As I felt the cool kiss of the marble floor against my forehead, my first thought was,
“That didn’t go very well.”
That was immediately followed by curiosity that I was still able to have any thoughts at all, considering that my head was separated from my body. As an experiment, I decided I would try to open my eyes. There was a certain savage glee in the thought of how much horror the sight would inflict on Helseth and his guards. Maybe I would even cross my eyes and stick out my tongue…. To my disappointment, Tienius Delitian looked somewhat concerned, but hardly horrified. Still more puzzling, he spoke to me, saying,
“Trey? Are you all right?”
I wondered if I had stumbled onto a secret cult of necromancers, people to whom speaking with the dead was an everyday occurrence. Finally, as I felt firm hands gripping my shoulders and raising me to a sitting position, I realized that I wasn’t dead after all. At least, not yet. The captain’s next words were reassuring,
“Probably got into some bad air beneath the Plaza. Give him some room and he’ll come around.”
Slowly, I pieced together what must have happened. The sight of Helseth had pushed my already strained nerves past the breaking point and I had fainted.
Of all the possible outcomes I had imagined for my first meeting with the king, collapsing in a heap had not been one of them. But at least that embarrassing lapse had saved me from the monumental stupidity of attacking him while he was surrounded by his guards. I had no doubt that my—vision? –dream? –hallucination? had been accurate. Whether it was a warning from my own wiser self or from some outside power I could not say. But I did know that a suicidal berserker charge against impossible odds was not the way I did things. If I was going to exact my vengeance, I would do so by using my strengths. As my head cleared, I was able to pay more attention to Tienius Delitian, who was saying,
“…sorry to hear that you reported to the Temple, but that isn’t important now. The king wishes to speak to you.”
So it was that I finally stood face-to-face with King Helseth, with no weapon in my hands and the fires of my fury banked- for the moment. When I did not bend my knee to him, the king arched an eyebrow, but made no comment. Growing tired of the silent staring contest, I prompted him:
“You wished to see me?”
I had reined in my anger, but that did not mean that I liked him, and I had no interest in pretending otherwise. He responded in the sort of cool, languid drawl that some of the upper class affected,
“Ah...so you're the one Tienius has been telling us about. You should have brought the information about these ‘fabricants’ to us directly. Still, you may be of use. We understand you had a slight inconvenience earlier. It appears we were given a bit of misinformation. The Queen Mother has spoken highly of you as well.”
Apparently, Tienius Delitian was not the only one in the court who enjoyed baiting people. It was hard to decide which I found more annoying- Helseth’s use of the plural pronoun to refer to himself or his dismissal of the attempt to have me killed as a “slight inconvenience.” I entertained myself by imagining that his royal “we” was actually a reflection of the fact that he was afflicted with a tapeworm, as well as considering all the “slight inconveniences” I would like to visit upon him. Ultimately, what allowed me to ignore his taunts was the realization that he was underestimating me. My fainting spell had combined with his natural arrogance so that he felt that I was no threat- or at least not a serious threat. Therefore, it was easy for me to give him a toothy, insincere smile in return for his haughty smirk, even as I murmured,
“…slight inconvenience?”
After all, why not give him sufficient rope with which to hang himself? He answered in a disinterested tone, as if remarking on the weather,
“We understand you were visited by some Dark Brotherhood assassins. A regrettable occurrence. They are a difficult lot, but they do have their usefulness. I'm certain that will no longer be a problem for you.”
My first impulse was to point out that all of the assassins who had come against me were dead and I was still standing- that, in fact, the attacks had been no more than an annoyance. But wisdom again prevailed as I reminded myself that I wanted Helseth to miscalculate. Let him believe that only luck had kept me alive so far; he would find out differently when I was ready. Hard experience had taught me that keeping my mouth shut rarely caused problems, whereas the opposite had landed me in hot water on innumerable occasions. Therefore, I simply maintained my bland smile and waited for Helseth to continue. He struck me as the sort of person who did not like silence; more, he seemed to enjoy the sound of his own voice. Sure enough, just as the lull in the conversation was about to become uncomfortable, he added,
“Yes, the Dark Brotherhood are usually a very effective group. Not always, though, I have recently learned. As to your particular situation, ...we have various sources throughout Vvardenfell that are paid well to provide us with information. Unfortunately, sometimes it proves to be incorrect. One of our informants had suggested that you could pose a threat to our monarchy. That cannot be allowed, as I'm sure you understand.”
When I heard that nonsensical justification, I very nearly betrayed my resolution to pretend ignorant disinterest. How could anyone seriously believe that a stable boy imprisoned for picking flowers could be a threat to a king? It appeared that everyone in Mournhold was insane, not just Almalexia. Struggling to keep a serious expression, I piously intoned,
“I find it hard to imagine why anyone would want to attack the rightful monarch.”
The irony, of course, went right past Helseth, and he pensively remarked,
“It is never easy for one to assume the throne, especially after the unfortunate set of circumstances that led to our beloved King Llethan's death. There are those who would seek to profit from such events, to take the opportunity to create unrest among the people. There are those, even, who would wish to see us dead.”
Widening my eyes as if such an idea had never occurred to me, I responded with a breathless,
“Really? How awful!”
Again, the king completely missed the sarcasm and responded seriously,
“Does this surprise you? Even now, there are those that would see our head on a pike. What better way to achieve one's goals than to have others remove those that would oppose you? Surely you have some understanding of this? In fact, we have recently been told of a plot against the throne. Some of my informants have learned of a possible assassination plot against our royal person. I would like more information on this. However, I do not want to compromise the safety of my guards or of my informant. I believe, however, you would be suitable for this matter.”
Finally, we were getting somewhere. Besides being a murderous little scut, Helseth had to be the most long-winded son-of-a-guar I had ever had to endure. Hoping to move him along, I asked,
“How may I serve?”
Reluctantly, the king at last made his request:
“I wish for you to meet an informant of mine at a local cornerclub, The Winged Guar. You'll find it in Godsreach. He's an orc, and shouldn't be hard to pick out. Find him, and ask him about his ‘uncle's farm.’ He'll know what it means. Then report back to me with your information.”
I nodded my understanding and agreement and left the Throne Room. All that secrecy and “protect my informant” babble made sense- if you were six years old and had the brains of a mudcrab. After all, someone plotting against the king would never think of posting lookouts to see who came and went from the Palace. And those lookouts would never think to follow a person who had just left the royal presence and see who said person met with. I knew that this was some kind of trick- what I could not decide was whether Helseth really believed I was stupid enough to fall for it.
Before I rushed off to meet an Orc I had never seen before, I decided to talk to someone who might provide some insight into Helseth’s methods. Barenziah’s recommendation had made Plitinius Mero far friendlier, and he greeted me with his usual distracted air- I was beginning wonder how he ever got any writing done when all he seemed to do was pace about the courtyard. When I explained my latest task, the Imperial writer looked simultaneously confused and concerned, with neither expression boosting my confidence to any great degree. Resuming his pacing, he spoke thoughtfully:
“Helseth has told you of a plot against his throne? Odd. He's well protected, you know. I would suggest meeting his informant and seeing what he has to say. If you have any further questions, please come and speak with me. If the Queen Mother has sent you to me, she must feel you are worthy. Good luck to you.”
