The Tale of Sudhendra Vahl

Chapter 9; Mad Gods
Part three

By OverrideB1

The spell exploded in the darkness of the chamber, its violet light clearly outlining the figure of the long-dead magician as it drained the magicka from it. As the robe collapsed in on itself, there was a faint tinkling sound as a simple silver band dropped to the floor. Nor was the now vacant robe the only thing sagging, the spell had been remarkably complex to cast and had left me with the thumping headache that is the result of running your magicka reserves almost completely dry. With a sigh I drained the restore magicka potion I’d taken from my backpack and dropped the silver-wrapped phial back inside, ready to be refilled.

The silver band proved to be a circlet of the kind worn by nobles long ago: it’s heavily tarnished surface some indication of the length of time it had encircled that bony globe. The tattered black robe had a greasy, unpleasant feel and I quickly dropped it before scrubbing my hand against the cloth of my own robe. Shuddering, I took careful stock of my position ~ I had a shuttered lantern (unlit) hanging from my pack along with a few simple torches. Several carefully wrapped restorative potions nestled in my pack along with a selection of darts and poisons. Added to this was the mass of the Last Wish atop the pack and the reassuring weights of Grafanc and Hysgithr at my waist. Slung over my shoulder was the Guar-leather quiver, loaded down with a goodly number of arrows.

All very well and good, except that the Lesser Lich that had prowled this chamber wasn’t alone. A fact that became very apparent as I rounded the corner of the tunnel that led out of the room and came face to face with a grinning visage. I back-pedalled rapidly as the Lich raised its hands and hurled an impressively glowing globe of spitting energy at me. Some fancy footwork prevented me from meeting an ignoble end at that moment and I dived for cover behind the central pillar as a second bolt of energy hurled itself towards me. As the report of its explosion echoed around the chamber, I realised I was getting pretty sick and fed up of hiding behind bits of scenery. Time, I thought, to go on the offensive.

“A ddyhea-cama at gwna 'm caseion alaetha!” I intoned, rising to my feet. Instantly there was a sensation of weight in my outstretched right hand as, amidst a storm of swirling yellow motes, a massive great-bow took shape. Reaching into the quiver, I selected one of the heavy black-tipped arrows I’d found on Solstheim. Knocking the heavy arrow in the strangely-patterned Daedric bow, I took a deep breath and stepped from cover as another thunderous explosion shook the chamber, drawing back on the bowstring as I did so. Exhale ~ and…. Fire. The ebony-tipped arrow made a peculiar screaming noise as it tore through the air and punched through the robe of the Lich.

Grinning ~ for it could do nothing else ~ the Lich reached down and grasped the arrow… just as the intricate spell woven into that ebon arrowhead discharged. Imagine one of the Ehlnofey coughing, and then magnify that sound a million fold. For a wonder, the spell did not bring down the roof of the cavern, nor bring this tale to a premature ending. It certainly made very short work of the Lich, the outcropping of rock upon which it had been standing and introduced me to the wonders of a short, horizontal and decidedly unmagic flight.

How long I lay crumpled at the foot of the wall which had interrupted that experience, I cannot say. What I can say is that I very carefully took the four remaining ebony-tipped arrows from the quiver and examined them with great care. They had struck me as being wholly unmagical and, probe as hard as I might ~ in truth not as hard as I could for fear of triggering that spell with me in closer proximity ~ I could detect no trace of magic within them. I was tempted to leave them there but the fear that some other adventurer might come this way and discover them prompted me to return them to the quiver.

The caverns surrounding the chamber I was in were labyrinthine, winding round and about each other in a confusing maze. I realised this, quite quickly, when my travels brought me to a ruined wall that I could have sworn I’d passed before. The mark I’d left on my second visit was still there on the third and fourth visits. I was beginning to despair when I realised that the lower chamber had an exit I’d overlooked ~ a narrow crack at the back of a long fry fountain. This narrow passageway led to a chamber, in the centre of which was a Lich.

No lesser creature of magic this, this Lich was a creature of age and power. Its raiment may have been tattered and rotting, but the decaying Cyrodiilic silk was of high quality and the coldly glowing crown atop that bony brow left me in no doubt that I faced a being of great age. “Barilzar I presume?” I said, bowing low while keeping a careful eye on the Lich.

In a voice like the dust of ages, a voice that made my skin crawl, the Lich replied, “Verily that is how I be called. Why doest thou mine domain disturb?”

“I seek a ring, the least little thing,” I stated, “called The Mazed Band.”

“NEVER!” the Lich roared, “never that shall I relinquish, for it hath great power.”

“Then we have a problem my lord,” I responded, dropping my hands to the hilts of my swords while I hurriedly began constructing the counter-magic spell in my mind. “For I am instructed by the Goddess Almalexia to recover it at all costs.”

“Thou hast a problem, mortal,” the Lich said, reaching out and clasping a darkly glowing staff. “The whims of the witch-queen to me matter not.”

“Narro Haud Magis Veneficus!” I spat, feeding the spell as much arcane power as I dared. To my horror the swirling green light of the spell failed to envelope Barilzar ~ instead seeming to be absorbed by the staff he carried. Some slight edge of the cantrip seemed to get through, yellowish bone took on a darker hue and the garments seemed to rot and decay a little more. But it was far too little to destroy the Elder Lich and, with a dusty roar, he swung the staff at me ~ forcing me to dance backwards as I quickly drew Grafanc and Hysgithr.

I had no idea how long the spell I’d cast would prevent Barilzar from casting and the reach and heft of the heavy staff made it difficult for me to get close enough to him to do damage. In addition, despite my speed and prowess with the twin Nordic blades, those few blows that did get through did very little harm to the Lich. To add to my consternation, the vindictive spells woven into the blades only served to fuel Barilzar further, making the magical being nimbler and stronger.

Quickly disengaging, I let Grafanc and Hysgithr fall to the floor while I grabbed The Last Wish from its strap on my pack. The heavy Dwemer blade made a satisfying thrumming noise as it cleaved the air, the golden-coloured blade clanging against the heavy staff and knocking it aside. Barilzar’s eye-sockets flared with a dark light as I swung the Dwemer axe, and his attacks became more cautious.

The staff whipped across, the heavy end slamming into me and making me stagger. As I struggled for balance, the dark staff sliced my feet from under me, sending me crashing to the floor. Looming over me, the Lich raised the staff like a spear and prepared to plunge it into me. Desperately I swung the Last Wish, the wickedly curved blade slamming into the Lich’s right thighbone. There was a sharp cracking sound and Barilzar staggered the tip of the staff striking sparks from the rock as the now unaimed tip slammed down next to my ear.

Bleeding from where the stone chips had cut me, I drew my left foot up and kicked the Lich in the midsection as hard as I could. Even though there was no accompanying crack of breaking bone, the force was enough to make Barilzar stagger backwards. A protruding rock, slightly above knee-height, pitched the crowned skeleton over as I scrambled to my feet. Light flared in its sockets as I stood over it, axe raised. “Oh bugg…” the Lich boomed as the axe descended, cracking the fragile cranium like a Kwama egg.

As the creature’s tenuous hold on the Mundus faded, the clothes rotted almost instantly to mush and the gold of the crown took on the tarnish of untold ages. There was a flare of light from the now relaxed right hand as the ebon staff fizzled and sparked. Bending down, I grabbed it and found that it was no more than a simple rod of age-blackened iron: whatever magical powers it had possessed had obviously come from Barilzar rather than some enchantment woven into the staff. Of more interest was the gleam of gold around the skeleton’s left ring-finger.

The ring I took from the Lich Barilzar seemed unremarkable ~ a plain band of gold with no stones or decorative work. I probed it carefully and, finding no enchantment upon it, scanned it fully. Despite my best efforts, the ring remained exactly what it appeared to be: a plain band of age-tarnished gold. There wasn’t even the faint echo of expended magic from the ring. Puzzled by this, for it had been described as a puissant artefact, I returned to the Temple and presented the ring to Fedris Hler.

“This is it?” he asked, obviously as puzzled as I had been. “Gavas would like a word with you. Please,” he handed the ring back to me, “take this with you.”

I made my way up to the offices of Gavas Drin where he was waiting for me, seated behind his desk and looking somewhat annoyed. “Fine,” he said, most ungraciously when I told him I had the Mazed Band. “It is to be presented to the Lady Ayem immediately. You will find the door to the High Chapel unlocked.”


So that was it, I thought as I walked to the plain wooden door that would lead me into the High Chapel. Gavas was out of sorts because he had wanted to present the ring ~ instead that task had fallen to me. And I wasn’t too sure how I felt about it…

I had been brought up a Stendarrite, not through choice but because the people who’d adopted me had followed Stendarr. As a young child I was exactly as devout as I needed to be to avoid getting into trouble with my ‘parents’. For the first couple of years after my departure, religion was the last thing on my mind and, to be honest, I’d pretty much fallen out of the habit of attending whichever Cult Shrine happened to be close by. Then I’d come to Morrowind Province and come into contact with my House.

There I had been exposed to the old ways, the worship of the Daedric Princes. Not in the wide-eyed insane manner of the cultists who infested many of the ruined Daedric Shrines ~ although that was debatable in Therana’s case ~ but in a quiet, personal way. The fleeting contacts I’d had with these alien avatars of power had affected me deeply ~ in a childhood of quiet devotion no single Divine had ever made its presence known to me in the manner Sheogoraph, Azura, and Malacath had.

Then there was my time with the Temple, the quietly devout zealots who worshipped the Tribunal. From these people I had absorbed a deep sense of awe concerning Vehk, Seht, and Ayem. It was difficult for me to reconcile the attraction I felt towards the worship of the Daedric Princes with the profound sense of awe I got from contemplating living gods that moved among the people. And now, beyond the door that stood in front of me, was one of these gods, a living, breathing entity with powers beyond anything I could imagine.

Trembling, I opened the door and stepped into the High Chapel. Guards stood around the walls, Her Hands arrayed in their full glory. In the centre of the circular chamber was a raised platform, bounded by pillars of Gold, Adamantium, Silver, and Ebony. The chequered pattern decorating the floor of the dais was comprised of rare stones and delicate scents drifted from the braziers burning at the foot of the four pillars. High overhead, the roof of the chamber gleamed with the muted and unmistakable glister of pure gold reflecting the fires beneath.

Yet all of these glories faded into insignificance before the slender feminine form that floated above the dais. Her skin was golden ~ not the yellowish gold of the Altmeri but the burnished metallic glow of pure gold. Tresses of thick black hair cascaded around the naked shoulders, partially obscuring the swirling tattoos that covered the woman’s arms. Her chest was uncovered but she wore a tabard around her waist identical to those worn by her Ordinators. Bangles and bracelets clinked softly around her wrists and ankles as she lowered her arms and raised her head, sinking slowly to the floor.

I gasped, taking a step back as those eyes ~ black as midnight ~ turned on me and the corners of the mouth turned up in a faint but welcoming smile. The eyes, black, on black, on black, regarded me coolly and I could see the power of the female warrior-god crackling in the ebon depths of that regard. Dumb-founded, I held my hand out with the Mazed Band sitting on the palm. The smile grew warmer and the ring floated from my hand and swooped across the room to drop into Almalexia’s outstretched hand.

“DRAW CLOSE,” a soft chorus of voices sang, “FOR I WOULD REWARD THEE FOR THY VALOUR.” I blinked, moving towards the figure of the Goddess without volition on my part. Ayem inclined her head, speaking without moving her lips, that soft chorus of voices speaking for her, “YOUR PART IN THE RECOVERY OF THE MAZED BAND IS KNOWN TO ME MY CHILD, AND FOR THAT I THANK AND REWARD THEE...” as she spoke these words, I felt a strange sensation: the sort of all-over tingle you get when you have been out in the sun for a long while, “…I SHALL HAVE FURTHER TASKS FOR THEE ANON.”

I stumbled from the High Chapel in a daze, awed by the sheer power of the Goddess Almalexia. My state might explain why I almost stepped into the Healer Nerile Andaren as she hurried along the hall. Fortunately, she understood my slightly bedazzled state and was quite forgiving ~ although she did repeat her request that I deliver some potion.

“Of course,” I replied, “where do I need to take it?”

“To Geon Auline,” she replied, “He has a small place in Godsreach.” Taking the plain ceramic vial from her, I left the Temple and made my way towards the residential quarter. I hadn’t noticed it on my way to the Temple this morning but the streets were… less crowded that usual. Oh, for sure there were still plenty of people going about their business, but the usual crowds seemed oddly thinned.

