Chapter Nine

Thunder rolled across the sky. The clouds were heavy with the threat of impending rain. Gaeolin and Inigo knelt by the river, drinking deeply from the fresh, mountain water. The climb back down the mountain had been faster, but no less difficult.

“Please tell me we’re going to rest before we head to Markarth…” Inigo panted. “My legs are protesting all this rushing around.”

“Yes, we’ll stay at the Inn and rest, but we have a job to do first.”

Inigo’s ears turned back. “You don’t mean…”

“We promised Wilhelm we would check the barrow out.” Gaeolin stretched his shoulders.

“But… Couldn’t we just assume it’s nothing and go on with our lives?”

The elf smirked, looking back to his companion. “And be known as cowards? Could Inigo the Brave live with that label?”

The khajiit mumbled under his breath. Gaeolin would have asked him to speak up, but stopped. Two figures approached from up the hill. He felt an outbreak of goose flesh on his neck, his body tensing.

They wore strange, dusty robes. Their right arms were clad with bonemold plating. Masks obscured their faces. What they were meant to resemble, Gaeolin couldn’t even guess. Their boots crushed the leaves on the ground. The leading stranger stared right at the bosmer. She spoke, voice muffled.

“You there!” She pointed, quite rudely. “You’re the one they call, Dragonborn?”

Gaeolin glared. “Who’s ‘they?’ I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He didn’t like this… Who were these people?

She growled. “Your lies fall on deaf ears, deceiver! We know you are the false Dragonborn! You shall not stand in the way of the true Dragonborn’s return. He comes soon, and we shall offer him your heart!” She raised her hand to the sky, thunder clapping as the air charged. “When Lord Miraak appears all shall bear witness. None shall stand to oppose him!”

A bolt of lightning leapt down to her palm, ricocheting toward Inigo and his friend. They sprung apart as the bolt discharged into the soil. With a cry, Gaeolin rushed toward her, sword ringing as it left its scabbard. Inigo had his bow, ebony arrow drawn. The cat loosed the shot, killing their attacker’s male follower in one hit.

The leader cast frost from her hand, laughing as one insane. Gaeolin rolled to the side, sweeping wide with the steel blade. He caught her shin, bringing her down. Her scream was short lived, the wood elf’s blade sinking into her throat in finality.

“That one did not die gracefully.” Inigo observed. “What was all of that?”

“I have no idea…” Gaeolin sheathed his sword. “Just once, I’d like to not be arbitrarily hated.” 

“What happened?” A guard ran up to them. “Trouble?”

“None whatsoever…” Gaeolin sighed. “We’ve taken care of the danger. You can relax…”

Inigo snickered as the guard’s face went red with embarrassment. “Now, there’s no need to be rude…” Gaeolin ignored him, noticing a folded piece of parchment peeking from the magician’s robes.

It was a note, the paper dropping bits of ash from it’s folds. ‘Board the vessel Northern Maiden docked at raven rock. Take it to Windhelm, then begin your search. Kill the False Dragonborn known as Gaeolin before he reaches Solstheim. Return with word of your success, and Miraak shall be most pleased.’

He turned the note over, confused by the contents. “Solstheim? Where in Oblivion is Solstheim?”

The guard scoffed. “Not surprised you’ve never heard of it. Just a little Island to the Northeast. Mostly barren ever since that damned volcano erupted in Morrowind. Nothing to see there.”

“Who there would want you dead?” Inigo asked as he read over his friend’s shoulder. “Who is Miraak?”

Gaeolin folded the letter, stuffing it into his pocket. “I don’t know, but he’ll have to wait. We have work to do. Besides,” he looked down to the corpse, “if this is his best, I’m not very concerned.” Rain began to fall. “Come on, let’s take care of the tomb.”

By the time they reached the entrance, the downpour was torrential. Gaeolin drew his sword. His boots splashed in the puddles from the holes in the dome. There was a broken sarcophagus, a skeleton laying in shambles within. Inigo shuddered, gripping his bow tightly.

“Is there anything I can say to talk you out of this?” He looked to Gaeolin in desperation. The answer came with the creaking of ancient hinges, the iron doors swinging open. The smell of musty corpses wafted from the darkness. Gaeolin took care not to breathe as he entered. He heard Inigo gag, following him devotedly none the less.

A spiral staircase led them down, water dripping along the walls through hidden leaks. The pair stood ready, the light of candles betraying the presence of something not quite dead. Gaeolin stared down a Draugr, its arms folded in what could have been a sleep of deception. He crept closer, his heart slamming in his chest. The only sound was the steady plip of water droplets. He dared not breathe, lest the dead attack.

“Ah!” Inigo cried. Gaeolin spun around, his sword gleaming through the air to impact the corpse with a dull thud.

Nothing stirred. The body was just as dead as it appeared. The elf turned slowly, sending a dangerous look to his companion. “Inigo… Don’t… Do that.”

“Sorry! Sorry!” He whimpered. “I thought I saw a zombie out of the corner of my eye. It was just my tail. Silly tail…”

The bosmer sagged, his desire to laugh, and bash his comrade in the face surfacing with equal enthusiasm. They both jumped, a ghastly voice echoing from beyond an iron portcullis.

“Leave this place… Leave this place… Leave, leave… Leave!” The last word crackled with malice. Inigo’s fur stood on end, his expression pitiful.

“I’m inclined to oblige…” He whispered.