That answer was interesting, although not terribly enlightening. It added to my doubts as to why the king would want someone he had tried to have murdered investigating a supposed plot against the throne. The only way to get any answers would be to meet with the mysterious informant and see what developed. I honestly didn’t expect trouble- it seemed more likely the code phrase would be used to mark me and the Orc would alert someone else to make a move in the street. Still, I doubted that Helseth was aware that I would be among friends in the Winged Guar. While they would never defy the king openly, I felt confident that they would not let anything happen to me inside the tavern, either. Just to make sure, when I entered the bar area, I stopped to speak with Ra’Tesh. Quietly placing a 50-drake piece on the counter, I asked,
“Seen any strangers lately?”
The Khajiit made the coin disappear and placed a glass of comberry juice in front of me. He was aware that I had decided to avoid alcohol after my last episode. As he gave me the drink, Ra’Tesh nodded toward an Orc who was seated at one of the tables.
“Came in a while ago. Hasn’t spoken to anyone except to order a meal and a drink. Quiet for an Orc- and he’s been working on the same drink for the last hour.”
I thanked my friend and carried my drink to the Orc’s table.
“Mind if I sit down?”
He grunted a barely polite acknowledgement and said, “Chair’s free- sit if you like. Makes no difference to me,” before turning his attention back to his food.
Waiting until no one else was in the vicinity, I said,
“So how are things on your uncle’s farm? Have you been there lately?”
His only reaction was a slight pause in his mechanical chewing, then he swallowed and replied coolly,
“I don't have an uncle...and I don't know you. Better not talk to you about that.”
That was the last answer I had expected. I took a quick glance around the tavern to make sure I didn’t have the wrong Orc. Since he was the only one in the room, it wasn’t that. I studied him closely- he had the air of relaxed watchfulness that I would expect from an agent of the king- he had to be the informant. If he was angling for a bribe, he was going to be disappointed; I figured the king had already paid him. I started to stand and said quietly,
“Sorry about that, friend. I’ll just trot on back to Helseth and tell him that you don’t know what I’m talking about, right? I’m sure he will be pleased no end to hear that. Enjoy your meal.”
Before I had gotten all the way out of my chair, he dropped his fork and whispered,
“Hey, settle down! I just had to make sure, all right? I get it. Code words. Whatever. My name’s Bakh. Here's what you should know. Our king is a paranoid. I know, I know...it's treason to even think that sort of stuff, but it's true. He always thinks someone is out to get him. The man's had me checking into a different conspiracy every week for the last month. I keep telling him, ‘You're king. You're gonna have enemies!’ Does he listen? Psssh. This time, though, there might be something to it. I've found some disturbing information.”
This character was almost as bad as Helseth when it came to dragging things out. He must have made a habit of secrecy for so long that he didn’t even know how to tell things straight any longer. When I said, “Disturbing? How?” he looked around and lowered his voice even further, then said,
“My sources tell me that there's a plot, but not against the king. From what I've been able to gather, there will be an attempt made on the Queen Mother's life. I'm not sure who would want to target her--from what I know, she has no enemies in Mournhold--but that's what my sources are telling me.”
I nearly sprayed him with berry juice in my surprise. A plot against the Queen Mother? That had to be the dumbest thing I had ever heard! Besides the fact that everybody loved her, Barenziah was a very dangerous person. Anyone foolish enough to attack her would get a very brief lesson in how she had managed to stay alive for so long. Of course, the attacker wouldn’t survive to benefit from that knowledge….
Regaining my composure, I thanked Bakh for his time and promised to take appropriate measures. Before bringing this crazy story to Helseth, I again decided to consult with Plitinius. He was the most likely to be aware if Barenziah had any enemies- and I believed he would tell me. The author’s reaction was as incredulous as mine. He looked shocked and sputtered,
“A plot against Barenziah? That's ridiculous! I can't think of anyone who would want to harm her.”
But then he frowned and placed a warning hand on my shoulder before continuing,
“Take care with this, Trey. King Helseth is a wary one, and delights in testing the loyalty of his new friends. I do not believe the King would hesitate to put his own mother in danger in order to do so.”
Whatever else was going on, I quickly realized that I was not cut out for this intrigue stuff. I was a straightforward fellow, even if my methods weren’t always strictly legal. If all this was for was to make me look like an idiot, what was the point? I couldn’t divine any reason that Helseth would send me on this fool’s errand, only to laugh me out of the throne room…. There had to be some deeper plot afoot here, one that I could not see. Of one thing I was certain- the Queen Mother was not the target. No, that privilege was all mine.
Plitinius had reinforced my grave doubts about the existence of a plot against the Queen Mother, but that did not really change anything. I was still going to have to report my “findings” to Helseth- even if I did believe it was a load of livestock byproduct. “Uncle’s farm” indeed. I entered the Throne Room and maintained a blank expression as I passed the information on to the king. He was equally expressionless, save for a strange glint I thought to see in his eyes. If I had not been paying close attention, I would have missed it. In serious tones, he replied,
“Yes...I expected you would find out as much. Other sources of mine indicate the same thing, and that the attempt will be made tomorrow night. Our mother must be protected at all costs, but I do not wish to tip my hand to these assassins. Here is how we will protect Barenziah.”
He paused and motioned me to a corner out of hearing of the guards. Lowering his voice still further, he continued,
“It would be unwise to station more guards outside her doors, as that would alert the killers to our knowledge. Better to catch them in the act. One of our royal guards could be involved in this attempt, so they will be kept occupied elsewhere. You will stay in the antechamber outside our mother's chambers tomorrow evening, and deal with these assassins when they arrive. Close the door behind you and hide behind the screens, so as not to alert them to your presence. Meantime, find out whatever else you can.”
With a short nod, I left him and walked carefully out into the Reception Area. It was only with great effort that I did not howl in frustration. Something was definitely afoot, something that was not designed with my best interests in mind, but I could not unravel the tangled plot. I did not trust Helseth as far as I could see him and knew in my bones that he was up to something. How interesting that he had “other sources” that not only knew of the assassination plot, but even the exact date. Still, if I could not compete with the king in the realm of palace intrigue, I might still thwart him by relying on my own strengths. He clearly had it in mind to incriminate or kill me in some clever fashion that would apparently leave him in the clear. Even if I could not see the trap in detail, I could discern its outlines and that would be enough. Sometimes, the worst thing that can happen to a man hunting a tiger is to find one…. And that was a lesson I hoped to teach the wretched king.
Thoughts of potentially deadly prey reminded me that there was at least one more person who might shed some light on this mystery- Barenziah herself. When I presented myself to the Queen Mother and explained my purpose, her reaction was as I had expected. With a laugh of disbelief, she said,
“Someone try to kill me? Ridiculous! Certainly I've made my share of enemies in my life, but those times are long forgotten. I suppose someone might think to use me to get to my son, but with the way this palace is guarded, if someone could reach me, they could just as easily reach Helseth. The whole idea seems ludicrous to me. But, if someone wishes to try...I've forgotten more about defending myself than most will ever learn....”