Auline’s residence was easy enough to find and, receiving no answer when I knocked, I went in. Geon Auline was in a very bad way, a very high temperature and huge splotches of crimson on his face and exposed arms. I blanched, stepping back from the infected Cyrodiil, and then laughed. It had been such an instinctive reaction to the disease that I had reacted without thinking ~ the disease was, of course, no danger to me. Crossing to the bed, I helped the Man into a sitting position and carefully poured the sickly-smelling tonic down his throat.

It didn’t take long for the elixir to work: his stentorian breathing, laboured and rasping, was the first thing to clear up, the angry-looking crimson splotches starting to fade away at the same time. After three or four minutes, he seemed to be completely cured, albeit still very weak. “Thank you,” he husked, sitting on the edge of the bed ~ about as far as he had been able to get. “I feel much better now.”

“You’ll feel even better when you get back into bed,” I said kindly. Ignoring his protests, I pushed him back into his bed and went into the small food-preparation area of his domicile. A while later, Geon Auline was sitting up in bed and sipping hot vegetable broth from a bowl and seemed much better.

“Thank you for the soup,” he said, “it’s really quite good. Let me ask you something, can I impose on your good nature a little more?”

“That would depend,” I replied.

“I am a collector,” Auline said, pointing towards a heavily locked cabinet on the wall. “I have been collecting Lesser House blades and I came to Mournhold simply to get my hands on a House Droth Dagger. There’s a lady named Arnsa Thendas whose husband, recently deceased, was a fellow collector. I know he had the dagger I’m looking for but, in my current state, I can hardly approach Thendas. Could I prevail upon you…?”

I shrugged, it was hardly a difficult task and Thendas Manor was scarcely more than a hundred paces away from Auline’s rented accommodation. Arnsa Thendas proved to be a much younger woman than I’d anticipated, but the Legion shield and ‘pot’ told me all I needed to know about her husband’s death. “Forgive me for intruding,” I said, “but I am interested in purchasing something from your late husband’s collection.”

“Did you know my husband?” she asked, looking at me closely, “you have the look of the Legion about you.”

It would have been easy to lie, to claim kinship with her husband in the hope of securing a favourable response. “I’m afraid I never had that privilege,” I replied. “He and I must have been stationed at different garrisons.”

“Oh,” she said, looking slightly crestfallen. Then she asked, “What was it from my husband’s collection you were interested in?”

“A House Droth dagger,” I replied. She nodded, crossing to a small flat box and unlocking it. From within the chest, she brought out an ancient Chitin dagger, the handle of which was decorated with inlaid glass ~ the decoration taking the form of a clenched fist.

“I was about to put the whole estate up for auction,” she said, “before I return to Tear. I don’t see that there would be a problem with selling this separately. My husband prized it highly, and valued it at six hundred Septims. I suppose I could…”

“Six hundred Septims will be an acceptable price Muthsera Thendas,” I interrupted. Opening my purse, I took out six of the huge 100-Septim coins and placed them on the table. She nodded her thanks and, picking up the coins, passed me the dagger. Geon Auline’s face lit up when I showed him the dagger and, without even blinking when I told him I’d paid six hundred for it, he made me an offer of eight hundred Septims.

Two hundred Septims better off; I made my way through the quiet streets to Velas Manor. Twice I could have sworn I heard quiet laughter from behind me but, when I turned around, there was no one to be seen. By the time I reached the manse, I was deeply uneasy and I planned to speak to the Temple Healer on the morrow.

My plans for today were relatively simple: after putting away some of the treasures I’ve acquired recently, I was going to go to the Grand Bazaar and purchase some provender. I was also interested in visiting one of the wandering magic-sellers that can be found in the Bazaar and a quick visit to Sunel Hlas to see how he got on with Marena wouldn’t be a bad idea. Then, as planned yestere, I was going to go and speak to Nerile Andaren about this disease.

I should have remembered that, in my case, plans are those things that I make just before The Powers That Be drop the metaphorical equivalent of a hornet’s nest next to me. I’d just completed a transaction with a magic-trader in the Great Bazaar, a quite useful spell of reflection and absorption, when all Oblivion broke loose. There was a sudden rush of people towards the Plaza Gate, then some screams and a much more determined rush away from the Plaza Gate. Grabbing a young Mer as he rushed passed me; I asked what was going on.

“Monsters Muthsera,” he panted, “come up outta the ground in the plaza they did. The guards are fighting them now.”

“Which guards, Royal Guards or Her Hands?” I asked, remembering how the Plaza Brindisi Dorum was split between Temple and Throne.

“All of ‘em Muthsera,” the youth said before twisting out of my grasp and rushing off ~ his cry of “Monsters! Monsters inna Plaza!” audible long after the surging crowd had hidden him from sight. I blinked; it must be pretty serious if both sets of guards were fighting alongside each other. Forcing my way through the crowd, I bullied my way to the Plaza Gate and stepped though it.

The statue at the centre of the Plaza was now a gaping hole surrounded by bits of marble rubble. As I watched, a deep red creature levered itself out of the fissure and scuttled with terrible purpose towards a group of already embattled guards. They were fighting a long-necked creature, blue-skinned and with terrible claws, it tore into the assembled guards with horrific vigour. “’Ware behind!” I yelled, rushing towards the small group as I dragged the Last Wish from its place across my pack.

As I swung the axe down on the squat red creature, one of the guards went down in a welter of blood as the heavily spiked tail whipped up and over ~ the wickedly sharp barb tearing through armour and flesh with ease. I blinked, for a fraction of a second there I could have sworn that the point of the tail was tipped in metal.

Such musing was cut short as the Last Wish hammered into the multi-legged nightmare, a thin, sticky liquid oozing from the gash. The creature spun with alarming speed and I threw myself aside as the barbed tail whip-cracked through the spot I had been standing. Scrambling to my feet, I set myself and, when the tail whipped forward again, I twisted and lashed out with the axe. There was a ‘clink’ as the severed end of the tail clattered on the pavement around the pool.

The severed stump slashed back through the air, hammering into the back of my hands and spinning the Last Wish from my hands. With a curse I back-pedalled as I drew the silver blades from their scabbards. With a hiss like steam escaping from a kettle, the red-skinned beast scuttled towards me ~ the huge pincers opening and closing with a snapping noise. Rushing towards the creature, I leapt as high as I could, twisting in the air so that I landed facing back the way I had come ~ feet firmly planted one on each side of the creature.

Whipping the blades up before it realised where I had gone, I drove them down in to the junction of the creature’s thorax and head. The response was strange: instead of threshing about like any other creature so impaled, the strange beast suddenly seemed uncertain what to do or where to go ~ twitching from side to side. Twisting the blades, I dug them deeper and was rewarded with a strange popping noise. The creature shuddered and then lay still.

Leaping away, I rushed over to another group of embattled guards, these facing one of the clawed blue monstrosities. There was no mistake about this one ~ metal blended seamlessly with skin at various points on the creature and its claws glinted with the shine of pure metal. I rushed in front of the creature, twin blades weaving a defensive pattern. As the creature swivelled to engage me, one of Her Hands took a step back and swung his heavy Ebony scimitar. Something in the long, snake-like neck broke with an audible crunch and the head collapsed onto the pavement. Bizarrely, the rest of the creature continued to function until the three guards and I hacked it to pieces.

Wiping the sticky red liquid that formed the creatures’ blood from my sword, I looked around the Plaza. Two of Her Hands were hacking and slashing at the last of the blue-skinned monsters while a Royal Guard, the maroon of his armour an almost perfect match for the red-hued creature he was straddling, repeatedly drove a short bladed sword into the neck of the last remaining crimson creature.

Squatting, I examined the creature I had just helped to kill: although, after a second of examination I was no longer certain that ‘kill’ and ‘creature’ actually applied in this case. Shaking my head, I made my way over to the nearest red creature and examined that. Both creatures were an amalgam of metal and flesh: a heart here, a maze of thin tubes looping in and out of a crystalline structure there. Recovering the Last Wish from where it had fallen, I stood over the massive head of the red creature and swung downwards.

The blue honeycomb structure filling the skull was instantly familiar to me ~ as it would be to anyone who had ever examined a Dwemeri animalcule. Several of the guards, rivalries quite forgotten, clustered around the impromptu post mortem, making comments or just exclaiming in surprise. Looking up, I spotted a Royal Guard, perched on the shattered plinth that had supported the statue and peering into the dark chasm that had opened up there. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” I yelled, “There might be more of those things down there.”

“You’d better go and tell Fedris Hler about this,” one of Her Hands said.

“Tienius Delitian should be informed first,” one of the Royal Guards reposted. Instantly the old rivalries flared up and there was a subtle shifting amongst the guards as they shuffled away from rivals and towards friends. I sighed in frustration. “I will tell Delitian and Hler,” I said. “And, since I am closer to the Palace than I am to the Temple, I will go there first.”

“His Majesty has been informed,” Tienius Delitian said after I’d told him what had transpired. “Meanwhile, you need to investigate the source of this attack. From what you tell me, there is a ruin underneath the Citadel and these Dwemer fabricants are coming from there.

“Go there and investigate,” he ordered, “and return to me the instant you have any information. And, for Kynareth’s sake, do not put yourself at risk ~ we need the information more than we need you dead.”

I walked back through the Plaza Brindisi Dorum towards the temple, Delitian’s words echoing in my head. I don’t think that Delitian realised what he’d said, what his inadvertent slip had revealed. The question occupying my mind at the moment was who was the ‘we’ that needed me dead? Delitian and Helseth most certainly, but just how far did the conspiracy extend? Barenziah? Hler? Gavas Drin? It’s a good job that I didn’t trust any of them: sometimes Telvanni paranoia is the Mundus’ way of telling you that they really are all out to get you.


"We have already been informed of the attack,” Fedris Hler snapped when I spoke to him. “And no thanks to you Sed Vahl.”

“Were you aware that the devices were coming up from under the plaza?” I asked sweetly, “or that Delitian suspects that there’s an old ruin under the statue?”

“Devices?” he said, obviously confused. “Why do you say ‘devices’ when Her Hands say ‘creatures’?”

“Because they appear to be Dwemer-made,” I replied, going on to explain what I had seen inside the fabricants (Delitian’s phrase for them was as good as any other). I then went on to explain what Delitian wanted me to do, asking him if he thought it was a good idea.

“Yes,” he said slowly, “an investigation seems a good course of action. I would send a few Hands with you, but they are busy restoring order around the Citadel. Take extreme care Sed Vahl, there is something about this that feels wrong.”

“Explain,” I said.

“The Dwemer were masters of esoteric arts quite unknown to us,” he replied, “but I have made something of a study of Dwemeri animalcules and I have never heard of anything like these… these devices. I find it inconceivable that they should only exist here and that nobody has seen them for three-and-a-half millennia.”

The Mer had a point I conceded as I walked towards the Plaza Gate. I knew a Mer who would have information on these creatures but investigating a possible future attack was of far more importance than speaking to Baladas at this juncture. The guards were still carting the remains of the creatures from the plaza and, to the obvious disgust of Her Hands, the Royal Guard were standing watch over the ruins of the statue. Ignoring the strife, I clambered up and stood there looking down the deep pit. “Well,” I called to the assembled guards, “isn’t anyone going to get me a ladder?”

While a couple of the Royal Guards rushed off to the Palace to fetch a ladder, one of Her Hands bowed his head and muttered quietly. I watched with interest ~ as far as I knew this sort of communication was limited to the Telvanni, and then only between a Master and their Mouth. The sight of a pair of Her Hands rushing from the Grand Bazaar with a ladder confirmed that the silent mode of conversation wasn’t limited to my House ~ a factor that would have to be taken into consideration if we moved against House Indoril.

With the ladder in place, I swung myself onto the topmost rung and started down into the gloom. It was a descent of maybe ten or fifteen feet and I was in a small vent ~ water from the fountain surrounding the statues was seeping in and cascading down a smaller vent into the depths far below. There was a large hole in the side of the vent, leading into a sloping tunnel. Ducking my head, I crouch-walked down the tunnel ~ aware of the sound of combat from ahead.

The view from the lip of the tunnel was fascinating, mainly for what it confirmed. Far below, in a vast, pillared hall, more of the ‘fabricants’ were engaged in a pitched battle with various Dwemeri animalcules. The Spider-Animalcules were getting the worst of it, but the Shock-Centurions and the Mace-Men were easily holding their own. There was something else down there too ~ a type of animalcule I’d never seen before, some sort of ranged-attack system. I was itching to get down there and take a look at one, but the fight was winding down and the Dwemer devices seemed to have won.

