ice; Solon was indeed capable of love. He loved his work. He loved the quiet intense concentration of enchanting an arrow; he loved the slow simmering and purification of a potion of his own invention; he loved the satisfaction of the quiet click that signalled the undoing of a particularly tricky lock. He loved melting into the surroundings unreachably with only a moment’s notice. He loved the artistry of his work.
Solon did not despise emotion. Quite the opposite: being so far detached himself, it was something he looked on with powerful interest. The study of the mind was as fascinating to him as he himself was to other people – the sleeptalk potion he’d used on Manos, for example, could not have been created without several years of indepth fieldwork. What even he never realised, however, is that his exceptional understanding of the subject of humanity came from being completely apart from it.
This was never a conscious decision; simply the years of his career and the solitude it had brought, not to mention the wariness that was essential to survival, taking its toll. He had not noticed the decline. It had happened naturally.
He had not thought that Dren would be affected the way he had. He was quite used to the reactions he provoked in others, but with Dren he had been blasé. The headman of the Cammona Tong, he had unconsciously reasoned, would surely be as remote and detached as he himself was – criminal lifestyle brought you into contact with people so often that you couldn’t afford not to desensitise yourself to them.
But he had misjudged.
On the night that he had left the mansion with Nenya, things had come to a head. Avoiding Dren was becoming difficult. He’d felt his natural survival instinct kicking in… disappear.
Melt away. Vanish as if you’d never been there. Outright rejecting Orvas Dren was a far too risky – Solon may have been the most adept criminal to set foot in the mansion for more than a century, but the ill-attention of the Cammona Tong leader was not a wise goal for anyone. Better to slip away.
Better to disappear… when Nenya had arrived, he had felt a noose lift from around his neck. The perfect opportunity to leave... even if he had been tracked down, the protection of a Princess is not something to be taken lightly. For a while, he had immunity.
But not forever. He would have to settle it sooner or later. If he was lucky, Dren would have forgotten him as a lost conquest, not worth pursuing. The trouble was, people didn’t tend to just ‘forget’ Solon.
He looked away from the last of the arrows, to a letter on the small battered desk. The seal was not explicitly marked, but the quality of the paper and wax was exquisite. He had known it was from Morgiah the moment he received it. It said simply: Sundown, this coming Loredas. Her Majesty’s study. The South Wing arbour entrance will be unlocked.
He slowly put the newly-enchanted arrows into his quiver one by one.
There was a sense of enormity about the world at that moment – the sinking sun outside the window, the quiet of the alley below, the muffled sound of voices in the main street. For one moment Solon had the impression of being at the edge of a huge web, one that he dare not step on, because the spider in the middle would feel the slightest of movement, and then that would be it… But who was the spider? It couldn’t be Dren. This was bigger than either of them.
He put the last arrow in the quiver.
The feeling did not go away, and when he lay on the narrow bed with his inscrutable eyes staring into the dark of the room, his dreams were full of shadowy shapes caught in the dark strands of a web.
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There are three figures in a room with stars for walls, that stretch to heaven and back.
The first one is golden. Golden skin, golden eyes, golden dreams. His motions have the languid abandon of madness. He is handing a small object, about the size of a forearm, to a figure in a black robe at his side.
The third is silent and massive, his lower body wedged into a cruel-looking contraption with eight metal legs. Now the object has been finished, he sits motionlessly with downcast eyes.
Yagrum Bagarn, the last dwarf, has no glint of hope any more.
The robed figure bows low. “My lord… we are forever indebted to you. The Totem is exquisitely made. And once the Mantella is finished, we will finally be able to defeat the malevolent invasion that has overcome your people. Once again, you have delivered us with your infinite goodness and compassion.”
Vivec nods. He is good and compassionate, of course. He knows this. It was he that agreed to make these talismans in the defence of these people. It was he that directed the Nerevarine to Red Mountain and told her about the beginning, and Dagoth Ur…
Something surfaces in the darkness of his mind, like the flip of a glinting fishtail in the murk of a pond.
For a moment his eyes clear, and he looks around, the lids wide, his limbs beginning to tremble…
“Where am I?”
The black-robed figure suddenly becomes wary, backing away.
“My lord… you are in a haven… you are creating the talismans we need to defeat the threat to your people…”
There is something… there is something… Something is wrong… totems… mantellas… this happened once, long ago, when his mortal self died and his immortal guise rose to glory and power… Why was it that ‘totem’ and ‘mantella’ were setting off warning bells in his mind? What were they for?
Kagrenac… the hulking shape of the mute creature beside him…
Golem…
It is too difficult. The pieces slip through his fingers like sand, the fishtail sinks back into the murky depths, and Lord Vivec’s eyes cloud over once more.
“Of course. You have the Totem. Now I and my faithful servant here shall turn to the Mantella.”
The black-robed figure relaxes. “You are certainly our salvation, lord.”
Vivec had never asked who the ‘enemy’ was that the robed figures spoke of. The question had never come up. Sheogorath must surely be laughing; it was the madness spreading through the self-made god, not the star-walled room or the black-robed figures, that kept Vivec prisoner. There was no enemy – only Helseth’s obsession with domination, a blinding pinpoint of light in the now-wasteland of his thoughts. It was all that mattered. He had been humiliated in Wayrest. The world would pay for that.
Whether he would pay for it along with the world, is a question yet unanswered.