Even one as untutored in the arts of intrigue as I could deduce the real meaning behind her words- all of her enemies were forgotten because they were dead. Still, I had to press on as though I took all of this seriously, so I added that Helseth wished for me to stand guard during the critical interval. That pompous announcement earned the laugh it deserved, more scornful than the first. Regaining her composure, Barenziah replied,
“My son has sent you to protect me? Ha! Please, friend...I mean no disrespect. I'm not laughing at you, or at the seemingly noble sentiments my son exhibits. It just seems odd to me that any would want to have me killed. And my son knows as well as any that I can protect myself. Still, do as he has commanded you. He is the king, and it is best to concede to his wishes. Take care, my friend.”
I knew a dismissal when I heard one, so I took my leave and exited with as good a show of manners as my wounded pride would allow.
And now I found myself at loose ends, with no clear idea of what to do to fill the time. Normally, I would have retreated into potion-making, but I lacked the necessary ingredients and had no desire to seek more- my mind was too disordered in any event. Although patience was a virtue cultivated by the wise thief, mine had abandoned me. While I could have easily hidden in the shadows of a dark alley or waited amongst the chimneys of a mossy roof with no complaint, this interminable period before the trap would spring was unbearable. The only thing for it was to walk around the city with no particular destination in mind, wandering in a melancholy mood that threatened to become black depression. Physical activity is usually a wonderful thing for a troubled mind- a brisk walk can give one the feeling of doing something when there is nothing to be done. And all would have been well if I had not been in Mournhold, set square between two powerful and ruthless adversaries, both of whom had taken an interest in one particular distracted wanderer. In my absent-minded way, my traitorous feet took me to the last place I wished to be- the steps before the Temple of Almalexia.
So deep was my distraction that I did not even realize where I was until a hard hand grasped my arm and a gruff Dunmer voice spoke:
“Breton. The steward wishes to see you. Now.”
The first Ordinator was joined by a second, who took my other arm. The pair propelled me up the steps and through the doors without bothering to let my feet touch the ground. Fedris Hler stood just inside and he gave me a brief glance before dismissing the Ordinators.
“So Trey,” he rasped in his dusty voice, “Nice of you to stop by. The blessed lady will speak with you immediately.”
Much as I disliked being manhandled and ordered about, I knew that I was in no position to protest or cause a disturbance. The most I could do was incline my head slightly to the steward and walk resolutely to the doors of the Inner Chapel, almost as if I had intended to do so all along. The thought of visiting Almalexia made me feel quite queasy, but I hoped that she might satisfy my curiosity regarding the fabricants. Perhaps she would reveal some knowledge of those strange creatures and confirm my suspicions about her involvement in their appearance.
As it turned out, the goddess said nothing about the attack on the Plaza, not even to the extent of asking any questions. Instead, she immediately pressed me for any knowledge I had gained regarding the End of Times cult and their beliefs. There was a shrill, hectic avidity in her questioning that worried me. It was almost as if she was obsessed with the misguided cult. However, those observations only came to me upon later reflection. At the time, I was so surprised by the inquiry that I answered rather more fully than I might have wished. I repeated the words of Eno Romari, describing the beliefs of the former priest and his followers. Almalexia’s already glowing eyes took on an even more fiery appearance and she muttered,
“They would dare...? So, the Tribunal has lost its power, has it? These fools would dare question Almalexia's power, here in her city! I will give them a lesson in power, Trey, and you will be my agent.”
This was going from bad to worse. Although I held no great affection for Eno Romari, I had even less for Almalexia. And the idea of being her “agent”…. As I frantically searched for a way out of this trap, the unhinged goddess continued,
“These fools must be reminded of the true power of a god. Since the attack on the city, much of my own power has been spent caring for my people. The number of wounded has been astronomical, and caring for them all has been taxing to even me. Still, I must demonstrate to these people what it is to mock the will of a god. You will travel to the ruins of Bamz-Amschend and activate the Karstangz-Bcharn.”
Here at last was a definite lie. I had been in the Plaza during the attack and knew that it had been beaten back before the fabricants reached the populated areas. Whatever expenditure of power had made the dark circles under Almalexia’s eyes, it had not been healing the wounded. Her last words were odd, bearing the harsh sound of the Dwemer language. Half to myself, I repeated them, misliking their taste on my lips, “Karstangz-Bcharn.” The goddess took my mumbling as a question and explained:
“Loosely translated: the Weather Witch. At its height, the Dwemer civilization was masterful in the use of machinery. In a time of drought, Dwemer scholars were commissioned to create a machine that would bring rain to their lands. They created the Karstangz-Bcharn. Its existence was little more than a myth until recently, when the ruins opened beneath my city. I wish for you to activate the machine, make it to create ashstorms in Mournhold. Then, these heretics will know the power of Almalexia!”
That pronouncement was followed by the hysterical laughter of a mad-woman, which stopped only when I incredulously exclaimed,
“Ashstorms- in Mournhold?”
Calming herself, Almalexia responded in a quiet, deadly serious voice:
“That's correct. While these storms may be common on the island of Vvardenfell, they do not occur here, so far removed from the Red Mountain. Now, though, they will, and these heretics will understand the power of the Tribunal. The power of Almalexia! Take this, and use it to activate the machine. You will have to divine its workings on your own, Trey, but I believe you are up to the task.”
With that, she produced a peculiar artifact of the Dwemer craft, seemingly out of thin air, and thrust it into my hands. Her eyes turned inward and I found myself out in the Reception Area, still clutching the Dwemer device. Long walks may be good for your health, but only if you pay attention to where your feet are taking you.
After leaving the Temple, I did what I should have done in the first place- went to my hideout in the Palace basement and stayed out of sight. My thought was that maybe if I didn’t talk to anyone, I would not get into any more trouble. As the long hours passed, I argued the merits of complying with Almalexia or ignoring her. I also contemplated the interesting irony that the “goddess” planned to demonstrate that she was not losing her power by means of an ancient Dwemer device- and that she justified that decision by falsely claiming that she was momentarily exhausted from her efforts at healing. I had the feeling that I was upon the threshold of some significant understanding, but I could not quite grasp it. All too soon, the time came for me to traverse the Palace halls to Barenziah’s antechamber. As I had been instructed, I closed the doors to the corridor and to the inner apartment. Then I studied the layout, keeping in mind that this was a trap set for me, rather than for assassins on some mythical quest to harm the Queen Mother. A pair of screens formed a small alcove in one corner, and someone had thoughtfully provided a couple of chairs. There was also a large candle, perfectly placed to silhouette anyone standing behind the screens. It was clear that a great deal of planning had gone into designing this ambush- the chairs, the candle, the screens. I imagined a chivalrous but naïve would-be hero, anxious to protect the Queen Mother. Such a fellow would arrive early, because he would be eager to start his vigil. But such duty is wearisome, particularly for a young man primed for the clash of blades. So our imaginary hero sits down in one of the comfortable chairs- only for a moment! The quiet and the flicker of the candle flame lull him- and perhaps there is something more? Some reason it is important for the doors to be closed? I snuffed the candle and cut it in half lengthwise. Sure enough, the wick and the wax contained a sleep-inducing powder. Someone had wanted to make very certain, indeed.