Clambering back up the ladder, I made my way into the Palace and spoke to Delitian. “So,” he responded when I’d told him what I’d seen, “these things are not Dwemeri then?”

“It would seem not,” a new voice said, deep and cool in tone. “Which begs the question, where do they come from?”

“Your Majesty,” Tienius Delitian said, executing a deep bow. I drew myself up to my full, but not very impressive, height and stared haughtily at the Mer who would be King. Helseth was in his prime, although I would have pegged him closer to a hundred than the ninety that the Lady Barenziah had said. The wolf emblem, so prominently displayed around the palace, also featured on his deep red robe, the device picked out in delicate golden thread.

We stared at each other, Helseth and I. I realised that, as the silence between us spun out, if I was waiting for an apology or explanation… the lava-pits of the Molag Amur would solidify first. Helseth was obviously waiting for something from me, and I was given a quick reminder by Delitian. “Bow to the King,” he hissed.

“When Helseth is crowned King,” I said loudly, “then I will show the proper respect. Until then…” I left the statement unfinished, knowing that Temple opposition to Helseth would prevent him declaring himself King.

For his part, Helseth simply raised an eyebrow and continued as if I’d not spoken. “We are more concerned by the threats we have received against us. We have an informant at the Wing’d Guar who has promised us proof of a plot against us. You will travel there, in our name, and speak with Bahk gro-Sham. Ask after his uncle’s farm.”

With that Helseth swept out of the throne room, leaving me with a very annoyed Tienius Delitian. Ignoring his tirade, I simply sat there listening as he ranted on. As soon as I could get a word in edgewise, I did so. “Listen to me very carefully Delitian,” I said. “When Helseth manages to swing the Temple on his side and gets them to confirm his position, and there is a proper coronation then, and only then, will I pay homage to King Helseth. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a job to do, remember?”

I was furious as I left the palace, the arrogance of Helseth and his use of me after he’d arranged my assassination… oh yes, I had seen it in his eyes, the flat, implacable hatred of me ~ me as a person, not as Head of House Telvanni, or an Imperial legionnaire, or as a ranking member of the Temple. No, there had been something else apart from hatred in Helseth’s eyes: fear. Which left me wondering what, exactly was it about me that scared him?

Speculation on that point was cut short as I entered the Great Bazaar on my way through to Godsreach: I wanted to take a circuitous route to check if I was being followed. As I cut through the crowds around the shops, a hand gently tugged my sleeve. “It is you,” Marena said with a smile. “I really have to thank you for arranging the meeting with Sunel.”

“It went well, then?” I asked.

“Oh yes,” she said with a childlike glee. “It was a little strained at first but, after we’d gotten to talking, we found we had so much in common.”

“Excellent news,” I said, smiling back at her. “So, will you be seeing him again?”

“I should certainly hope so,” she remarked with an impudent grin, “we are to be wed on South Wind’s Prayer.” I grinned, genuinely pleased for Marena, bending forward to give her a quick peck on the cheek. She giggled then looked serious. “Sunel wants to see you,” she said, pointing towards the shop.

I walked into the shop and stopped, looking around in surprise. Gone was the gloomy lighting: bright candles and lamps burned in the recesses. The heavy sacks that had been stacked against the ground floor’s sole window had been moved to allow the sunlight to stream in. There was a change in Hlas too: he was wearing a freshly laundered cream shirt and was cleanly shaven. “Sudhendra!” he boomed, beaming from ear to ear. “I really can’t thank you enough; you have been the saviour of me. Marena is a wonderful woman… I can’t believe it; after my wife died I thought I’d never find another woman so fine.”

“I understand congratulations are in order,” I said, grinning back at the smiling shopkeeper.

“They are, they are,” he said. “South Wind’s Prayer, that’s the date. Marena and I would love for you to be there.”

“I can’t promise anything,” I replied, “I’m unsure what I’ll be doing but, if there’s any possible way I can be there I will be.”

“In that case,” Sunel said, fetching a Hessian-wrapped object from beneath the counter. “Marena and I planned on giving you this at the wedding but, since you’re not sure you’ll be there, I guess you’d better have it now.” I took the long, heavy object from him and started to unwrap it. “It belonged to my great-grandfather,” Sunel said as the last of the wrappings came off to reveal an ornate sword. “We thought that you might find a better use for it than either of us could.”

I gasped my thanks at the unexpected gift ~ a sword of a design I’d never encountered before. Nearly as long as a claymore, the end of the blade flared into an arrowhead shape. It seemed to be composed of two metals, a golden coloured alloy on one side and a dull grey metal on the other. Thanking Hlas, I made a mental note to speak to Fast Eddie before the end of the day. I’m sure that he can come up with an appropriate gift and, if I can’t get there, I’m sure he’d enjoy a day out.

With the blade safely tucked into the vault at Velas Manor, I went into the Wing’d Guar and looked around. Tucked up in one corner was an Orc, brass bands around his impressive lower tusks and a mass of braided hair atop his head, nursing a small flagon of Matze. Wandering over, I smiled and said, “gro-Sham, it has been a while. How are things on your uncle’s farm?”

“Sit,” the Orc rumbled. When I’d taken the seat opposite him, he looked around and then said, “King Helseth sets me a task, to find out who is plotting against him. I don’t mind this, pay’s good and all kings are paranoid.” The Orc joined me as I laughed. “But, this time, not paranoid,” the Orc continued, looking serious. “Problem is, plot isn’t against Helseth…”

“A plot to assassinate the Lady Barenziah,” I told Helseth, “and your informant thinks its tonight.”

After he’d stopped swearing, he looked at me closely. “It seems that happenstance has proved to have a sense of irony,” he said in a disgusted tone of voice. “I can’t trust the guards in case they’ve been compromised and I need Delitian to organise a search for whoever arranged this. That leaves me with no choice other than to order… to ask you if you will protect my mother?”


"Since you ask so nicely,” I said sardonically, “it would be churlish of me to refuse.”

“Excellent,” he said with something approaching a genuine smile. “Now, what you will do is…”

“However,” I interrupted, thoroughly enjoying myself, “I will do what needs to be done without any outside interference. The fewer people who know what’s been planned the better, eh?”

And that was why nightfall found me standing behind a couple of room-dividers in the antechamber to the Lady Barenziah’s bedroom, swords in hand. I had entered, wrapped in a Shadow-Weave, behind a guard and secreted myself in a corner until he had left. Then, after making sure that both of the antechamber doors were shut, I’d taken up my hiding place. The time drifted past slowly and I was just starting to doze lightly when there was a soft click and the inner door of the antechamber swung silently open.

Three shadows drifted into the room, clad in dark armour that I instantly recognised. I closed my eyes as they approached the edge of the rug. The contingency-spell triggered as the leading assassin’s foot touched the mat ~ the flare of brilliant light visible even through my eyelids. With a grim smile, I stepped out from behind the dividers and addressed the Dark Brotherhood assassins. “Hello boys,” I said, crossing the twin-blades in front of me, “remember me?”

“Vahl,” the lead assassin breathed, “this must be our lucky night.”

“Your lucky night? Ohhh,” I responded with a smirk, “I really don’t think so…” The leftmost assassin lunged at me with a short Glass sword and I whipped one of the blades around to block his attack. Spinning to avoid the other assassin, I slashed a wicked blow across the chest of the leftmost assassin, scoring a thin line across his armour. The backslash from that blow hammered into his helm, staggering him. Turning, I was just in time to block an aggressive blow from the head assassin with my left-hand blade, the right-hand blade slashing inwards and punching, point first, into his chest.

There was a hammer blow to my left arm, struck from behind. With a curse, I turned my attention to the assassin there ~ the silvery line across his cuirass showing me which of the trio he was. There was movement to my right and I spun, lashing out with the hilt of my right-hand sword, the jewelled pommel connecting with the chin of the assassin that had been approaching from there. As he staggered back, I was already turning to the assassin in front of me.

He danced backwards as the twin blades whirled at him from various angles, a spinning, confusing pattern of attacks that quickly had him more on the defensive than the offensive. His short Glass sword was moving at speed, desperately blocking the incoming blows, but I was giving him no respite. As he blocked a high attack, I slashed the left-hand blade across his throat ~ the heavy leather cloth around his neck deflecting the worst of the blow. A sudden ripple of movement, reflected in the amber eyepieces of the assassin’s helm alerted me…

I ducked and rolled to the left as the leader’s Glass sickle whickered through the air. Snarling, he spun to face me, a small dagger that he’d concealed in his left hand tearing a line of fiery pain along my left upper arm as he did so. In retaliation, I slashed out with my right blade, the fine silver edge neatly severing the tip of his right thumb as the force of the blow smashed the sickle from his hand. I was aware that the other assassins were moving in from behind and that I was quickly running low on options.

Under normal circumstances I would have used an area-effect spell but, in the enclosed chambers of the Royal Palace, I dared not for fear of collateral damage. That didn’t mean, however, that I couldn’t employ magic. As the assassin on my left struck out at me with his Glass short-sword, I grabbed his arm and breathed, “Vomica Cruor”

Unprepared for this sudden shift in tactics, the assassin screamed as the voracious magical flames charred and consumed his flesh. Still gripping his arm, I spun and thrust the screaming assassin into the arms of his compatriot. As the assassin yelped in horror and dropped his now burning companion, the lead assassin struck. I screamed as the curved edge of the Glass sickle punched into my side, the vicious twist and yank as the assassin pulled out the blade sending fresh waves of agony through me.

“Go,” the head assassin snapped to his surviving killer, “deal with the Queen. I’ll finish up here.”

My knees threatened to come unhinged as I propped myself up against the wall. I had a surprise for the would-be assassin racing towards the Lady Barenziah’s bedroom door ~ but first I had to deal with the assassin in front of me. And, wounded as I was, that wasn’t going to be easy. I knew I wouldn’t get chance to perform any healing magic, he would cut me down the instant I tried. But I did have one advantage: I wasn’t as bad as I was feigning to be. Oh, the wound was bad, possibly fatal if left untreated for too much longer, but my experiences in Morrowind had left me a good deal better at dealing with pain than I was pretending.

I sagged, dropping my right hand down level with my belt as the silver sword slipped from my fingers. At that very moment, the assassin despatched to ‘deal with’ the Lady Barenziah discovered my surprise: I had magically locked the adjoining door. As he turned to report this fact, my right hand snapped up ~ the finely sprung steel dart (one of those recovered from the Temple Sewers) with its deadly payload humming through the air to slam into the hapless assassin’s shoulder.

Stooping under the hissing sickle, I grabbed the hilt of the sword I’d dropped: bringing it up in a vicious slashing motion. The razor sharp edge tore a gash the length of the head assassin’s inner thigh and blood gushed out. As he stepped back instinctively, I drove the point of my left-hand sword into the amber eyepiece of his helm. He screamed, grabbing the blade as he pitched away from me, stumbling over a nearby chair before collapsing to the floor.

“You still haven’t won Vahl,” the third assassin hissed, advancing on me from his position near the bedroom door. “And once I’ve dealt with you, I’ll deal with Barenziah.”

“I really don’t think it is your lucky night,” I informed him. “Do you feel that odd numbness in your chest yet? Or has your throat already gone dry?”

The assassin’s eyes widened behind the amber eyepieces: tearing the helm from his head, he picked up the discarded dart and examined it closely before scrabbling at the pouches slung around his waist. As he fetched the thin glass phial from its pouch, the first of the spasms struck. His hand jerked open, the precious vial shattering on the floor. He may have had others, but the Crypt-Spider venom was now running rampant through his system. There are deadlier toxins than the Black Crypt-Spider’s but, up to that point, I had no knowledge of them.

Now, if I could only deal with this wound while he threshed and convulsed away the last few seconds of his life…


Cool sheets were what I woke to this morning, that and the slightly worried face of the Lady Barenziah. I sat up carefully, checking my side. Aside from a slight stiffness that I experienced whenever I leaned to the right (and that stiffness had passed by the end of the day) there was no sign of the wound I’d sustained the previous night. “I’m glad to see that you’re feeling better,” the Lady Barenziah said as I swung my feet out of bed. “My son would like to see you when you’re dressed.”

I felt oddly… good as I got myself dressed, certainly better than I thought I would feel after last night’s escapade. It was, as I have remarked, an extraordinary feeling: that sense that your struggles have lifted you to a whole new level of fitness and skill. Luxuriating in the exquisite clothing that the Lady Barenziah had had lain out for me, I assigned a youth the task of ferrying my armour to Bols Indalen for repair while I made my way down to the Throne Room.