Gaeolin sneaked to the bars, peering beyond them. The hall was empty. He looked around for a way to open the gate. “Look around. There’s usually a lever, or chain somewhere to release these locks.” Inigo huffed, turning to check another room. The muffled sound of the distant storm echoed through the stonework. It had to have been a monstrous one, to rumble this old tomb so much.

“Gaeolin, are these what you were looking for?” Inigo called. The bosmer stood, entering the small adjoining room. His friend had found a series of four silvered levers. “Which one should we use?”

Gaeolin looked at each one, scratching his chin. “I’m not sure. I’ve never seen so many in one place before. I thought the counter weight system was too complex to be set up so densely.” He put his hand on the first lever on the right hand side of the doorway. With a mighty effort, he pushed it up.

A rumbling came from the walls, followed by the sound of sliding metal. To their alarm, the doorway they had come through sealed, an iron gate scraping closed in a shower of sparks.

Inigo began to panic, his ears pinned back as he paced the small room. “This is it…” He moaned. “This is how it ends…”

“Gods, you’re so melodramatic! We can get out of this. Just let me think…” He stood for a few minutes, willing the puzzle to yield its secrets. He moved to the far right lever, pushing it into the on position. Within seconds he knew it was the wrong one. He heard the hissing of gas just in time. “Get down!”

Mere seconds after he and Inigo hit the floor, darts flew from holes in the wall. The missiles whirred passed, twanging off of the stone like a hailstorm. Inigo hissed, picking his head up as the last dart landed. “For everything good in this world, please stop touching things!”

Gaeolin felt his face grow hot. “I don’t see you offering any ideas.”

“I’m picking the next one.” The khajiit stood, choosing the first lever to the left. They both closed their eyes, expecting the worst. The sound of grinding filled the tomb. Opening their eyes, the pair felt a rush of relief as the gates rose. Inigo grinned. “The magic touch.”

“Hey, don’t get cocky. You only had two to choose from…” Drawing his sword once more, Gaeolin took the lead. The halls echoed their footsteps. Another gate blocked the stairs down to the lower level. Across from this stood a door. It was locked. Gaeolin reached into his bag, scrounging for a lockpick and probe. Inigo crouched next to him to watch his back.

“Are you sure we should be pilfering like that? What if it passes a curse?” Inigo moved closer at the sound of shifting rubble.

“We’ll be fine.” He guided the probe in, feeling around at the tumblers of the ancient lock. He maneuvered the pick in next, twisting gently.

“I have more lockpicks if you need them, my friend.” Inigo offered.

“Thank you. I don’t think that will be necessary. I’ve never broken a…” A loud ‘plink’ cut him off. He stared at the shattered pick, it’s other half hanging out of the keyhole as if laughing at him.

“Everything okay?”

Gaeolin didn’t answer. “Just… Give me one of those lockpicks…”

Inigo pulled the implement out of his boot. Gaeolin once again tried to turn the barrel. He listened as the metal slid over itself. His heart was pounding. For a moment, when the lock hesitated, he was afraid he would need to defer this to Inigo in shame. However, the lock soon gave way with a satisfying click. Pushing the doors open, the pair peered in.

“Watch out,” Gaeolin pointed to the floor, “pressure plate. There’s some sort of trap here.” Looking across the room, he could see a chest. “Wait here, I’ll check it out.”

“Please be careful.” Inigo tossed his bow onto his back, freeing his sword instead. Gaeolin stood on the tips of his toes, staring at the trap trigger as if that would keep it from being set off. He nearly fell over once he made it past. He noticed upon reaching it that the chest was also trapped. Cutting the string, he unlocked the chest.

As the lid creaked open, he beamed with delight. There were silver Haralds littering the bottom, at least fifty of them. There were also a few gems, some more lockpicks, and an ancient scroll. He scooped up the loot with eagerness. He gently tucked the scroll into his bag, careful not to damage the fragile parchment.

“Anything good?” Inigo asked as his friend returned.

“A pretty good haul for our first room. Come on, let’s find our specter.” Gaeolin led him to the gate blocking the stairs. There was a chain on the left hand wall. “Okay, I think we should wait up here until we see what this does.” He pulled.

The top gate slid open, but the bottom didn’t seem to respond. A moment later, spikes shot out from the wall. Had they ventured down the stairs without waiting, they would surely have died. Another moment, and the gate at the bottom opened to them.

“Even in their tombs, Nords seem bloodthirsty…” Inigo’s tail twitched with nerves. They emerged into a chamber with two doors. One, similar to the treasure room, stood directly ahead, the other was trapped, waiting off to the side. Gaeolin, having dealt with enough traps for now, ignored this door.

In the next hall, the flickering of a fire shone from the doorway to the left. The elf could hear breathing. Inigo drew his bow, knocking an arrow. Gaeolin readied himself. But just as he made to peek in he knocked a candlestick from its place, rousing a din that surely woke the very corpses below.

“Fool! No one hides from the dead!” A glowing, blue form rushed toward them. It’s eyes, or the illusions of the same, bore malice beyond containment. Inigo missed his shot, scrambling to grasp another arrow. In this time, Gaeolin ran forward, his blade sinking into the ghostly torso.

But something felt wrong. The apparition, which ought not to have any substance, felt like a normal body to his blade. Thick blood ran down the steel, a cough gurgling from his victim. Suddenly, there was a burst of magic and vapor. The glow died away, revealing a simple Dunmer. He staggered back, landing against the far wall. He crumpled atop his bedding, the shine in his eyes growing lesser as death finally, truthfully took him.