With the candle out, I had perhaps balanced the odds a bit, but there remained the question of who would come calling in the still watches of the night- and how many. I had a feeling that I knew the answers- at least to some extent. This little drama had been set in motion by Helseth, so that meant the Dark Brotherhood. The last few times I had been “visited” by those killers, they had come in pairs. And none of those assassins had ever returned. That meant I should expect at least three and possibly more. Without access to levitation, such a group of opponents would surely prevail against me- I had only to recall the outcome of my imagined attack on Helseth to know the result of taking on so many foes in a small space. And, despite the pretext that the Queen Mother was the target, I could not expect any help from the Royal Guards. To survive I would have to prevent my attackers from surrounding me; ideally, I would have to prevent them from getting within reach of me. After a quick rummage through my paraphernalia, I was ready- except for one more magical preparation that I thought it prudent to make. After hiding the remains of the powder-laced candle, I slipped behind the screens to wait. There was no other concealment in the room, so I would have to at least follow the script on that point.
The minutes crawled by agonizingly, but I was immune to impatience or worry or fear. I had done all that I could- everything else I simply expelled with my breathing. It was almost a disappointment when I saw shadows appear under the outer door and heard the rattle of the latch. Head bowed, I still waited; there was no need to rush; I had all the time in the world. At last, the door swung open and I heard hoarse whispers- a Dunmer muttering, “…supposed to be here somewhere,” answered by another’s plaintive, “He told us in the Queen Mother’s chambers.” A final voice, its tone clearly indicating an attempt to maintain control, suggested, “Look behind the screens.” That was my cue to act.
Smoothly, I stepped from behind the screen to see three black-clad figures in the center of the room. In my hands I held a special scroll, one I had purchased from Ten-Tongues. Normally, I don’t like to use scrolls in combat- it is hard to concentrate on reading when people are intent on sticking you with the pointy bits of their swords. But this scroll contained a spell called Illnea’s Breath. As I finished the words, a cloud of icy vapor enveloped the assassins and they were literally frozen in place. The scroll disappeared in a puff of magical smoke, revealing another that I had held beneath the first. Unfortunately, I did not have another Illnea’s Breath, but I did have a number of Elemental Burst: Frost scrolls. Fresh layers of ice formed on the three figures as I read the scrolls as fast as I safely could. Soon, the paralysis from Illnea’s Breath wore off and the Dark Brothers began to move. Letting them reach me was no part of my plan, so I clutched my Divine Intervention amulet and spoke the command word. When I appeared in the Palace courtyard, I paused only long enough to loosen my sword in its sheath and ready a final scroll. With a deep breath, I drank a Recall potion to take me back to the location I had Marked in the antechamber- the corner opposite the one from whence I had just disappeared. My hope was that I would appear behind my attackers, and it worked- mostly. They were still tightly bunched, fighting the effects of the frost spells, but they were closer to me than I would have liked. Worse yet, one of them was facing me when I reappeared. With a convulsive effort, I shouted the words from my final frost scroll and was gratified to see two of them crash to the floor with ice coating their bodies. The final assassin fell too, but turned his drop into a somersault which brought him to his feet directly before me. Quick as a viper, he struck with a short blade that glinted dully but cut through my armor as though it was paper. I drew my own sword and riposted with all the strength that panic could lend my arm- I knew that I could not take many more wounds from his blade. Fortunately, my adrenaline-fueled lunge was enough- the last assassin gasped and slid off my sword to join his comrades on the floor.
Throughout the struggle, no sound had come from the Queen Mother’s apartment, nor from the outer corridor. It was clear that anyone who might have heard the sounds of battle had decided to await the outcome before investigating. That hesitation give me time to search the bodies quickly and to confirm my suspicions. Their armor had identified them as belonging to the Dark Brotherhood; tattoos on their arms showed that they were senior members. Perhaps the most interesting point was what I did not find- none of them carried poisoned blades, usually a trademark of the death cult. Instead, their short-swords were forged of adamantium, an incredibly rare, incredibly dense substance used to make the finest arms and armor. It appeared that someone was concerned lest my death be attributed to poisoning- and I could immediately name one person who might have reason to be sensitive about that subject. Helseth had once again tried to have me murdered, this time using his own mother as bait. The fact that this latest attempt had so nearly succeeded tempered my raging fury; I must not allow myself to take foolish risks. The spells I had used to defeat the assassins gave me inspiration- I must be cold, cold and patient, like a glacier that grinds away mountains. Wrapping my robe around my rent and bloody armor, I ghosted away, down to the basement. Once I reached my hiding place, I took a healing potion, then cleaned and repaired my armor. I wanted to look my best when I called upon the king.
Although my heart leaped with savage joy to see the surprise on Helseth’s face when I entered the Throne Room, I schooled my own features to stillness. Before, I had been content to let the devious monarch underestimate me. Now, I wanted him to wonder- about how I could have defeated three senior assassins and yet appear not to have a hair out of place; about whether I knew the true target of the attempt. For that same reason, I had taken no trophies, just let the bodies lie where they fell, as if they were of no consequence. For the first time, I made a minimal bow to Helseth and quietly said,
“I am pleased to report that the assassination plot failed. Unfortunately, all the attackers are dead, so it will not be possible to question them and discover their employer.”
The king recovered from his surprise and studied me closely before responding,
“You were able to hold off the assassins. Interesting. Perhaps the threat was not as great as it seemed. We commend you. Take this as a show of our appreciation.”
With that, he handed me an amulet that glowed with magicka. As I studied the trinket, he continued,
“We are impressed with your efforts so far. When you are ready, speak to me about further service to your king.”
What I was ready to do was leave- quickly. Despite my resolve to remain calm, I could only take so much of Helseth’s presence. In fact, it was only with great effort that I did not throw his amulet back at him while expressing my thought- that I would rather put my neck in a noose than wear his bauble.
While it is true that anger and adrenaline saved my life a number of times, it is equally true that my uncertain temper put me into life-threatening situations even more frequently. However, the episode that followed my departure from the Throne Room is one that haunts me to this day, not because of the risks to my own life but rather due to the consequences to others. Perhaps the strain of dealing on a regular basis with the king who had plotted to have me killed unhinged me somewhat, or possibly some of Almalexia’s madness had infected me…. Or perhaps madness is merely an excuse, a vain attempt to avoid responsibility. But I am running ahead of my story, so let me place things in their proper order and leave any judgment to you.