“I can see that I have severely underestimated you Sudhendra Vahl,” Helseth said when I presented myself to him. “Taking on three assassins and defeating them… no small feat of arms that. I suppose that a reward is in order, seeing as how you saved my mother’s life.” There it was again, that unaccountable flash of hatred in the face of the Mer as he addressed me. I couldn’t imagine what I could have done to earn such loathing, prior to the Dark Brotherhood attack on me; I had no knowledge of Helseth or the intrigues of the Royal Court. Regardless of his personal feelings, his reward was generous: a heavily enchanted collar, richly decorated with blue and gold.

“You have proven yourself to be quite resourceful,” Helseth grudgingly allowed. “And you may be of further use to me. However, before I assess that, I will need to see if you are as deadly with those blades as you are reputed to be. At dawn, on the morrow, you will face my Champion: Karrod, in single combat.”

“A duel?” I stammered, aghast.

“Yes,” he replied with an odd smile. “If you can defeat Karrod, you will be useful to me. Otherwise…”

I was fairly despondent as I crossed the Plaza Brindisi-Dorum, the thought of the duel weighing heavily on my mind. I could see several outcomes to the fight: the one that worried me most was the sneaking thought that a duel would be the ideal excuse to dispose of a troublesome Dunmeri female. I was unsure what Royal protocol was for refusing a duel, Vahl’s protocol dictated that I hit the floor running and not stop for anything at the first mention of ‘to the death’. A looming duel was soon to be the least of my worries, however.

“We were aware of that fact,” Fedris Hler said coldly when I relayed the information that the ‘fabricants’ were not Dwemeri in origin. “We have already received the news from the Palace.” I bit my bottom lip; any rapport I might have established with Fedris seemed to have evaporated.

“I was accosted by Royal Guards,” I lied, “and they escorted me to the Palace. Delitian questioned me closely on the matter. He must have gotten the report out to you before releasing me.” I chose not to mention my association with Helseth, or mention the attack on the Lady Barenziah ~ the less that Fedris (and the Temple) knew of my association with the Royal Court the better. Hler seemed slightly mollified by this explanation and, after admonishing me about remembering where my loyalties lay; he shuffled off on some task of his own.

Since I was running low on certain potions, I decided to take advantage of my Temple position and headed down to the Ministry to purchase what I needed. Imagine my surprise when I discovered a very distraught-looking Nerile Andaren leaning on the Ministry door and panting. “Rats,” she gasped in response to my question, “half-a-dozen of the biggest, nastiest, sleekest rats I’ve ever seen. I have potions to prepare and get delivered but there’s no way I’m going in there…” here Nerile shuddered “…with those rats.”

The rats were quickly dealt with; although they were aggressive they were, after all, just rats. Nerile asked me if I would deliver a curative potion to Athelyn Malas while she examined the rats. It seemed a simple enough task so I took the vial of Cure Common Disease potion and asked where this Athelyn Malas could be found. The answer surprised me: “He’s in the courtyard outside the Temple,” Nerile replied.

“Come to shoo me away, eh?” the elderly Mer said when I stepped out of the Temple. I was about to make a reply when he suddenly started to cough, hard, body-wracking coughs that left him looking dizzy and disorientated. I put a steadying hand on his shoulder and he looked at me in surprise.
“I’ve come to bring you this potion,” I said, handing the clay bottle to him.

“Well, nice to see that the Temple hasn’t completely forgot us ordinary folk,” he said, swigging the potion between his words. As the cleansing focus of the potion swirled around him, Athelyn continued to grumble. The main gist of his complaint was that the Temple was closing its doors to the sick ~ especially if they were poor and sick.

“Why are we turning away the sick?” I asked Fedris Hler, heavily emphasising the ‘we’.

“There are a growing number of them,” the curate explained, “and we cannot risk our Healers becoming infected with this whatever it is that’s sweeping through the Citadel.” I was unimpressed with his explanation but, not being in a position to insist the Temple did otherwise, I had to accept it. I decided that I would have a word with Nerile Andaren and see if something could be done for those that the Temple was now turning away.

It was obvious, from the look on her face, that Nerile was deeply worried. And I didn’t think it was about the Temple’s reluctance to treat the poverty-stricken sick either. The splayed and dissected corpse of the rat lay on the table in front of her and several highly complex spell foci shimmered in the air around the table. “I ran the tests twice,” she said plaintively when I asked what the problem was, “and it came out the same both times: Crimson Plague.”

I had to ask for an explanation of that, and Nerile quickly provided me with the information. “In the third century of the Second Era,” she said, “there was a plague which swept through what was to become the city of Almalexia. It was highly contagious and killed hundreds before it was cured. There hasn’t been a case for thousands of years ~ until now.

“I suspect that the rats are carrying the disease,” she said in response to my next question, “and have brought it up into the streets from the sewers. I’ve had guards placed on the sewer entrances here but I need another rat, a live one, to make sure my cure is going to work. The archives should have some references to how it was wiped out the last time, I’m going to make a start there…”

“And I will try and get you your live rat,” I added. I persuaded Fedris to provide me with some heavy leather leggings and gloves, along with a heavy net, from the Temple stores. I might be immune to the disease but there was no reason to be taking any unnecessary risks. Thus equipped, I made my way down into the Temple basement… where I found a Khajiiti standing over a very unconscious guard.

“Shunari must to Mage-Lord speak,” the Suthay-Raht said urgently. “Shunari know cause of red disease, yes she does.”

“What’s causing it?” I snapped.

“Dark Elf cause disease,” she replied, “most specifically Dark Elf Mage-Lord of Telvanni cause disease. But Shunari very ill, Shunari have red disease, yes she does. Dark Elf Mage-Lord cure Shunari and Shunari will meet Dark Elf in Temple Garden ruins and tell what Shunari knows.”

“A cure is simple enough,” I said, focussing my mind and constructing the form necessary for the spell. Placing a hand on the Suthay-Raht’s shoulder, I said, “Exsisto Rememdium.”

I quickly followed the Khajiit down into the sewers and followed her down to the ruins beneath the Temple. There, Shunari told me what she knew. “Shunari see Dark Elf in tunnels and follow to see what Dark Elf do. Shunari see Dark Elf destroy Profane then go explore hidden tomb. Shunari go in when Dark Elf come out and Shunari see Skeleton-Lich.

“Skeleton-Lich cause disease but Dark Elf release disease into sewers. Rats get infected. Shunari skilled thief, Skeleton-Lich no see Shunari. Skeleton-Lich has hidden place inside tomb but Shunari not see how door opens. Dark Elf must destroy Skeleton-Lich or all Morrowind suffer…”

I sighed deeply, even though I hadn’t intended anything other than a quick look around the hidden tomb, I had inadvertently allowed the disease to get out and spread. I had another problem too ~ the root cause of the disease was a Lich, a centuries' dead necromantic wizard. My heart sank, it was but a few days since I had faced one of these nightmarish creatures ~ now I was faced with the challenge of defeating another. Still, I had some experience and there were steps I could take.

The traders in magics that occupy the Grand Bazaar must have thought it was still Old Life as I scoured the dusty tomes they eagerly provided, distributing coin as I sought the spells I needed to ease the way. Finally, in a Cyrodiilic grimoire of great antiquity, I found the spell I sought. A pile of 100-Septim coins persuaded the trader to part with the book and provide me with a quiet nook in which to study the spell’s structure. It was quite complex and I knew that casting it would severely tax my resources ~ several hundred more Septims at a trader in potions made sure that that wouldn’t be too great a problem.

With determined gait, I entered the Temple and made my way down into the basement. One of Her Hands had been stationed there, but I was able to persuade him that I was on an errand from Gavas Drin. Once more I walked through the eerily deserted tunnels of the Temple sewers until I came to the Sunken Garden. This time I was prepared and collected several samples of each type of flower and fungus with a view to recreating this wondrous garden beneath Tel Vahl.

It was a short journey from there to the recently revealed tomb but an incredibly difficult one. Each step seemed to be harder than the last ~ as though some great and malignant power was bent on keeping me away. Several times, convinced that some unspeakable horror was creeping up behind me, I span in a defensive crouch, fumbling for my sword. All too soon I came to the chamber of the sunken temple and the tiny aperture that led into the darkness of the freshly exposed sepulchre. I took several steadying breaths before steeling myself and entering.

There seemed to be nothing changed here except for the presence of several large and aggressive rats. The froth flecking their mouths confirmed Nerile’s supposition that these were the vector by which the Lich was spreading the disease. Well, at least the swiftly rotting corpses wouldn’t be spreading any disease I mused, as I continued my exploration of the tomb.

I tramped up and down those passages several times before I realised that I was overlooking something of great obviousness. The rough floor was tiled with small ceramic tiles and the walls crudely plastered. But, in one section of the catacomb, there was no plaster upon the wall and, by some coincidence, there was a stub of stone protruding through the tiles. Careful examination of the tiles confirmed my hypothesis ~ the tiles had been laid around the stub of rock. Nodding, I stood before the bare faced rock and stamped on the stub as hard as I could.

With a shimmering sound, the stone wall vanished, releasing a puff of noxious air and the sense that the temperature in the tomb had dropped ~ as had the light level, as though there was some darkness issuing forth from the crude doorway in front of me. Deep in the shadows, something moved…

“Ahhhh,” a dusty, hollow voice creaked, “mine benefactor, who didst from a thousand years imprisonment release me. I shall thank thee in the manner appropriate, inquisitive one ~ with a death both quick and painless.”

The lich Relvel stepped from the darkness, the rotting carcass clad in fine Cyrodiilic silk clothing, one skeletal hand extended as it summoned a swirling crimson sphere of arcane energy. I grinned, totally without mirth as I raised my own right hand. “Erigo Tectum,” I spat.

There was a slight hissing sound as a flattened disk sprang into existence in front of me, the surface swirling with all the colours of Aetherius. Whatever spell it was the lich cast; it smeared itself across the surface of the disk and bled harmlessly into the air. My grin rivalled that of the skeletal visage opposite. For the Barrier spell was not the only spell I had culled from that dusty tome. Imagining the shape in my mind, I spoke the words of the second spell, “Perussi Veneficus Ex Meus Hostilis.”

Instantly a wavering line of arcane energy snapped into being, linking me to the lich and feeding me a huge jolt of raw magicka. “Brydia I Mewn Annwfn~danio,” I whispered, fighting the dancing motes that threatened to overwhelm my vision. There was an echoing scream of rage as an incandescent column of fire engulfed the skeletal mage. Drawing strongly on the link between the inherently magical being and myself, I fed more power into the cantrip ~ stepping back as the heat became intolerable.

Suddenly the link collapsed as the cantrip reached its end and the magicka-bridge winked out of existence. I staggered as the influx of raw magic stopped: the momentary distraction sufficient for both the barrier spell and the Firestorm spell to shut down. The fine clothing burned away, the lich glared at me as it moved closer, blackened bone radiating intense heat as skeletal hands glowed with eldritch fire.

Inspiration struck me and, stepping forward, I placed one of my gauntleted hands against the naked ribcage and spoke a single, simple cantrip. “Gelu Manuum Contactus.” The ice-bite spell caught instantly, and there was a sudden and alarming creaking sound from the super-heated carcass. I took several rapid steps backwards, once more summoning the shielding spell as the lich Revel looked frantically at the hissing patch that adorned her ribcage. With a suddenness that was shocking, the whole structure erupted, a hollow scream of pure fury echoing around the rocky chamber as shards of shattered bone clattered against every available surface.

There was little of value in the tomb’s various containers and funeral urns but what there was was worth more than its weight in ebony. The lich Relvel had obviously been hording scrolls for many centuries and I took quite a number of extremely potent one away with me ~ including a number of Apprentice Scrolls that taught some surprisingly nasty tricks. There were also a number of Ioun stones and a large selection of jewellery that had been accumulated by the mage. There was one item I left behind for any fool enough to take it: a tattered grey robe that oozed magic. Woe betides anyone who wore it without probing it first ~ the link to the pure magicka of the Aetherius was good, but the debilitating side effects would kill all but the strongest of wearers.

I whistled a jaunty tune as I made my way back through the sewers, my pack bulging with the various trinkets and magical items I had recovered from the tomb of the lich Relvel. These, coupled with the various seeds and samples from the underground garden, were delivered to Velas Manor before I made my way through the streets of Mournhold to the Temple. I moderated my cheerfulness as I wended my way through the passages of the Temple until I arrived at the infirmary where Nerile Andaren waited.

“I see,” Nerile said when I explained the situation to her. “Well, even though it was your fault… partially your fault…” she amended when I protested that it was Gavas Drin’s fault I’d been down there in the first place. “…You dealt with the matter quickly and efficiently as soon as you found out about it. For that I’m grateful. Let me reward you with a spell you might find helpful.”

Over a slightly late midday meal, Nerile Andaren taught me a complex cantrip, a contingency spell that would trigger if I were seriously injured. The spell would heal me instantly and completely, restoring me to full health and vigour. However, because of its nature, the contingency could only be triggered once per day and I would need a night’s rest before it could recharge. Having committed the spell to memory, I returned to the manse in Godsreach and went to bed ridiculously early in preparation for the trial by combat that Helseth was determined to put me through.


"This will be a fair fight,” Helseth said as I stood looking at the extremely tall, bald-headed Redguard standing next to him, “and no one will be allowed to interfere. You may use whatever spells and weapons are at your disposal, and the fight will end when one combatant yields.”

I had spent a fairly restless night, worrying over the coming duel and, when I finally woke, I had two matters to contend with. The first was the faintly glowing symbol on the back of my left hand: the intertwined rune of the Healer glowing blue-white from under the skin. Even as I watched, the contingency spell’s mark faded away leaving unblemished skin behind. Even though I had known that the sigil would be there, it was still disconcerting to see that palely glowing circle of skin.

The second pressing matter was the presence of the Lady Barenziah in the main room of Velas Manor. I forbore from asking just how she’d managed to get inside, but I did make a note to myself that I needed to upgrade the locks and start putting some wards on the doors. I’ve been too long away from the intrigues of House Telvanni and was in danger of neglecting the most basic of protective measures. “What,” I asked with some asperity, “are you doing here my Lady?”

“You are duelling Karrod this morning are you not?” she asked. “I came to wish you well and to give you some news and some advice. You may be concerned that my son is using this duel as an excuse to have you killed… rest assured that that is too subtle an approach for Helseth. Besides, for all his faults, even my son would baulk at asking Karrod to dishonour himself. Helseth feels that you may be of some assistance in helping him to procure the Adamantium Throne and, as long as he thinks that, he will put his personal hatred of you aside. Please,” she said as I started to speak, “do not ask the root cause of that hatred. There may come a time, my child, that I will feel moved to tell you. Until then, I will say nothing.

“The advice I have for you is simple: Karrod has never been bested in single-combat, which tends to make him a little arrogant. Also, watch out for his left hook, it’s won him a large number of fights. Well,” she finished, standing up, “I wish you the very best of luck Sudhendra Vahl.” With that, she was gone: leaving me even more puzzled by her behaviour than before. Often, she seemed savagely proud of her son’s ambition but, as I had witnessed today, sometimes she was filled with an odd loathing of him. And why she should come and give me advice about fighting Karrod, I simply had no idea.

Now dawn was fast approaching and I was standing in the Throne Room facing the massive Karrod. As Helseth and his retinue cleared the area, Karrod calmly removed his armour and stood there in a simple breechclout. With a sigh, I unfastened the robe I wore and handed it to a nearby attendant. I was now clad in a simple leather tunic, a Legion training-outfit. The attendant, having placed my robe on a nearby bench, brought over the tray on which my weapons had been stacked. I selected a number of throwing darts (unfortunately I had been denied permission to coat the blades with poison, an ironic turn of events considering Helseth’s reputation in that regard), a pair of matched daggers, and the Blodskal.

Karrod, meanwhile, had been presented with a weapon of his own ~ obviously one he favoured above all others. It was a strange weapon, curved like a scimitar but with a jagged line of raised edges down the back and a lightning shaped hole in the blade. The metal was silverish in colour and quite unlike anything I had seen before ~ it looked like polished Adamantium but, as far as I knew, that metal didn’t take a glister like that. The grip was wrapped in stained and ancient leather and, surprisingly, there seemed to be a pommel of Dwemer metal on the end. Taking our positions on opposite sides of the raised area of the Throne Room, we awaited the dawn. I noted some rather brisk betting going on between the assembled guards and there also seemed to be some hurried wagering between Barenziah, Delitian, Mero, and Helseth. As the east-facing windows started to brighten, a guard stepped forward and raised a red cloth above his head. As the sunlight grew stronger, he dropped the cloth…

Karrod and I circled each other warily, each taking stock of our opponent. The Redguard was tall and had quite a reach and was well muscled. In addition, his movements flowed easily one to another, showing that he had a good deal of agility. Ordinarily, I would have used magic but there was a problem with that in the confines of the Throne-Room.

The majority of the spells I knew were pretty lethal and were designed to cover quite an area in order to incapacitate as many opponents as possible. Most other spells were designed to be used when in contact with an opponent. I didn’t fancy getting close enough to Karrod to use any touch-magic and using area-effect spells would be a good way to bring the wrath of the Royal Guards down on me if any of them got caught in the back-lash. The other problem, of course, was that this was not a duel to the death ~ Helseth had made that very clear: and this ruled out many of the spells I knew anyway.

So, unless I got really lucky, my arsenal of arcane weapons was severely limited ~ a fact I’m sure that Helseth had planned for. No, this fight would have to be fought the mundane way: weapon against weapon, skill against skill until one of us fell.

Tapping the tip of the Blodskaal on the tiled floor, I watched carefully as Helseth’s champion took up a chary stance opposite me, his dark eyes flickering from my face to the gently tapping tip of the great-sword. As he glanced up at my face for the third time, I whipped the Blodskaal upwards and across in a vicious scything arc. I was pretty sure that I’d given no facial indication of what I planned to do, so it was very disconcerting to see Karrod leap back, lithe as a cat, to avoid the blow.

There was a metallic clang as my downward sweeping sword intersected the wickedly curved blade he bore, the swords locking as we struggled to gain advantage. With a wicked little grin, the Redguard spun his sword, knocking the Blodskaal blade aside. Now it was my turn to dance backwards, desperately trying to avoid the razor-sharp tip of the sickle-shaped weapon.

Once more we took a wary stance opposite each other and, once more, I began to tap the tip of the Blodskaal on the tiled floor. I watched Karrod tense at the third tap, and then tense some more as I continued tapping the blade on the ground. Keeping perfectly still except for the motion necessary to continue my irritating rapping, I allowed a tiny sliver of metal to drop from the bracer around my left wrist. Several more slow taps and I launched another attack ~ this time bringing the Blodskaal across in an arc that would have eviscerated Helseth’s champion… If he hadn’t brought the scimitar around with insouciant ease and blocked the blow.

I ducked; weaving to one side as a perfectly aimed blow whistled through the spot my neck had been a few moments beforehand. I squinted at the Redguard: this wasn’t supposed to be a death-match yet, had that blow connected; I would have been effectively beheaded. Was Helseth using this duel as a pretext, where a wild, over-enthusiastic blow would inadvertently remove the Dunmer female who seemed to inspire so much hate in him? Oops, sorry, shouldn’t have happened, oh well. I resolved, right there and then, should that seem to be the case I would use my dying breath to ensure that Helseth never, ever ascended to the Adamantium Throne.

As I straightened, I snapped my left hand up and out ~ the sliver of a dart flickering across the intervening space. Karrod’s eyes widened and he managed to get a hand up and deflect the barb with the back of his hand. There was a small trickle of blood and I grinned with malicious intent. Karrod glared at me, raising the back of his hand to his mouth and sucking on the wound as I started to tap my blade-tip on the floor again. Spitting out a glob of saliva and blood, Karrod flexed his hand before swapping his sword to his left, unwounded hand.

Sparks flew as the blades met, both of us having started our strikes at the same time. With a quick flick of the wrist, Karrod somehow hooked his blade under mine and yanked it from my grip. As the Blodskaal clattered to the floor, I drove my head forwards ~ butting the Redguard in the face. Both of us staggered slightly, the curved blade clattering to the floor as he lost his grip on it. With a smirk, I yanked the two curved daggers from my belt and waved them in front of me, with a fairly convincing air of knowing what I was doing.

Karrod’s eyes flicked left as I slid towards him, measuring the likelihood of reaching either of the two blades before I tried to gut him like a fish. Even as he did so, the guard who’d started the duel reached over and plucked both the scimitar and the Blodskaal from the dais and carried them to the sidelines. Bereft of his blade, Karrod reached into the pouch that hung at his waist and fetched out two glistening bands of metal. These he quickly slipped over his fingers so that the knurled metal studs that decorated the top of the bands lay directly over his knuckles.

I didn’t know what these where, but I knew I didn’t like the idea of them and I quickly closed the gap between the Redguard fighter and myself ~ slashing with both blades. One of the blades sliced open skin across the warrior’s right shoulder, blood running freely. Not that I was in a position to admire my handiwork ~ four punishing blows to the solar plexus saw to that. The first blow winded me badly, driving all the breath from my body. The third blow landed with a nasty cracking sound and a bright, fresh bloom of pain as at least one of my ribs cracked under the impact.

Staggering slightly, I stepped out of the clinch before he could land a fifth blow to my aching midriff. Fortunately I had enough of my wits intact to remember Barenziah’s warning ~ snapping my head back to avoid a left-handed uppercut that would certainly have turned out my lanterns for a while. Now I knew what the metal bands were ~ knuckle-dusters ~ a particularly nasty tool often used by the Thieves Guild and pretty much banned throughout the Empire outside the Guild. It didn’t surprise me that Helseth would countenance their use.

Karrod glowered at me, his right eye puffy and swollen. Obviously that uppercut had been intended as the coup-de-grace and I had spoiled his plans. I grinned, the sight of his inflamed eye reminding me of a plan that had worked for me before. I grimaced and clutched my stomach ~ not entirely feigning the pain I was portraying. While I was doing this, I was assembling the esoteric structure of the spell I needed in my mind. Karrod took the bait, rushing in to deliver a second left-handed upper cut. Once more I spoiled his game, swaying just enough to make him miss and grasping his arm as I did so. “Obscurum Successio,” I hissed before letting go of his arm and twisting away.

The Redguard flinched away as his dark ebon eyes turned milky-white as the spell stole away his vision. I grinned, moving to the left and preparing to strike. With a speed that was startling, Karrod spun on the ball of his foot and lashed out with his right hand, the metal knuckle-duster catching my cheek and tearing the flesh. Shocked, I staggered backwards… and Karrod followed unerringly, his head cocked to one side as he took several sure-footed steps towards me.

The impact of his fist on my shoulder shook me from my fugue-state ~ even though the blow hadn’t hit anywhere vital; it had been hard enough to really hurt. I whirled away from the second punch, slashing the dagger across the Redguard’s exposed ribs as the metal-bound knuckles cracked the gilt-work decorating the pillar. With a degree of inevitability, Karrod swung around and lashed out, his bunched fist striking me just above the kidney and making me wheeze with pain as darkly glimmering spots danced before my eyes.

And I was running out of time, already the opaque cataracts had taken on a cloudy look ~ Karrod’s repeated hammer-blows had made it impossible to maintain a connection with the cantrip I’d cast and the spell was fading fast. And, to make matters worse, two of the Royal Guards were approaching the dais, each carrying a weapon: Karrod’s curved blade coming in from one side, the Blodskaal from another. Shaking his head, the obscuring spell failing, Karrod saw the guard and grinned, baring his teeth. Quickly he reached out and wrapped his massive hand around the hilt of the sword.

And gasped as I drove him and the suddenly flailing form of the Royal Guard down to the floor, the two of them crashing down underneath me. As the guard scrambled out of the way, I drove my full weight into Karrod’s back as I hammered my fist into the back of his head. He squirmed, throwing me off enough to rise to his knees. Desperate to end this before he could bring the scimitar-bladed weapon into play, I tackled him again. We hit the floor hard and I grasped the hilt of my one remaining dagger and drove the hilt repeatedly into the cut and bleeding face. Again and again I hammered my bunched fist home until a hoarse voice gasped, “Enough, I yield.”

I blinked, looking down at the battered Redguard as he repeated “Enough, I yield.” A pair of hands hooked under my arms and, not unkindly, the Royal Guard helped me to my feet. Despite his injuries, Karrod rose to his feet with an ease that was deeply disconcerting.

Karrod backed away, lowering the strangely wrought sword before dropping to one knee and bowing his head to me. Winded, bleeding from several places and with the sort of pain that can only come from a seriously broken rib, I stood there panting as Karrod stood and, once more inclining his head in respect, limped out of the Throne room, presumably to receive medical attention. The stunned silence that filled the room was broken by the sound of a solitary pair of hands, clapping. Slowly the sound swelled as the guards and Barenziah joined in with Plitinius Mero’s applause ~ Delitian and Helseth ostentatiously not showing their approval.