When the goddess had first proposed that I create an ash storm in Mournhold, I had planned to ignore that request. It was becoming increasingly clear that Almalexia was losing her power, as well as her sanity. And I had grown tired of assisting in her ever more delusional schemes to “prove” her power. In fact, had she not dismissed me so abruptly, I might have thrown her blasted Dwemer tea-kettle at her head and told her to make her own storm if she wanted one so badly. Was she not a goddess, after all? But Helseth’s latest treachery had brought my burning anger back to him and I vowed to make him suffer as I had suffered. The people of Mournhold, particularly the more traditional Dunmer, were uncertain of their new king. He seemed to be spurning many ancient customs as he sought to make the monarchy functional rather than merely ceremonial. The sudden onset of an ash storm might be interpreted as a sign that the ancestors and the gods were not happy with the new king and his changes. And I believed that anything that weakened Helseth was a good thing. So it was that I went directly from the Palace to the broken statue in the Plaza Brindisi Dorom and down the ladder into ruined Bamz-Amschend.
As I reached the opening that looked out over the great hall in the Dwemer ruin, the skittering sound of metal on metal alerted me to the fact that not all of the mechanical guardians had fallen in the battle with the fabricants. It was the work of seconds to conjure a magical bow, and I foolishly anticipated that I would have no problems dealing with the remaining metal monsters left behind by the ancient elves. That was true as far as the small spider-like device and its larger, warrior-like companion were concerned. Overconfident, I clambered down the fallen column and reached the floor, where I sighted a metal sphere which I recognized as another type of guardian. What I failed to realize was that these Dwemer had developed a variation on the spherical fighting machines that I had encountered previously. Instead of a sword, this construct made use of a hollow arm loaded with powerful darts. Before I had time to react, one of the deadly missiles had pierced me and actually pinned me to the wall, like a moth on a card. All that saved me was that the machine was rather slow- either due to its extreme age or from damage suffered in the earlier battle. Even today, I do not know where I found the strength, but I had only one choice; I could not pull the dart out of the wall, all that was left was to pull myself off of it. A spasmodic lurch freed me, and I dropped to the floor behind some broken stone. Darts clattered around me as the mindless watcher tried to finish the job, and I scrabbled for a healing draught. Eventually, my lack of movement must have convinced the machine that I was no longer a threat, for I heard it rumble off to another part of the room. When I felt sufficiently recovered, I risked a glance over the top of my sanctuary. My tormentor was a few dozen feet away, back in its dormant state, appearing to be nothing but a large ball of Dwemer metal. Bitter experience had taught me better, so I held three arrows between the fingers of my right hand as I once more summoned a magical bow. The first arrow punched through the hard metal and awakened the mechanism to its peril- it rose upright only to fly to pieces as the second and third bolts destroyed it. In a way, I was sorry that all that remained of the Dwemer machines were piles of metal; I would have liked to study the new types more closely. Unfortunately, it is extremely difficult to study something that seems single-mindedly intent on killing you. I was able to recover some of the final machine’s deadly darts, which I added to my own dwindling arsenal. With the immediate danger neutralized, I set off to explore more of the ruin.
My careful circuit of the great hall of Bamz-Amschend revealed doors exiting from the north and south ends, plus additional destroyed Dwemer battle machines and dead fabricants. As fascinating as the ruins might have been at another time, I could not focus on anything but the task at hand. Looking back, I think that may have been as much because I did not want to think too deeply about my actions as because I wanted revenge against the king. In any event, I decided to try the north door first for no particular reason; however, I was wise enough to stay in the shadows and move carefully. The memory of being spiked to the wall was quite fresh in my mind and I wanted every advantage I could get if I encountered any more Dwemer machines. My caution was almost immediately rewarded- I was able to ambush one of the archer spheres and destroy it before it fired a single dart. When I examined the weaponry that the ruined mechanism had carried, I was even more pleased that I had been careful. The darts were incredibly sharp and bore wicked barbs and vanes to increase their damage. Only a few would likely be sufficient to kill me, armored though I was. As I wrapped the missiles in some heavy sacking, it occurred to me that perhaps the Black Dart gang had found some of these weapons and patterned their darts after them.
It was strange to slip ghost-like down the empty corridors and think that the builders were gone and had been for so many centuries. Occasional piles of a peculiar sort of ash on chairs or accompanying a scatter of equipment gave me a queasy feeling that the Dwemer were perhaps not completely gone. The architecture was magnificent, but also depressing. There was no life in it, no celebration of plants or animals of any sort. Instead, it seemed that these elves had worshipped the crafting of metal and of machines that imitated life. The place was a maze of doors and ramps which perhaps had made sense to the mechanically-inclined, but quickly disoriented me. One path seemed as good- or bad- as another; all the corridors took me deeper underground. At last, I came upon a doorway that was flanked by Dwemer breastplates and halberds, as if a pair of guards had once been posted there. The door itself was not marked in any way, but my thief’s instincts told me that anything worth guarding was probably worth stealing- or at least investigating.
What I found was more in the nature of a workshop, which should not have surprised me. After all, what was more likely to be a closely-guarded “shrine” amongst such a mechanistic people? There were a few gems and other trinkets that found their way into my pockets, but I took them almost reflexively, with no real pleasure. Most of the doors opened at a touch- a tribute to the skill of the builders. I did come upon one door that defied my abilities; I disarmed the magical trap, but the lock was of a type I had never seen before. Although it galled me to leave that area unexplored, I had no choice but to try the other doors. Mostly, I found dust and emptiness, with an occasional metallic guard to remind me that caution was a virtue. One room did contain an interesting artifact- a guardian machine that had apparently been under construction when the mysterious disaster befell the Dwemer. In form, the machine was similar to the human-shaped “steam centurions” I had previously encountered. However, this example of the Dwemer art was easily five times as large as any other I had seen. And sitting on a workbench was a real treasure- two ancient Dwemer texts. I could not read them, but the illustrations indicated that they were concerned with the creation of mechanical guardians. There was also a complex key, which I believed might allow me to satisfy my curiosity regarding the one locked door.
I was anxious to get past that door because it was, in fact, the final one. I had searched every other corner of this section and found nothing that resembled a “weather machine.” I had obtained several more Dwemer texts, which I carefully saved. As it turned out, the heavily secured door opened onto some sort of storeroom- there was no evidence of any type of device. Still, the many casks and chests provided several minutes diversion as I examined their contents. My systematic search revealed Dwemer artifacts which were of little interest- I did not wish to give Helseth such a ready-made excuse for legally executing me. Of course that did not apply to the books- I would gladly risk my life to possess those. The last chest I opened contained a pair of peculiar bundles tied with heavy twine and smelling of brimstone. I had no idea what they were, but they made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I carefully closed the chest and left the strange packages where they lay. I spent another hour ensuring that I had not passed by any concealed doors or passages, but the search was fruitless. Regardless of what Almalexia might say, there was no “weather witch” anywhere in this complex. Frustrated and weary, I sat upon a chunk of fallen stone at the end of a corridor and gave myself up to depression.