Instead Helseth, with a face like thunder, whispered to Delitian before walking out of the chamber in a swirl of red cloak. Scowling, a Mer obviously unhappy at the turn of events, Tienius Delitian strode over to where I stood. With ill grace, he extended a small leather-bound scabbard. “This,” he said, “is the Dagger of Symmachus: an heirloom of Helseth’s family. His majesty the King wishes for it to pass into your hands as a symbol of his trust. When you have recovered from your injuries, there are matters you and I must discuss.”


Plitinius led me down to the Infirmary where a very brisk and efficient Healer, who’s name I didn’t catch, placed poultices on my wounds and gave me a couple of potions to drink. Since Mero was hovering, I decided I could trust the potions and drank them. Seconds later, after being wracked by the pains of instant healing, I was able to follow Plitinius through the maze of back corridors to the small antechamber where Tienius Delitian was waiting.

“His majesty suspects that one of the Tribunal was behind the recent attack on Mournhold. Since you have access to Almalexia, the king wants you to investigate his suspicions and report back to me only when you have learned all that you can.” I sat, slightly stunned at the magnitude of Helseth’s ambition, as Delitian continued his briefing. “It is important that, from this moment forward, you have no contact with the Royal Palace ~ His Majesty does not wish this arrangement made public nor does he wish for Almalexia to be aware that you and he are working together.”

As I left the Palace, I was staggered anew by the scale of Helseth’s ambition. It seemed that, unable to win the support of the Temple, he was now attempting to discredit Ayem in order to circumvent the Temple’s interference in his rise to rule. I was torn, I knew the ‘fabricants’ were not of Dwemeri origin: which begged the question, who created them? Certainly, a God could easily manage such a feat ~ even one whose powers were slightly less than divine in origin.

On the other hand, Helseth’s motives were transparently clear: discredit the Temple in order to prevent them interfering with his coronation as King. Despite my difference of opinion with Fedris Hler, I was still loyal to the Temple ~ even though I was unsure of just how divine the triumvirate of ALMSIVI were. I had been seduced by the religion of Morrowind: simple, direct, and with actual living gods walking among the people. Then I had encountered the Lost Prophecies and heard the tales of deceit and betrayal at Red Mountain. Now I was back to being uncertain again. And the worst of it was ~ there was nobody I trusted enough, here or on Vvardenfell, to discuss my current dilemma with.

“Sed Vahl,” Fedris said as I entered the reception area of the massive Temple building. “I was just about to send runners looking for you. The Lady wishes to speak to you once more.” I was savvy enough in the ways of the Temple to understand that ‘wishes to speak with you’ meant ‘get your rear end in there because Almalexia is demanding your presence’. The fact he was about to despatch runners added the instruction: ‘right now’ to the previous message.

“Vahl,” the soft chorus of voices sighed as I approached that radiant presence floating in the middle of the Chapel, “we are glad you could attend us.” I winced, bowing my head and apologising for my tardiness. “It is of no matter,” the Lady Ayem said with a slight, but genuine, smile. “We knew you would be here when you would be here.”

While I was trying to untangle the sense behind that gnomic statement, the goddess Almalexia continued to speak, “we have been… distracted and, in that moment of distraction a blasphemous cult has sprung up like weeds in a garden. They call themselves ‘The End Of Times’ and are led by one who was recently high in our favour: Eno Romari. Their teachings are heretical…” I shifted uncomfortably at that “…and they trouble us greatly.

“Their teaching are heretical, their aims blasphemous, their desires an abomination,” Ayem continued, her chorus of voices growing louder and more strident. “But,” she added softly, “we must treat with care, we must not a martyr of their leader make. Investigate this heterodoxy for me Vahl; speak with the leader for us. But have a care, harm him not, this we command in our name.”

“As you wish, it shall be,” I replied, bowing my head and backing out of the Lady Almalexia’s presence. Once I was out of the High Chapel, I blew a sigh of relief: the tirade hadn’t been unexpected but the vehemence behind it was unsettling. As I started towards the door, I had a most unsettling realisation: I had knowledge of where to locate Eno Romari and knowledge of a lady by the name of Meralyn Othan whose brother had been involved in this End of Times cult.

I was still trembling at the effrontery of this violation when I arrived at the Great Bazaar. Locating Othan wasn’t difficult, Her Hands were eager to point her out to me. She was eager to talk and quickly told me what she knew of the End of Times Cult. “They are a suicide cult, plain and simple. Their beliefs are destructive, heretical, and frightening to me,” she said.

“And what do they believe?” I asked.

“That Ayem, Vehk, and Seht have lost their powers,” she whispered, looking around fearfully to ensure that there was no one listening to her words. “This is a signal, they say, that the apocalypse is near. Eno Romari teaches his followers that our time in Tamriel is at an end, and the gates of Oblivion will soon open and the Daedra will walk the land. Only the ancestors who have already left this world will remain once the Daedric scourge covers the earth. And so he promotes what he calls ‘the Cleansing’."

“And what is this ‘Cleansing’?” I asked, already certain that I knew the answer.

Meralyn confirmed what I had feared, saying, “It is ritual suicide, Muthsera.” I was already furious at the intrusion of knowledge perpetrated by Almalexia, the thought of this suicide cult only served to fuel that rage still further. “Where,” I snapped angrily, “will I find this Eno Romari?”

“The storm is coming,” the white robed Mer proclaimed to the small crowd that had gathered at the foot of the steps leading up to the Wing’d Guar. “And when it passes, all of Tamriel will be wiped clean. Only the ancestors will survive…”

“Tell them what you believe,” I shouted from the crowd, interrupting him. He blinked, obviously surprised as I barged through the gathering and joined him on the steps.

“Our beliefs are very simple my friend,” he said, clearly addressing the crowd as well as me. “The blessed Tribunal, though once filled with glory, are no longer the gods they once were. As with the tides and Tamriel's moons, all cosmic powers will wax and wane. But, when gods die, it creates ripples throughout the lands. The passing of the Three will be a prelude to the end of this era, and the beginning of the next. The followers of the End of Times are making ourselves ready for this to happen.”

“And how do you make yourselves ready?” I snarled.

“We realize that the end of the era will bring many changes. We believe that the gates of Oblivion will open, and the multitude of Daedra will roam this world freely,” he said in ringing tones, once more addressing the crowd. “Some might tell you that this is a good thing, that we are descended from the Daedra and it will be a return to the natural order of things. I know differently, though. The coming age will be a time of great horror. The Daedra Princes are not our ancestors. Nor are they our allies. They will wash over the land, destroying all that man and Mer have built over these thousands of years. The only protection from this scourge will be our true ancestors that have gone before us and watch over us even now. Many of us have chosen to prepare the way…”

“And they do this by participating in a ritual called ‘The Cleansing’,” I said, “Tell them what that entails Romari.”

“It is a glorious ritual, Muthsera,” he said, eyes bright. “Our followers cleanse themselves of all of their troubles, all of their burdens here on this earth. They send themselves ahead to the ancestors, spreading our word, making ready for when we shall all join them in our fight against the Daedric hordes.”

I understood, now, why Almalexia had sent me to speak with Eno Romari ~ had she sent one of Her Hands, the Mer would be laying in a pool of blood right about now. And I recognised what he was trying to do. “In other words,” I hissed, “You instruct them to commit suicide.” Turning to address the crowd, I shouted “Here stands a Mer, who tells you to slit your wrists, to swallow poison, all in the name of some vague horror he feels sure is to come. He tells you that your only hope is death, your only salvation death in his cause. He would gladly sacrifice you all on the altar of his heretical faith.

“Yet, despite his professed belief that only those who have sacrificed themselves are to be saved, he stands here in front of you day after day, spewing forth his lies. Yes, here he stands, waiting for me to cut him down, to make him a martyr to his cause. Well, there will be no martyrs here today.”

A look of pure, unadulterated fury crossed the Mer’s face as I bowed, sardonically, and left. I had little time to think as I made my way back to the Temple and reported to Almalexia. “We are displeased,” was her response, accompanied by a frightful scowl. “Our people need a reminder of how powerful we are. However, we are fatigued after repulsing the attack on our Citadel and from caring for those who were injured: therefore we need you to demonstrate our strength. You will travel to Bamz-Amschend and there activate the Karstangz-Bcharn as a demonstration of our power.”

“Forgive me my lady,” I said, “but these words you speak mean nothing to me.”

“Nor should they,” she chided. “But the knowledge will come as it is needed. Take this…” she handed me a heavy leather case, made in the form of a cylinder. “You will need it to accomplish our task. Open it when needed, this is all we ask. Go now, and fulfil our commands.”


I travelled back to Velas manor via the Great Bazaar, getting various potions and supplies for my trip into the Dwemeric ruins beneath Mournhold. It was with a sense of trepidation that I entered the Plaza Brindisi-Dorum: I was genuinely entering the unknown here. The ladder was still in situ and I quickly descended it and made my hunch-backed way along the short tunnel to the great hall I’d visited earlier.

The battle for the hall had finished, and the fabricants had come off worst ~ the decaying hulks of a good dozen or more littered the floor. Around and through the detritus, several animalcules patrolled, mostly the Type III ‘Mace-Man’ but there were two of the new types down there too. I grinned as I summoned a great bow and took careful aim at one of the Mace-Man types. The arrow slammed into the bronzed hulk, the shock-spell discharging directly into the head. The Type III staggered for a few steps and then collapsed with a clang that was audible even up here.

And now I got to see one of the Type IV’s in action. The half-dome wheels drove the thing forwards at some speed as its right “arm” came up. I barely had time to notice the horizontal crosspiece on the arm before something thudded into the rock near where I crouched and exploded in a flare of energy. The arm-piece jerked and clicked and another of the small explosions erupted a little over my head.

“Chan Annwfns Fferedig Asgre,” I snapped, extending a hand towards the Archer Centurion. Instantly a howling column of icy shards extended downwards ~ slamming into the device and smashing it backwards into one of the massive supporting pillars. The other three animalcules (two Type III’s and a Type IV) continued their patrols as I carefully lowered myself out of the crevice and dropped lightly onto the stub of one of the collapsed pillars.

From here I was able to snipe away at the remaining Dwemer contraptions to my hearts content, using a combination of magic and carefully aimed arrows to reduce them to their component parts. The rest of my descent was uneventful but fraught: dropping from one massive chunk of stone to another as I made my way down into the great hall. Finally, breathing a sigh of relief, I reached the solid floor of the cavernous antechamber and took stock of my position.

Getting back up wouldn’t be too much of a problem; I had several levitation potions at my disposal as well as a spell and amulet. I had plenty of food and water should my stay here be more extended than I thought and I was certainly well equipped with weaponry. My first order of business, however, was with the new Dwemer contrivance I’d discovered. My footsteps echoed hollowly as I made my way across the rubble-strewn floor towards the broken remains of the Archer Centurion.

Made of the same bronze-coloured alloy as the other marques, this device was slightly shorter than the Type II Shock Centurion, although it bore many similar design features. The slender central body was supported between two huge “wheels” that ~ as I had seen ~ gave the thing a fair turn of speed. It was the construction of the right “arm” that fascinated me… There was a large hopper mounted in the upper part of the arm, from this a square box looped under the arm and connected to the back of the body. Down the length of the arm was a recessed track, at the bottom of which was a chain with small protrusions on it. This led into the bulky device that formed the lower part of the arm ~ a sort of crossbow with a series of golden wires strung between the legs of the bow.

My attack had cracked the skull of this animalcule, cracking it against the pillar and exposing the blue honeycomb inside. The front of the “head” was undamaged and I saw that there was a series of lenses that could drop down over the sensory apparatus ~ presumably some sort of aiming reticule. The hopper on the arm yielded after a couple of hefty whacks with the Last Wish and a number of cylindrical objects fell out. These were immensely heavy for their size and seemed very ornately decorated for a simple projectile. Careful probing revealed no magical reason for these darts to explode on contact but I reasoned Dwemer technomancy bore no relationship to the magic we use.

Slipped a handful of these darts into my belt-pouch, I fiddled with the arm for a while ~ making careful sketches that I knew Baladas would appreciate. I even, after some experimentation, managed to fire the crossbow at a section of wall. The resulting explosion was quite impressive. I wished that I could manage to separate the arm from the rest of the body and take it with me ~ it had a very impressive firing speed that far surpassed my own meagre skills with a crossbow. Alas, even the arm was too heavy to carry.