Now that I was not moving around, the sounds of Bamz-Amschend came to me clearly- the drip of water, the whir of Dwemer engines still performing some unfathomable task, the whistling of the cold air that was annoyingly blowing on the back of my neck… from the pile of debris behind me! As the import of that finally sank in, I scrambled to my feet and examined the rock-fall that blocked the corridor. I had first thought that it was merely a dead end, but I could now see that the passage continued on the other side of the pile. There was a small gap, but even after I shed all of my equipment, I could not wriggle through it, nor could I shift the stones sufficiently. As I dusted myself off, I glanced at the impedimentia I had dropped and noticed the Dwemer books. A half-remembered image came to me and I retrieved the volume with a cover that had somehow remained bright red. Again, I could not decipher the words, but the pictures were clear. The illustrations depicted piles of rubble and some packages that looked remarkably like the brimstone-exuding devices I had discovered earlier. If I understood the pictures at all, they seemed to indicate that the packages contained a sort of fire that could be used to remove obstructions. At last, my obsession with books had paid off. Now all I had to do was bring one of the packages to this blockage and find some way to release the fire it contained. I should have thought through all the implications, but my excitement over the chance to try out one of the mysterious devices left no room for caution.
From what I could decipher in the Dwemer book, the idea was to place the fire-pack in a crevice in the obstruction and activate it by pulling a handle attached to a thick cord. This apparently would release the fire contained within the pack. There were also indications that a child had gotten hold of the book at some point- at least that was how I interpreted the lurid drawings that defaced some of the pages. They were done in red ink and showed dismembered bodies and other graphic illustrations of violence. The pages that bore the drawings also contained Dwemer words printed in large red letters- possibly the name of the vandal who had scribbled in the book. Operating the fire-pack seemed simple enough, so I followed the indicated procedure and stood back to watch with great interest. I was deeply curious as to how the device would work, and also had a fleeting moment to wonder how one stopped such a fire from burning away everything. And then there was no more time for thinking. A flash of orange and red seared my eyes and a great rumbling roar filled the broad corridor. Rocks of all sizes flew at me too fast to evade. At the same time, I was sent flying as well. It was as if a massive hand had grasped me and pulled me backwards. That sensation was followed by a sudden stop as I was slammed into a wall and then things began to hit me with great force. Mercifully, one of the objects struck my head and knocked me out.
When I at last woke up, it was difficult to decide what hurt worse- my head, my ribs, my limbs, or my back. Then there were the rocks that lay on top of and underneath me. The dust in my mouth was just an added bonus. For several minutes I contemplated the benefits of simply allowing this to be my grave- I certainly felt like death was an attractive alternative to all the aches and pains I was suffering. But waiting for death to claim me would mean enduring all that pain for some indeterminate time. So it seemed that staying alive was the best choice, particularly if I had the opportunity to kill whoever or whatever was responsible for the infernal buzzing noise that seemed to originate somewhere between my ears. The only good thing about how many parts of me hurt was that it demonstrated that all of those parts were still present and clamoring for attention. After some consideration, I moved each arm and then each leg. That caused a cascade of stones from atop me, and I squinted at the dim light of the corridor. If I could have found a way to move the rest of myself while leaving my head where it was, I would gladly have done so. That was especially true as I seemed to not be using my head for anything more significant than to prevent my ears from slamming into each other. If any of my deeds was ever worthy of a medal for bravery, it was sitting up. As I did so, the last of the debris fell away from my abused body, and I turned the air blue with my cursing. I cursed the Dwemer, their devices, and their ancestors; I cursed Almalexia and her ancestors. And finally, I cursed my own unquenchable curiosity, which caused me to fool with things that I did not understand. That improved my mental state considerably, and a couple of healing potions did the same for my bruises and the ringing in my ears.
Having decided to live for a bit longer, I examined the opening from which all of those rocks had been removed. Although still somewhat cramped, it was clearly large enough now to accommodate me. Therefore, I gathered my scattered wits and equally scattered gear and pushed through to the other side. I have little to say regarding the remaining section of the Dwemer ruin- it was much the same as I had already seen- a maze of desolate passages patrolled by deadly mechanical sentries. The corridors tended downward and finally reached an area that was knee-deep in water. A final door gave onto a vast, domed chamber, which was dominated by the largest Dwemer machine I had ever encountered. The machine was located in the center of the room and consisted of five tall spires which reached to the ceiling and perhaps beyond. A number of walkways radiated out to a perimeter gallery. Below the gallery and walkways was a pool of water, which was probably used by the machine. A close examination revealed a socket which seemed designed to accommodate the device Almalexia had given me. On the wall opposite that side of the device was a great metal shutter that moved on rails. Finally, a set of three levers stood at the end of a platform facing the shutter.
With some trepidation, recalling what had happened the last time I activated a Dwemer device, I plugged the artifact into the socket. Although arcane lights seemed to flicker within the object, there was no other sign. Pleased that nothing seemed to be intent on killing me, I turned to the levers. Pulling the left-hand one caused the metal panel on the wall to slide to the right. As it did so, it was revealed as a great, curved piece of metal, inscribed with pictures of various weather conditions, assuming one considered astronomical and geological as well as meteorological phenomena to fall under the heading of “weather.” There were representations of nightfall, lightning storms, and others that I could not interpret. The icon of an erupting volcano seemed to be what I needed, and a fair amount of fiddling with the levers finally brought it to a stop in the opening on the wall. All that remained was to return to the city and see what I had wrought.
Above ground, the sky and sun were obscured by blowing ash- it was as bad as any storm I had ever seen on Vvardenfell. The people covered their faces with their arms or with makeshift cloth filters to combat the choking particles. In short, it was just the sort of thing to please a maniacal deity determined to prove that her powers were not slipping. Anxious to complete this distasteful task, I hurried to the Temple, where I was immediately ushered in to see Almalexia. The goddess’ face maintained its usual cool composure, but her eyes seemed to glow with an unhealthy light even as she praised my actions.
“Well, done Trey! This is the effect I was looking for! Ash storms in Mournhold. My magic will prevent anyone from tampering with the machine.”
The brief congratulations were quickly followed by a not-so-veiled threat:
“You will, of course, keep silent about this. My powers are a bit drained, mortal… but they are not gone. My Ordinators will take care of the End of Times cult and their leader. You may leave me now.”
So the goddess had her ash storm, although it did not appear that she was completely pleased. It seemed to have made her madness worse rather than calmed it. Perhaps it was the knowledge that the long-vanished Dwemer still had abilities that she could neither duplicate nor understand that burned in her heart. Or possibly she was simply so far gone into insanity that there was no coming back, only a final, inevitable breakdown. In any event, I decided that she could have her fun for a day or two and then I would see about powering down the weather machine. As I headed toward the Winged Guar, I listened avidly to the conversations around me, hoping to hear resentment building against Helseth. What I heard instead chilled me to the bone. Seven people had been found dead in their homes, apparent suicides. They appeared to have taken poison- and each of them was dressed in the white robes of the End of Times cult. With a feeling of dread, I realized that they must have decided that they had received a sign of impending doom- an ash storm- an ash storm that I had brought about.