I trudged through the dimly lit and echoing hall, passing a collapsed mural of great size as I approached the door at the eastern end of the hall. The oblong door ground open slowly to reveal a large chamber beyond. Of much more import was the Type III animalcule rushing towards me. Since I was holding one of the Dwemer darts, my reaction was instinctive. Tumbling end over end, the heavy dart struck the Mace-Man square in the metallic chest. There was a loud bang and a jagged hole suddenly appeared in the hitherto flawlessly smooth metal.

I stepped aside quickly as the device continued to run straight at me, drawing the Last Wish and preparing to defend myself. I need not have bothered: the animalcule darted straight past me and collided with the wall at speed. It took two wobbly backward steps and then toppled over. Giving it a wide berth, I explored this chamber. Roughly cross-shaped, there were four rooms at each of the cardinal points of this hall. One seemed to be a workshop ~ although I could find nothing other than a few rusty and decaying tools ~ and another was home to one of those incomprehensible Dwemer “engines”, the heavy wheel still spinning merrily after three thousand years.

The other two chambers were more interesting: one being a sort of living area and the other being a storage area. There was little to be gathered from the living area but there were the usual selection of Dwemeri items in the storeroom. With my pack now bulging with a couple of chunks of Ebony, several carefully wrapped shards of Glass, and other valuable items, I left these chambers and headed back into the great hall.

I tramped across the vast chamber until I reached the oblong door on the opposite side of the hall. This too creaked open as I hauled on the handle, revealing a long and sloping hall. Settling my pack on my shoulders, I stepped through the door…

Okay, a new rule for when you’re exploring Dwemeri ruins: ALWAYS CHECK BOTH SIDES BEFORE STEPPING THROUGH A DOOR.

The crushing blow took me completely by surprise, hammering into my shoulders where, fortunately, my pack took the brunt of the blow. Not that that stopped me from being thrown facedown onto the gritty floor where I skidded several paces before coming to a halt. Shaking my head to clear the sound of bells that seemed to fill it, I scrambled to my feet as the Type III animalcule retracted the mace and swung ponderously to face me. Shucking off the pack, I hefted the Last Wish as the Mace-Man pounded towards me.

The curved axe recreated the gonging of bells in my head as it pounded the heavy breastplate of the centurion. Furious blow after furious blow smashed home, cracking the Dwemeric metal and exposing the tubes and wires inside. The heavy mace, which had been missing me by inches as I fought, now connected with my right arm ~ the impact making me stagger and drop the axe I was wielding. With a roar worthy of a Skaal warrior, I threw myself at the centurion, reaching in and yanking out a handful of wires and tubing.

Greasy black liquid spurted from the tore tubes, splattering the inside of the animalcule. Sparks from the snapped wires ignited the lubricant with a soft whoomph and I dived away as crackling flames engulfed the construct. As it threshed and staggered, I recovered the Last Wish and stood, axe raised, ready for the machine. As the flames died down, I could see that serious damage had been done to the device; its movements were jerky and spasmodic. It took a single step towards me before it locked into position.

Nursing a very sore head, I explored the chamber I found myself in. a steeply sloping corridor directly opposite the main entrance, led to a small room filled with hissing and steaming Dwemer machinery. Another sloping corridor led down to another oblong door. Returning to the top of the slope, I pushed open the door at the top ~ warily checking the chamber before stepping inside what appeared to be a storage chamber.

Wearily, I examined the contents of the heavy Dwemeri chests that were stacked in the storage room I had chosen for a resting place. There was little of any great consequence save for a chest containing two small wooden boxes. In the manner of all things in Dwemer ruins, the boxes looked little more than a few years old ~ rather than the three-and-a-half millennia they really were. Attached to the outside of each box was a label, covered in the thin glyphs of Dwemeri script.

Inside the boxes were two wrapped packets of a waxy substance ~ from the centre of which extended a thick length of chord ~ and a small fold of heavily waxed parchment containing red-tipped sticks. There were two labels in Altmeris, one on the inside of the lids and one on each of the packets of sulphur-tipped sticks. Neither made much sense.

On the inside of each wooden box lid, written in a red ink, was the following admonition:


Meanwhile, on each of the packets of sulphur-tipped sticks was the instruction:


I carefully examined one of the packages, using the tip of my dagger to peel back the heavy wrapping to expose a grey block of some waxy material inside. Extending from this was a chord of some material like parchment; only it was tightly wrapped and bound with fine threads. I cut a small length, examining the grainy black material that came from it. It didn’t take me too long to discover that this chord burned very easily and very quickly. I understood the principle: ignite the chord and it causes the waxy block to explode. What I couldn’t understand was why the Dwemeri had such a device when simple magic would have sufficed… Then I remembered that the Dwemeri didn’t use magic in any way that we would understand it.

With the two blocks of waxy material safely stowed in my pack (which was as far from the crackling flames of my fire as I could get it) and the sulphur-tipped sticks well away from either of them, I settled down for the night in the creaking ruins of Bamz-Amschend.


Further exploration of ‘The Passage of Whispers’ was made difficult by the huge pile of broken rock that blocked the way. At some point in the countless tale of years since the Dwemeri had vanished, a rock fall had blocked access to the passages that led away from the Passage of Whispers. With a grin, I pushed one of the waxy blocks into the gap between the rocks and used the rough stone wall to strike one of the sulphur-tipped sticks. The chord caught fire instantly and, fizzing alarmingly, started to burn back towards the waxy block. With a gasp, I turned and ran up the slope…

TWO… ONE… I’d counted about six heartbeats between the moment I’d set the cord alight and the moment the world was filled with thunder. A wave of warm air firmly and irresistibly pushed me flat against the wall for a moment as clouds of dust cascaded from the ceiling high above. Coughing in the now dust-laden atmosphere, I made my way down the slope and looked at what I had wrought. The massive blocks of stone had been blown down like flimsy huts in a high wind and even the well nigh indestructible Dwemer alloy that made up the wall was frayed and splintered around the now gaping hole that led deeper into Bamz-Amschend.

The slope led down into a water-filled area, at the end of which was a door. This opened out into an area identified as ‘King’s Walk’ – a vast chamber that must, at the height of the Dwemer kingdom, have been magnificent. Now it was slowly filling with water from the shattered fountain high above in Plaza Brindisi Dorum. But, even before the water had started to pour in, the hall had lost much of its magnificence: the floor was littered with the shattered remains of once impressive murals, now shattered beyond repair.

There was a current in the water, not strong but insistent ~ pulling me towards the far end of the hall as I waded through the water. As I splashed my way closer, I could see that the door at the end of this chamber had been buckled by some convulsion of the earth: it now sat askew in the frame. And, where there was a gap, the water flowed though to the chamber beyond where, from the sound of things, there was a waterfall. Fearing that the way ahead had collapsed in the same upheaval that had buckled the door, I grasped the handle and ~ with all of my strength ~ dragged the protesting metal door open.

Beyond was a sight to make even the most hardened adventurer gasp. A huge semicircular platform extended around the edge of the room; from it extended slender pylons or walkways to the central platform. There, some huge machine rose high into the air, slender pikes rising from various bulbous protrusions. A thick central column provided the support for these elongated domes, a column that passed through the central platform and terminated in a vast profusion of pipes and structures far, far below in the slowly filling pit. High overhead was a dome, painted the most incredible blue and decorated with various symbols that, although much changed, I recognised as Astrological Signs.

Making my way carefully across the slender pylon to the central platform, I noticed several interesting things. The first was the metal-covered panel set into the side of the central column, second was the array of three stout levers that stood at one side of the central column, third was the massive mural that faced the levers. So this, then, was the Karstangz-Bcharn ~ and I had no idea how to use it, even though Ayem wished me to. Well, I have found that careful examination of a situation usually provides some clues… let’s hope this time is no different.

After several minutes, I had reached the conclusion that the levers didn’t do anything in the device’s present state ~ now all I had to do was figure out how to change that state. The panel and lever in the side of the central column were interesting so, lacking any other clue, I pulled down on the small metal lever. With a ‘clunk’ the panel opened, swinging down to reveal an empty Dwemer Cylinder held between metal claws. There seemed to be more play in the lever, so I pushed it down until it would go no further. Scattering rust, a strange arrangement of struts pushed the metal claw out of the slot, extending the Dwemer Cylinder into the room. Another lever opened the claws, allowing the cylinder to slide from their grasp.

I set down my pack and carefully unfastened the leather tube that Almalexia had given me when I embarked on this strange voyage. Unbuckling the top, I drew out the enclosed object: a Dwemeri Cylinder. However, unlike any other cylinder I’d seen, this one was filled with a faintly glowing mist that swirled inside like some liquid. Placing the charged cylinder between the claws, I closed them and retracted the device back into the central pillar. There was a moment’s silence and then, with a suddenness that alarmed me, a series of tiny lanterns came alight on the side of the column. Simultaneously, there was a massive humming sound as various light-sources ~ more of those strange Dwemeri lanterns ~ snapped on. As I watched, awe-struck, the bulbous spires set around the perimeter of the room rose up out of the pit and locked into position with a sound like thunder.

Spinning around, I looked at the changes to the room and gulped. No wonder Master Baladas and Master Aryon were so deeply interested in studying the Dwemeri ~ whatever arcane magic they used was far, far beyond anything I’ve seen. Licking my lips, I turned to the levers. I quickly discovered that the left-hand lever made the mural on the far wall change ~ some ingenious trick causing a series of murals to be displayed. The right-most lever controlled the speed at which these murals were shown while the central lever apparently acted as a brake, stopping the images on the selected mural. If my understanding of the Karstangz-Bcharn is correct, the displayed image of the Red Mountain should now be causing Ash-Storms in the citadel of Mournhold.

It was with a vague sense of dread that I made my way back through the Dwemer halls and clambered up the ladder, emerging into the Plaza Brindisi-Dorum. My unease was well founded: the sky had gone a sullen red and was filled with heavy clouds. A thin wind howled out of the north, carrying with it the thick, cloying ash that I knew so well from the Molag Amur. Already there was a gritty layer of the stuff underfoot and the broadleaves of the decorative plants were smothered with the stuff. Stooping into the wind, I covered my eyes and mouth as best I could, wading through the accursed stuff.

“You have done well Sudhendra Vahl,” Ayem said in a silvery chorus of voices. There was an odd glint in her eye as she continued, “Now the people of Mournhold will see our power and remember whom it is that rules here.”

It was in a deeply trouble state of mind that I returned to Velas Manor that evening, the few people I passed in the streets clearly distressed and weighed down by the suddenly inclement weather. Shivering, I closed the manor door on the swirling dust and sat beside the empty grate. I hope that Almalexia doesn’t allow this state of affairs to continue for too long.


I was summoned to the Temple this morning by one of Almalexia’s Hands. As I followed the armoured Mer through the streets I fought off a wave of black depression. Apart from the High Ordinator and me, there were no more than a handful of people on the streets ~ and each of them was scurrying from one vital errand to another. The continuous ash-storm has taken its toll, already the lush grass surrounding the Temple is buried under a carpet of grey grit and the flowers and trees that adorn the park are clearly dying.

My plan to plead with the Lady Ayem to allow me to return to Bamz-Amschend and return the Dwemer device to its original setting was totally derailed by the instructions that Almalexia gave me. “One of our Chosen, Salas Valor, has gone insane and now represents a danger to me… our Temple. We pity him, for it is not his fault that his mind has gone. Mayhap we allowed him to draw too close to us. For a mortal to draw close to a Goddess is to invite disaster, for no mere mortal mind can long withstand our Divine presence.

“We would have you remonstrate with him, to draw him back into the fold of our loving presence. He is not responsible for his actions and we very much fear that he has gone too far for your words to return him to us. However, we must make the effort but be WARNED; we fear that only violence can result from this.”

The other Hands were eager to assist, telling me that Salas Valor was usually given the task of maintaining order in Godsreach. It’s not much, but it at least gives me a place to start looking. It was the right decision; Salas Valor was easy enough to find: it’s rare to see an Ordinator haranguing passers-by. “Salas Valor?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“So you are the latest lickspittle are you?” he said in a sneering tone of voice. “I guessed it wouldn’t be long before the great and glorious Almalexia sent someone to silence me. And lo, here you are Almalexia’s unwitting dupe of an executioner.”

“I am not here to execute you,” I said with a great deal of urgency. “Almalexia has sent me here to reason with you…”

“She has sent you here to die,” he snapped, interrupting me. “Or to kill me. Either would suit her twisted plans. If I kill you, you become a martyr to the Temple and she can rally the people around the memory of the person you were not. If I die, you become the hero who slew one of the elite, one of Her Hands who threatened her and her precious Temple. And, once more, she has a figurehead to rally people around.

“She’s insane you know,” Salas said, taking off his hem to reveal a strong featured and very youthful face. “She wanted me to go down into those Dwemer halls and perform some abomination with profane tools those Godless scum left behind. When I refused, she ranted and raved, telling me that I would pay for defying her. And so you come, ready to extract that payment on her behalf.”

“I really am not here to fight with you Salas, simply to ask that you return to the Temple for your own good. But,” I added, “There is an uncomfortable grain of truth in what you say.” For I was now desperately concerned: Salas Valor had refused to go down into Bamz-Amschend and activate the Dwemeri device and Almalexia had sent me out to return him to the Temple, with the codicil that I might have to fight the Ordinator.

“Whether you are here to fight me or not,” Salas said, “That is what will happen. For I will not be made a pawn in her mad games. Defend yourself,” he demanded, drawing the heavy Ebony scimitar from its scabbard and squaring up to me.

“I don’t want to do this Salas,” I said, flexing my fingers and grasping the hilts of Fang and Claw.

“What we want is of no matter,” he said sadly. “Make your peace with the Goddess…” with that, Salas lashed out with the heavy sword. Stepping back, I drew the ancient Skaal blades, the hissing whisper of silvered-steel on leather plainly audible even above the wind. The left-hand blade blocked Salas’ next lunge while I aimed a slashing cut at the Mer’s waist. Despite the heavy armour Salas wore, he moved with an agile grace, easily twisting away from the slashing crosscut. Only the heavy pauldrons of the Skaal ring mail saved me from the wicked overhead blow that followed.

My plan had been to incapacitate Salas Valor, wounding him seriously enough to prevent him from fighting any further and then taking him to the Temple for medical assistance. I had, in my desire to spare the life of this deluded Mer, forgotten that I was dealing with the elite of Great House Indoril. As I staggered away from the curved blade, I reminded myself exactly who and what I was dealing with here. If I didn’t give everything I had, I was likely to end up very, very dead ~ and prophesy be damned.

There was a clanging sound as the heavy Skaal blade crashed into the ebon scimitar, deflecting it from its course: the right-hand blade whipped upwards, tearing flesh and opening a jagged wound along the length of the Ordinator’s cheek. Salas frowned, obviously reassessing me as an opponent. I wondered if he knew who I was or, more precisely, what. If he did, there was a good chance he might yield, if he didn’t, I would give him a very full education.

As the blades whickered and clashed between us as we sought an opening in each other’s defences, I could feel the old, familiar fury rising up within me. I had been perfectly reasonable, offering him the chance to surrender and to come quietly. But no, like Suryn Athones, this stiff-necked, obstinate, self-righteous… fool had to make his point, had to have his moment of glory. I was sick of it, sick of all these self-righteous know-it-alls and their holier than though attitude. I had thought that, in the Temple, I could find a little peace and a little time for contemplation. Instead I had found closed minds, inquisitorial minds: dull and grey.

Salas’ eyes widened as I turned on him with renewed fury, the whistling Skaal blades effortlessly deflecting his increasingly desperate attempts to land another blow on me and seeking a way through his defences. Not that I needed a way through: the towering structure of the spell-construct had already risen in my mind, vast sheets of crackling power pouring into the glistening creation. Trapping his blade between mine, I spoke the words that Jaron had taught me, “Chan Annwfns Fferedig Asgre.”

Salas Valor screamed as shards of glistening ice tore his flesh, the screaming cyclonic winds buffeting him and spinning him around as his armoured feet left the ground, leaving him suspended there in the midst of a maelstrom of glistening, lethal ice-shards. There was a scream from within the crackling mass, followed by the patter of blood on the stone path. Baring my teeth, I fed more power into the cyclonic whirlwind, ignoring the rising wail of anguish that issued forth from inside. With a savage twist of the mind, I collapsed the spell in on itself, revealing the bloodied and battered form of the Hand of Almalexia.

“Mercy,” he groaned as the spell compacted down to a tiny pinpoint of energy.

“I’m Telvanni,” I snapped in reply, meaning every syllable, “Mercy is for the weak.” There was an explosion of blood and bone as I allowed the dark mass of the spell to explode outward as it dissipated.


There was no doubt in my mind as I returned to the Temple, the swirling ash scouring the armour clean of blood. I was Telvanni now and forever. I had tried to fit back into the Imperial lifestyle and found it shallow and vaguely alien. I had tried to fit into the Temple but had found its bigotry and closed minds deeply offensive. The Skaal were as close to an ideal I had found but ruling a Meadhall in the middle of those frozen wastes was not the life for me. In Great House Telvanni I had found an acceptance that I’d never had before, an appreciation for what I could accomplish, the power I could wield, all without the complication and duplicity of the Empire.

Almalexia must have felt the change within me, for she eyed me in a manner that ~ were she not a Goddess ~ would certainly be described as nervously. And the doubts about her divinity, and that of Seht, and Vehk were already circling around my mind. After all, if she was as powerful as she claimed, the Lady Ayem could have demonstrated her power without recourse to an ancient Dwemeri device, could have cured Salas Valor in the wink of an eye, could have ~ should have ~ known about the Fabricants’ attack on the Citadel and stopped them instantly, should have known about the Crimson Plague and cured it instantly.

“Salas Valor is dead,” I said haughtily, “and whatever threat to the peace of Mournhold he may have represented is ended.”

“YOU HAVE DONE WELL, WE ARE MOST PLEASED WITH YOU SUDHENDRA VAHL,” Almalexia said, and was that a hint of uncertainty in the chorus of voices, the merest trace of discord? “WE ARE MINDED TO REWARD YOU.”

I gasped as dull fire filled me from head to toe, an unearthly ringing sound filling my head as, dimly, I heard the Goddess say, “WE GRANT YOU OUR DIVINE BLESSING SUDHENDRA VAHL, NOW AND FOREVER MORE WE STRENGTHEN YOUR ARM SO THAT YOU MAY SERVE US AS WARRIOR-CONSORT.”

“WE BELIEVE YOU TO BE THE REINCARNATION OF OUR HUSBAND,” Almalexia said in matter-of-fact response to my astonished request for an explanation. “IT WOULD BE UNSEEMLY IF YOU WERE NOT OUR CONSORT AGAIN. AND, BY THE DEFEAT OF SALAS VALOR, YOU HAVE PROVEN TO US THAT YOU HAVE LOST NONE OF YOUR OLD SKILLS AT WAR.

“TOGETHER, HUSBAND THAT WAS, WE SHALL RULE MOURNHOLD, A MOURNHOLD FREE OF IMPERIAL OPPRESSION. FORGE ANEW YOUR ANCIENT BLADE NEREVAR,” she hissed, “LET TRUEFLAME AND HOPEFIRE ONCE MORE BRING RUINATION TO THOSE WHO WOULD OPPOSE US. ONCE THOUGHT LOST AT RED MOUNTAIN WHEN LAST YOU WIELDED IT, WE NOW KNOW THAT THE PARTS OF THIS BLADE ARE HERE IN THE CITADEL. FATE HAS BROUGHT THEM HERE FOR YOU, MY WARRIOR, BELOVED. SEEK THEM OUT, RENEW THE BLADE AND TOGETHER, TOGETHER WE SHALL RULE.”

I was in a confused state of mind as I left the High Chapel: Almalexia had named me Reborn, the reincarnation of the ancient Dunmeri Warlord and her husband, Nerevar. While I could subscribe to the concept that the Empire had sent me here to masquerade as the Promised One for their own ends: that the Blades had set me up to play the part of the Nerevar; even that Nibani Maesa was mistaken as to my part in the Lost Prophesy; there was no reason for Ayem to play their games. No reason at all. Since the moment that Cosades had first broached the subject, I had harboured the belief that there had been some monumental error, that I had been mistaken for the real Incarnate ~ whether by malicious design on the part of the Empire, or by sheer desire for a saviour on the part of the Dissident priests and the Ashlanders. This belief had been shattered by Almalexia’s words.

Even the insanity that I thought I sometimes glimpsed behind Ayem’s divine facade couldn’t explain her words to me. I couldn’t see what she stood to gain from her declaration ~ thankfully a private one ~ that I was the Nerevarine. I needed time; time to process this whole idea. Meanwhile, Fedris Hler was talking to me at a great rate of knots ~ obviously having been instructed to assist me in any way he could by the Goddess.

“I have been instructed to give you this relic,” he said, his faced flushed, his manner excited. “It is an ancient piece that is said to have belonged to Nerevar himself. The Lady shows you great favour in allowing you to have such a wondrous artefact.

“The lady has also instructed me to tell you if I know of any other such pieces ~ which, I’m afraid I do not ~ and to tell you of Yagak gro-Gluk, an artisan at the Craftsman's Hall who is a master at forging blades.”

The ancient lacquered box contained a fragment of metal, obviously broken from the edge of a much longer blade. There was something about the glistening white metal fragment that rang a bell. Somewhere, and quite recently, I had seen something very similar.

“It certainly seems to be part of the same weapon,” Karrod said in his soft, whispery voice. “Please, let me see…” Reluctantly, I handed the fragment of blade over to the Redguard. He laid the fragment on a silken cushion and then drew the short-bladed weapon from its place on his hip. The blade on Karrod’s weapon had obviously been shaped and sharpened but there was no mistaking the fact that the jagged spikes on the back of his blade fitted perfectly into the jagged slots on the metallic fragment.

“My father gave me this blade,” he said, returning the fragment to me. “And his father to him, and his father before him for generations uncounted. It is said that the wielder of this blade cannot be beaten in combat save by the true owner of the blade.”

Dropping to his knee in front of me, the Redguard extended the short-bladed weapon and said, “It is obvious that you are the blade’s true mistress and that it belongs to you and no other. My family has had the honour of guarding this for you for millennia, now we have the honour of returning it.”

Thanking Karrod clumsily, I took the blade from him and, wrapping it in fabric from the silken cushion; I placed it reverentially into the wooden chest with the other part of the blade. “My pardon,” Karrod said as I turned to leave, “but I cannot help noticing that the blade is still incomplete. May I make the suggestion that you speak to Torasa Aram of the Citadel Museum? She has oft expressed an interest in the blade, claiming it to be a Dwemer weapon and claiming to have a shield of contemporary origin.”

“I do have an antique shield,” Torasa Aram said when I asked her about Dwemeri weapons and armour. “It is said to have been used at the Battle of Red Mountain although…” she gave a self-deprecating laugh “…obviously we haven’t been able to verify that. Here, let me show you.” Torasa disappeared into the bowels of the museum, returning after a couple of minutes with a heavy sack. Opening it, she drew out a Dwemeri shield. In the centre of the shield was a jagged silver metal lightning-shape.

“May I take this shield to be examined?” I asked.

“Absolutely not!” she exclaimed, “although… Since the shield has no provenance, it remains nothing more than an interesting item. Now, if we were to have something to replace it, a donation to the museum, I could let you have the piece.”

There was little problem complying with her request. I made a few queries of her and found a couple of items that I thought she’d like: the Dagger of Symmachus was something I was eager to be free of and Phynaster’s Ring was something I’d never used and so probably wouldn’t miss. Torasa was delighted with the donations and freely gave me the shield. My next stop was the Craftsman’s Hall.

“Yes,” the Orc gro-Gluk rumbled, “I can see how that piece and that piece go together. But,” he added, “the blade is still incomplete.”

“I’d like you to take a look at this,” I said, handing over the shield.

“Hmmm,” gro-Gluk mused. “Nicely made piece, but this bit in the middle here, that don’t belong there. Look, it’s loose. I bet with a good yank it’d… ‘Ere, you know what? That decorative piece don’t half look like the missing bit of that there sword of yours.”

“You know,” I said, “I thought that that might be the case.”

Ripping the fragment of blade free, gro-Gluk compared it with the other two fragments, nodding as he did so. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, baring his canines in the Orcish equivalent of a broad grin. “’S gonna be a challenge,” he said, “matchin’ up those metals. Forging the blade anew is probably a much better idea ~ if I can get the mix right. Give me a couple of days squishy, and I’ll fix it for you, fix it real good.”

Ignoring the Orcish insult, I returned to Velas manor through the dust-choked streets of the Citadel. I didn’t want to remain in Mournhold for the next couple of days ~ the atmosphere was positively funereal. So, you can imagine my delight at the strange letter that Fast Eddie had had delivered to the Manse.