I believed that the ash storm had precipitated the suicides, but I had to be certain. Therefore, I hastened to Godsreach, where I found Eno Romari in a transport of ecstasy, crowing that the end of times had come, just as he had prophesied. Gaining his attention, I asked him what he meant and he pointed upward at the falling ash and proclaimed,
“The power of the Tribunal weakens and that of Red Mountain grows. See how Dagoth Ur stretches forth his hand even unto Mournhold! Some of the faithful have already completed the Cleansing, going ahead to strengthen us in the coming battle.”
In a shaking voice, I told the prophet that the ash storm was none of Dagoth Ur’s doing, but my own, at the prompting of Almalexia. I hoped those words might prove to him that what he took as a sign was simply the machinations of the goddess, but he interpreted it differently. He laughed maniacally and intoned,
“The goddess created these storms to teach my group true power? So much the better. They will come to me in droves! This madness is surely another sign of the troubles to come!”
It appeared that no matter what happened, Romari would find a way to twist it to fit his wretched prophecy. If the sun came out, he would probably claim that it was the opening of a gate to Oblivion. Unfortunately, the root of his beliefs was not false- Almalexia had descended into madness, a madness that blinded her to the consequences of her actions. She was consumed with the need to prove that she was still powerful, and would go to any lengths in service of that need. But what excuse did I have? I had been her willing tool in this deceit, and now seven people were dead. I must make amends if I could. There was no way to bring back the seven who were lost, but perhaps I could prevent more from following them. The onset of the ash storms had prompted the suicides- perhaps if they ceased, the cultists would also pause. Without stopping to rest, I returned to Bamz-Amschend and the controls of the weather machine. But my efforts were futile- Almalexia had been true to her word and magically locked the levers in place. The ash storms would continue until I could convince her to let them end.
I wanted to scream, to drink myself into a stupor, to rage against the madness that permeated the city of Mournhold. For one of the few times in my life, I even considered committing murder. It would be easy- so easy to slip a blade between Eno Romari’s ribs and disappear into the swirling ash storm that I had created. But none of those things would stop the storm. And I could not be certain that Romari’s death would slow his followers’ march to destruction. In fact, it might have the opposite effect. What troubled me the most was that there was no time. If I was going to prevent more deaths, I would have to act quickly. The seven who were already dead were beyond my reach- but there must be others who might still be saved. I had to find some way to break through Almalexia’s insanity, to reason with her, to get her to cease her “demonstration of power.” Although hope was gone, strength was gone, I had to return to the Temple, to try to convince the goddess. But that visit was as useless as my attempt to stop the Dwemer machine. When I suggested that the storms had been effective and could now end, the goddess frowned at me and said,
“The Karstangz-Bcharn is creating the weather just as I had hoped. And it will remain this way until I am convinced that these people have learned a lesson.”
No amount of pleading on my part would change her mind, so I desperately sought some other means. Perhaps I could draw her attention outward from herself, back to her worshipers and their needs. She might be willing to exchange a favor for a favor, so I asked,
“Is there any other service I might perform for you?”
A long, uncomfortable silence ensued, as the goddess stared at me unblinking. At last, she gave a pensive sigh, an oddly human reaction from that seemingly emotionless entity. When she spoke, her voice was quieter than usual, as if she wanted only me to hear her words.
“I am well-pleased, good and faithful servant. My people look upon the elements, and see there written a divine testament to my leadership. Did ever any other god display such dominion over the earth and sky?”
I restrained myself from pointing out the obvious- that Almalexia herself had done nothing to bring about the storm, and that her people were fearful rather than worshipful. But even as those thoughts passed through my mind, she continued,
“Now, with a heavy heart, I must lay a sad burden upon you. I bid you bring the peace of understanding to Salas Valor. You see, one of my most faithful guards, one of my very own Hands of Almalexia, pledged to honor and protect and serve me in all ways, has lost his mind. Salas Valor has abandoned me, and now spews vile and slanderous untruths about me to any who would listen. I pity him, and know he is not responsible for his actions. To view the splendor of a god may drive even the strongest mortal mad. But now he presents a threat to us, and he is very dangerous. I fear you may not be able to spare his life.”
Unsure what reaction she expected, I said nothing, but merely nodded once as a sign that she should go on. That seemed to satisfy her and she explained more about the missing Hand.
“Salas Valor was once my most trusted Hand and faithful servant. But recently his behavior has been erratic. He has been quiet and unresponsive. I am afraid... I may have allowed him to come too close. It is impossible that a mortal and a god might meet on equal ground, but... perhaps he had deluded himself. I regret his lamentable state, and am sorry that I may have been partly responsible for his condition. Now Salas Valor haunts the streets and sewers of Mournhold. His wild, distracted manner frightens the people, but even my Ordinators are afraid to confront so terrible a weaponmaster and war-wizard. I beg you -- seek out Salas Valor. Relieve us of this threat to my beloved people, and bring peace to my sacred city of Mournhold.”
I left the Temple, my head filled with questions that I could not and, perhaps, did not want to- answer. First, how did Almalexia want me to “relieve the threat” posed by Salas Valor? And hard on the heels of that thought, who did the crazed Temple guardian actually threaten, other than the goddess herself? And I could not help but wonder, rather queasily, just how “close” the goddess and her guard had become. Close enough that it apparently drove the missing elf to madness- at least according to Almalexia. And finally, who did she really want to survive this encounter: the renegade Hand- or the Breton who now knew far too much about what she had been doing recently… or perhaps neither one?
Finding the missing Hand of Almalexia would not be difficult- I had often seen him stalking the streets of Godsreach with a thunderous expression on his face. In fact, he seemed to spend a great deal of time near Eno Romari. If Salas Valor had decided that Almalexia was slipping into madness, his interest in the cultist made a certain amount of sense- the former Temple warrior likely believed at least some of what the End of Times priest was saying about the weakening of the Tribunal. I was even more sure of another thing- I had no chance of defeating such a fearsome warrior in anything approaching a fair fight. Of course, one of the reasons I was still alive was that I had long ago discarded foolish notions of chivalry and fairness when it came to fighting. To me, it was simple- if I had to fight, I would fight to win- always. And so, even as I approached the former Hand, I was making plans. But maybe it would not come to that; maybe I could talk the formidable elf into leaving Mournhold. That hope lasted only as long as it took for Salas Valor to look at me with haunted eyes and grind out the words,
“So. You’re her new dog.”
To this day, I am not certain how he knew I was there at Almalexia’s bidding, but he did. Perhaps he saw some of his own madness and agony reflected in my eyes. Before I could even begin to frame a calming reply, Valor continued,
“She has sent you for me. Now YOU are her favorite. How convenient. Whichever of us dies…she will be well pleased. And if both of us die, so much the better. Well, I am content. Perhaps this is how it was meant to end. I ask the forgiveness of all the gods and spirits—whoever they may be. And you, too, might make your peace with your gods, because at least one of us will not live to see another sunset.”
I was taken aback by how closely his thoughts paralleled my own- at least insofar as divining what Almalexia really wanted to happen. Nevertheless, I remained focused and alert, for I was facing a deadly fighter. Even so the legal niceties had to be observed. Although Salas Valor had challenged me, I could not strike first without being guilty of a crime. Even worse, if I killed one of Almalexia’s Hands “without provocation,” the penalty would be death. Thus, I had to hold my ground as he drew a wicked ebony scimitar and swung with all his might. At the last second, I lifted my shield and deflected the blow slightly. That meant that the shield shattered instead of my arm. Nevertheless, the sword’s enchantments did almost more damage than I could absorb, draining my strength and stamina, while also blasting me with an icy chill. I had steeled myself for the blow and immediately threw away my broken shield as Valor was recovering from his forceful swing. Rather than draw my own sword, I leapt for the overhanging porch roof of the Winged Guar and pulled myself up. The Hand was so surprised that he did not even have a chance to hack at my vulnerable legs. As soon as I was secure, I barked the magical syllables- “bogha tromhad” and a magical bow appeared in my hands. Setting an arrow to the string, I made my first mistake, for I chose one endowed with a fire spell. When the missile struck, a bloom of flame enveloped the raging fighter below, but a similar blast scorched me, as well. He obviously possessed some means of reflecting magical damage onto an attacker. With that knowledge, I switched to normal arrows, which I drew and loosed as fast as I could. Encumbered by his armor and sword, Valor could not duplicate my acrobatic feat- he also knew that I would take his head off if he tried. Oddly, though, he neither sought shelter nor simply retreated; instead, he stood below me, maintaining a constant stream of invective. At last, having absorbed a great many arrows, he removed his helm, and, with a ghastly smile, placed the point of his scimitar to his throat and pitched forward to impale himself upon the blade. Even with so grievous a wound, it took him some time to die. I understood why the Ordinators had been afraid to confront him.
When I dropped down from the roof to examine Salas Valor’s body, I found a mystery, but one that I believed I understood. Besides his ornate Hand of Almalexia armor and scimitar, he had been in possession of a dozen deadly missiles. He could have thrown the barbed darts at me at any time, yet he had chosen death instead. Even before I touched them, I could see that the darts were imbued with powerful enchantments. When I ventured to “taste” the magicka on them, I knew without a doubt that they had been bespelled by Almalexia herself. I surmised that although Valor could not bring himself to throw them away, he could not bear to use them, either. It was the same internal conflict that had caused him to leave Almalexia, but kept him in her city. Given that emotional state it was no wonder that he had sought the peace that comes with an honorable death in combat. Although his arms and armor were mine by right of victory, I left them upon his body. Thief though I was, there were some things I would not take. In part, it was because he deserved at least that much honor. But even more was the fact that I had no wish to possess anything that was so deeply tainted with the aura of Almalexia. I had a feeling that none of Mournhold’s scavengers would be foolish enough to despoil the corpse, either. And even if they did take his gear, what merchant would buy it? Not even Ten-Tongues would dare.
I was actually rather interested in seeing Almalexia’s reaction to my survival. Though I doubted her divinity as well as her sanity, she was probably shrewd enough to have calculated my chances of surviving an “honorable” battle with her former guard. I expected her to be surprised and perhaps a bit saddened, not that I was terribly concerned for her “delicate feelings.” Although her face was as unreadable as ever, her words seemed fitting- at least at first:
“Salas Valor is dead? The pain is almost more than I can bear...”
But her “pain” must have been fairly fleeting, as she had the unbelievable bad taste to add,
“…but you have served me faithfully, and it is in my mind to grant you a divine blessing. Would you like skin as tough as iron? Would you like my protection against paralyzing terror? Or would you wish to always bask in the warm comfort of my reflected glory? Quick, now! Choose! You must not keep your Deity waiting!”
Again, her mortality was showing- if she had been a true deity, she would have known how little I desired any “gift” she could provide. I once more felt that strange resonance with poor, mad Salas, who had embraced death rather than use one of Almalexia’s poisoned gifts. Knowing that I walked on the edge of a precipice, I politely refused, saying,
“Nothing at this time, thank you.”
She gave me a penetrating gaze and spoke softly,
“Perhaps you think yourself too proud to accept the gifts of your Mistress? Very well. It shall be as you wish.”
Her gaze seemed to turn inward for a moment, as if she was conversing with a voice that only she could hear. The silence stretched and then she gave me a strange look and seemed to be attempting to smile coyly, almost as if she was….flirting? Just when I believed things could not become more bizarre, Almalexia managed to surprised me. Speaking quietly, she announced,
“And now it is time we talked of greater things. I have watched you since your arrival in Vvardenfell, and you have become a strong and faithful servant to me. None but the Nerevarine could have succeeded as you have. How long I have waited for this! My Nerevar, returned to me at last! I have watched from my Temple as others have made the claim and I have seen them fall. I believe now that you are the one who was prophesied. I believe you now to be the Nerevarine. Though I have watched others come and go, my belief is that you are the child of prophecy. The time has come for you to reclaim your station. Together we can unite Morrowind once again, free from the Imperial yoke.”
Apparently mistaking my stunned silence for rapt interest, she warmed to her theme-
“For years, the Chimer and the Dwemer had been at war. The Dwemer spurned the Daedra that the Chimer worshipped, instead placing their faith in their metal creations. It was only when the Nords invaded Resdayn that the two nations were able to join as one, under the leadership of our Nerevar and the Dwarf-King Dumac. In time, the two generals became blood friends, and on the day that Nerevar and I were wed, Dumac presented us with twin blades, Hopesfire and Trueflame. Each was a magnificent blade, the pinnacle of Dwemer craftsmanship. They burned with an unearthly fire, and the sight of them struck fear into our enemies. My blade has been kept safe, but not so Trueflame, the Blade of Nerevar. It was lost at the battle of Red Mountain.”
She sighed and shook her head sadly, as if watching events and people that had been dust for many centuries. Then she resumed her story.
“The Blade of Nerevar. In the battle beneath Red Mountain, Trueflame was shattered, the flame extinguished, and in the confusion, the pieces lost. It is time for you, Nerevarine, to remake the blade and take your place by my side once again. I have only one part of the blade, which I now give to you. Through my magic, I have been able to determine that the other pieces are nearby. Find the other two pieces and forge the blade anew. Only you may accomplish this, Nerevarine. Look to those in the city that you know and trust for guidance. Find those who would have use for items such as this. Prove your mettle to me, Nerevarine, and soon we will stand together once again!”
With her final words, she ceremoniously presented me with a curved piece of metal, clearly a fragment of a blade. Not knowing what else to do, I took the thing and fled. My horror and disgust nearly choked me. It had been bad enough when Almalexia was using me as her hired help- now she wanted me to become her “husband.” This nonsense had to stop and stop soon, or else I was going to blurt out what I really thought of the “goddess.” Worse than that, the ash storm continued unabated and she seemed not to care. I had to take a stand against Almalexia, but I could not stand alone. There was only one person in all of Mournhold who might have a chance in such a monumental confrontation. I had no choice- I had to take my knowledge and my suspicions to Helseth.
Here ends chapter 7
On to the next chapter